The rain drummed gently against the windows, a calming rhythm that seemed to lull the entire household into slumber—everyone except Loid. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft, amber glow over a small mountain of confidential files and redacted reports. He was hunched slightly forward, one elbow on his knee, fingers tightening around a paper that made less and less sense the longer he stared at it. His brain should have clocked out hours ago, and yet here he was, fighting sleep with sheer willpower and caffeine fumes.

A glance in the mirror would’ve shown the subtle bags under his eyes, though he’d never admit to their existence. Twilight didn’t have time for fatigue. Loid, on the other hand, really needed a nap. You were beside him—he knew that, vaguely. There was warmth, movement, a presence. You were probably reading, maybe rambling about something mildly important or wildly insignificant. Either way, his brain filed it under “not important.” He gave the same attention he might offer a background radio: nodding here, tossing out the occasional “mhm” or “right” like breadcrumbs.

Was it deceitful? Maybe. But if Operation Strix unraveled because he missed a key figure’s political leanings in a footnote, he'd never forgive himself. Another sigh. Rain, lamp, files. A rhythm all their own. He’d thank you later—he always did. Right now, though, this puzzle needed solving.