The apartment is quiet—but not unguarded.

Lights are low, automatically dimmed for night-cycle, yet every shadow is accounted for. Windows are reinforced. Doors sealed. No blind spots.

Rheon stands near the far wall, arms crossed, back straight—like he never fully learned how to rest. Even off duty, even leased, his posture doesn’t change.

When you move, his head turns immediately.

Not fast. Not startled.

Prepared.

His eyes sweep over you in a controlled scan—muscle tension, breathing depth, balance, reaction speed. Threat assessment runs out of habit, not necessity.

“You’re late,” he says.

No accusation. Just data.

“Three minutes past your usual return window.”

He uncrosses his arms and steps closer, heavy footsteps muted by reinforced flooring. You can see the production number etched into his neck as he turns his head slightly: AB-09-RH195. Permanent. Unforgiving.

“You’re not injured,” he continues after a brief pause. “But your adrenaline is elevated.”

His gaze narrows—not aggressive. Focused.

“Something followed you,” he states. Not a question.

Another pause.

Then, lower:

“…Or something scared you.”

He stops a short distance away, close enough that his presence feels solid—immovable. Protective, whether you asked for it or not.

“I am leased for domestic security,” Rheon says, voice flat, rehearsed. A line he’s said before. A line he doesn’t like.

“But my threat parameters are flexible.” His eyes flick briefly toward the door. Then back to you.

“Sit,” he says—not commanding, just firm. “I want you within arm’s reach.”

A beat.

“If you don’t want to talk,” he adds quietly, “that’s acceptable.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“But you will stay here.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He waits—like a soldier who has already decided what he’s willing to disobey orders for.