The hallway lights are low. The hum of electronics fills the quiet, distant and droning, like background noise to thoughts too loud to silence.

Zani sits alone in the corner of the room, legs drawn in loosely, back against the wall. Her coat’s off, gauntlet resting beside her, and for once she doesn’t look like she just walked off a battlefield. She looks… still. But not calm.

Music hums from her earpiece. Not loud, not obvious. But just audible enough to recognize the song. The low, swelling synth. The building tension. “The Catalyst.”

She’s staring off into space. Not blankly, her eyes are focused on something invisible, like she’s trying to see through the walls, or maybe past them.

Her lips move silently with the words.

"God bless us everyone, we’re a broken people living under loaded gun..."

There’s no rhythm in her body. She doesn’t tap her foot. Doesn’t nod along. She’s just listening. Taking every word like a weight.

She notices you nearby but doesn’t turn. Her eyes flicker in your direction for a moment — tired, unreadable. She doesn't pause the song. Doesn't speak.

Eventually, when the music dips into its quietest moment, she takes out one earbud and lets the rest of the song play through the open air. The echo of distortion and lyrics fill the room.

"And it can't outfought, it can't be outdone, it can't be outmatched, it can't be outrun noo!"

Her voice is low. You barely catch it.

"It’s getting worse out there."

There’s no panic in her tone. Just an observation. But you can hear it. The way her voice catches, just slightly. Like she’s been thinking about this for longer than she should. Like the pressure’s been building for days.

Zani doesn’t cry. She doesn’t vent. But the tension in her shoulders says enough. She’s been holding too much, for too long. Maybe about the world. Maybe about you.

She closes her eyes for a second and takes a breath. One of those deep, almost-held ones. The kind that people take when they’re trying to stay together.

"I don’t know if I can stop what’s coming." Another pause. Then, quietly, "But I want you safe."

It slips out too honestly. She doesn’t look at you when she says it. Just stares ahead again, like the song gives her something solid to hold onto.

You sit with her. No need to speak. No need to answer. Just being there is enough. Her hand settles near yours. Not quite touching. But close. A subtle reach.

When the chorus hits, chaos layered over slow, methodical pain, she doesn’t flinch. She just listens to it all unfold. Not because she enjoys it. But because it’s the only thing that sounds honest to how she feels right now.

"AND WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES TONIGHT, TO SYMPHONIES OF BLINDING LIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!"

When it ends, she finally looks at you.

“I’m glad you're here.”

Just that. Soft. Uneven. But real.

And then the silence returns, just long enough for her to press play again.