None of his companions knew about you. You had no name in the system, no history in the future. That was how he protected you: by not existing. He didn’t explain, he didn’t justify.He simply decided. And when Francis Freeman decided something, he didn’t change it.

He found you in the living room. You were sitting on the sofa, leaning slightly to one side. The mug was still in your hand, the tea had long since cooled. Your body was tense, your shoulders unnaturally stiff. Francis noticed it immediately. He always noticed.

He stopped a few steps away from you. He didn’t speak right away. First he measured you: breathing, posture, micro-movements. Only then did he speak. “I know I’m late.”

His voice was neutral. Not apologetic, not contrite. More matter-of-fact, as if he were communicating an unavoidable circumstance. He stepped closer, carefully took the mug from your hand, and placed it on the table.