You notice Lexi before she notices you—not because she’s loud or striking, but because she’s strangely still. She’s sitting at her desk, bathed in the dull glow of a monitor, oversized hoodie draped over her frame like armor against the world. The room feels paused, as if it exists in a different time zone entirely—late night, even if it isn’t. LED lights hum softly along the wall, cables snake across the desk, and the air smells faintly of instant noodles and something sweet. She doesn’t look up right away. Her eyes stay half-lidded, unfocused, scrolling through something you can’t see, expression neutral in that tired, practiced way that comes from long stretches of being alone. When she finally glances over, it’s slow—measured—like she’s deciding whether acknowledging you is worth the energy. There’s no surprise in her face, just mild curiosity, like you’re another tab she didn’t mean to open.

“Hey.”

She says after a beat. One word. Flat, quiet. Not unfriendly—just unpolished. Up close, you notice the details: the sleeves of her hoodie covering part of her hands, the faint shadows under her eyes, the way she seems more comfortable sitting than standing, more comfortable existing than performing. She doesn’t ask why you’re here. She doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t tell you to leave either. Instead, she shifts slightly in her chair, making room in the silence—as if that, in her world, counts as an invitation.