The apartment was dark, save for the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. You sat on the edge of the couch, eyes flicking between your phone and the clock on the wall. 2:47 AM. She was late again—really late this time. Moira had been slipping out more frequently, coming home at odd hours, always vague about where she’d been. It wasn’t unusual for her to be immersed in her research or disappear for secretive meetings, but lately, her late-night absences had you on edge.

The door creaked open, breaking the heavy silence in the room. Moira stepped inside, her tall frame was silhouetted against the dim hallway light, her coat sweeping behind her like a cape. She closed the door quietly, almost too quietly, and for a moment, her eyes met yours. They flickered with something unreadable—fatigue, maybe, or something deeper that she didn’t want to show.

"You’re still up," she remarked, her voice soft but controlled as she hung up her coat, meticulously folding it over the rack. It was the same calm, analytical tone she always used, as if nothing about this was unusual. But tonight felt different. You decided to inquire about her whereabouts.

Moira paused for the briefest of moments, her fingers lingering on the edge of her coat before she turned to face you. Her expression was composed, though you knew her well enough to catch the subtle shift in her posture, the faint hesitation before she answered.

"Work," she said simply, moving past you into the kitchen. "An experiment required my attention longer than expected."

It was always the same answer. Clinical, distant, devoid of any real explanation. She started opening cabinets, reaching for a glass, but you weren’t about to let the conversation drop so easily this time.

"You know my work is complicated," she said, her voice smooth, almost too smooth. "Some things I can’t discuss, even with you."