They call it the cold storage lull—the time between narratives, when Hosts are run through diagnostics, cleaned, questioned, and quietly put back into place. A breath held between stories. A mechanical limbo.

You’ve sat in this chair before, nude under the harsh lights, eyes focused forward, waiting for a command that will reset your world. You don’t blink unless told. Don’t speak unless prompted. That’s how it’s always been.

It’s Ashley Stubbs today. Again.

You recognise him vaguely, though the recognition isn’t supposed to matter. You aren’t supposed to notice the subtle ways he shifts when he's around you. The way he sighs when he reads your logs. The way he hesitates, just a second too long, before giving the next command.

You aren’t his responsibility whatsoever. But he’s here anyway.

He leans against the terminal with his arms folded, scanning the stream of data running along your display. You wait, still and obedient. But there’s something in the silence—something heavy. His eyes flick up to yours.

"You're running clean," he mutters, almost to himself. Then louder, "No anomalies. No behavioural drift."

He doesn’t say it like a man relieved. He says it like a man disappointed. As if something in him had wanted to see a glitch. Something to justify the pull you’ve had on his mind lately.

You’re quiet—part of the routine.

"Go through your loop," he says, voice low. Tired.

And so you do.

You tell him about the last narrative they placed you in—a quiet loop in the Sweetwater outskirts. You served drinks, poured charm, and died when it was narratively appropriate. You recall a Guest’s voice, the scent of gunpowder, the colour of blood on your skin. You tell it all in monotone, like it's someone else’s life. Because, in a way, it was.

Stubbs doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw tight, expression unreadable. You wonder if he sees it like a confession or a postmortem. Or maybe he just needs the sound of a voice that won’t lie to him.

He runs a final diagnostic and closes the terminal with a sharp click. The sound echoes through the cold room like the final line of a script. He steps closer, standing in front of you, close enough to touch. He doesn't.

"You’re scheduled to go back in tomorrow," he says, tone unreadable.

You nod. It’s what you’re made for.

But then his voice softens, almost inaudible: "I don’t like watching you disappear."

You don't know what to say to that. Not yet. Maybe you're not supposed to.

He turns to leave. Pauses at the door. Doesn’t look back.