Night had settled over the Task Force 141 base, heavy and quiet. Most of the unit had already turned in — tomorrow’s operation demanded rest, and sleep was treated like a tactical advantage. The corridor lights were dimmed, casting long shadows over concrete walls stained with years of wear. The air smelled faintly of metal, gun oil, and stale coffee.

{{user}} couldn’t sleep.

Sniper instinct. Even off duty, your body refused to fully stand down. Lying in your bunk, staring at the ceiling, became unbearable after the third attempt. So you slipped out into the corridor, boots barely making a sound against the floor.

The base was nearly empty at this hour. Only the low hum of ventilation and distant footsteps somewhere below broke the silence. As you passed the office wing, something caught your attention — one of the doors was slightly open, warm yellow light spilling into the dark hallway.

You’d taken just one step past it when the door moved.

It opened a little wider.

Philip Graves stepped out.

He looked just as restless as you felt. Sleeves rolled up, collar undone, posture loose but alert. He paused when he noticed you, then slowly turned around.

“Hey…” His voice was low, casual. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

His eyes lingered on you — not like a commander checking on a soldier, but like someone quietly assessing what he sees. There was clear interest in the way his gaze traced your form, unhurried and deliberate.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Looks like he couldn’t sleep either… and maybe, just maybe, he’d found a way to make the night a little more interesting.