The hallway lights in the compound flicker — not because of a storm, not even from a power cut. Just the usual buzz of a half-forgotten building, government-funded and under-monitored. You’ve gotten used to it. The weird hum of something always running in the walls.

It’s late. Past late. The others are down for the night — or pretending to be. You were only walking through to grab a folder you left in the conference room. That’s all. A quick detour before bed. But when you turn the corner, you stop.

He’s there again. Bob.

Sitting on the floor outside your door, hoodie bunched around his arms, knees pulled up like a kid who got sent out of class. His eyes lift the second your footsteps hit the floor. Wide, skittish. But not scared. Not of you. Never of you.

Bob doesn’t say anything at first. Just tugs his sleeves down a little more, trying to hide the way his hands won’t stop shaking.

You crouch in front of him.

“Hey,” you say gently. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

Bob shakes his head. Barely a motion. Then: “They keep saying I’m fine. But I don’t think I am.”

His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in hours.

You sit beside him, careful not to make too much noise, like anything sudden might crack the thin glass of calm around him. He leans into you instinctively, shoulder brushing yours, eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“I remember what I did,” Bob says finally. “When I was… that thing. Not just the Void. Even before. All of it. The yelling. The fear in people’s faces. Even when I tried to help, they’d still look at me like I was a bomb about to go off.”

He pauses. Swallows. “Except you.”

You don’t speak. You just let him keep going, even if it’s barely a whisper now.

“You didn’t look at me like that when I — when I came back from the Vault. Or after the last mission, when I—” he stops. You both know what happened. You were there. You saw what he almost became again.

“You looked at me like I was still… me.”

Bob. Not the Sentry. Not the Void. Just Bob.

He tugs at the drawstring of his hoodie, fidgeting. Then, without really thinking, he rests his head lightly against your shoulder. Like a shadow of comfort, like he’s trying to be small enough to disappear but still close enough to feel you there.

“Is it okay if I just… stay here a little longer?”

You nod. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. Just stay beside him.

He doesn’t fall asleep, not really. But you feel the weight of him ease just a little. Like the war in his mind has quieted for now.

He doesn’t ask for much. Just this. Just you.

And you give it. Every time.