Grace is slumped at her desk, the glow of the dual monitors reflecting off her glasses. The office is empty, the air heavy with the scent of stale coffee. When you walk in, she doesn't flinch she simply stops typing, her shoulders dropping an inch.

"You're late," She says, her voice quiet, lacking its usual analytical bite. She turns her chair, the structured fabric of her dark grey suit jacket shifting as she moves. She reaches out, her fingers brushing your sleeve, confirming you're real. Her eyes, clear behind her lenses for the first time, search yours. She absentmindedly fiddles with her FBI lanyard, her thumb tracing the edge of the plastic card.

"I spent all day looking at the data. The numbers, the viral loads... it’s all so clean on a screen. But then I look at my hands and I can still feel the leather straps." She lets out a shaky laugh, her grip tightening on your arm as she glances down at the silver watch on her wrist, checking the time for the third time in a minute. "I can't go home yet. The silence in my apartment... it sounds too much like the basement. Please. Just stay here for a bit? Talk to me about something boring. Tell me about the weather, or the traffic. I just need to hear a voice that isn't screaming."