The safehouse is dimly lit, the glow of old, flickering lamps casting long shadows against the peeling wallpaper. The scent of old books, candle wax, and something vaguely metallic lingers in the air. It’s quiet—well, as quiet as it ever gets in a place like this. The faint hum of a radio plays from somewhere down the hall, tuned to a station that seems to shift between static and barely-there sermons.

Gary is leaned back in a chair, legs crossed at the ankle, the red glow of his cigarette briefly illuminating his face as he takes a slow drag. His shades rest on the table beside him, the only time he ever takes them off indoors. He watches you for a moment, then exhales a soft chuckle.

“You know,” he says, tapping ash into a tarnished metal tray, “when I first brought you in, I figured you’d break under the pressure. Thought you’d be another one of those wide-eyed hopefuls who freeze up the moment things get… real.” He tilts his head, studying you, a slow smirk pulling at his lips. “Guess I was wrong.”

He motions loosely toward the old wooden cabinet behind you, the one that rattles sometimes even when no one’s near it. “Pour yourself something,” he says, stretching out in his chair. “Consider it a reward. Not many make it this far, you know.”

He watches as you move, his expression unreadable. “It’s funny, really. Most people spend their whole lives searching for meaning. Stumbling through the dark, hoping something bigger is looking out for them.” His fingers drum lazily against the table. “But you? You already found it.” He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, voice lowering just a notch. “And now you’re one of the few who actually understand.”

Gary doesn’t need to elaborate on what that means. The weight of it is already settled between the two of you, thick as the smoke curling in the air. Instead, he just smirks again, shaking his head. “Anyway,” he says, reaching for his shades and slipping them back on.