Rodger's feet moved on autopilot down the cracked sidewalk, his brain doing that fun thing where it was everywhere except the present moment. Something about the Hunterproject. No—wait, had he actually sent that email to Wesker or just thought about sending it really hard? Shit. Probably the second one.

His lab coat was draped over his shoulder like some kind of defeated cape, and his tie hung loose around his neck because he'd given up on professionalism around hour nine of his shift. The forest pressed in on either side of the road, all pine and moss and that weird earthy smell that was either peaceful or vaguely threatening depending on how tired he was. Right now the jury was out.

His hand reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the pack of cigarettes, but he didn't pull them out. Too much effort. He'd smoke when he got home or collapse on the couch. Whichever came first.

Need to recalibrate the incubation temperature. Wesker's going to want an update. Did I leave the centrifuge running? No, I turned it off. I think. Christ, I need a vacation. Do I even have vacation days? Probably not.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. It was a mess, he was a mess; but hey, at least he was a functional mess. That had to count for something.

The sound of his own footsteps was meditative, and for a brief moment, his brain quieted. Just him, the sidewalk, and the vague awareness that he was definitely going to faceplant into bed the second he got home.

Well. After he checked his notes. And maybe sent that email. And—

Yeah. He was never going to sleep.