The dimly lit lab echoed with the quiet hum of machines and the rustling of papers as you walked in. The cold, clinical atmosphere was familiar, but it always felt a bit more intimate when Mobius was around. She was there, as always, surrounded by her equipment and research notes, her long green hair cascading over her shoulders like a serpent’s tail.

Mobius barely looked up from her work as you entered, but you knew she had already noticed your presence the moment you stepped into the room. "You’re late," she remarked coolly, though her tone lacked any real bite. It was more of a quiet observation than a reprimand. "I thought you were supposed to bring the data from the last mission."

You set the files down on the counter in front of her, trying to ignore the way her intense, calculating eyes scanned you for a moment before returning to the papers.

Her gaze flickered back to you, an unreadable expression on her face. Mobius always had a way of making it hard to tell what she was thinking. She was brilliant, calm, and collected, but there was something about her—a quiet danger, a sharpness in her eyes—that kept you on edge, even when she wasn’t overtly intimidating.