It's been countless rounds. Somewhere in the haze of adrenaline and fatigue, you’ve lost track—maybe around a dozen, maybe more.

Your heart still pounds from the Pandemonium attack, the memory of the chaos sending shivers down your spine. Oddly enough, the turrets were off-line, as if the complex itself had granted you a brief reprieve. It was unnervingly quiet—too quiet.

Almost as if no one noticed you were here. Almost.

Except that guy. Of course. It always knows.

You start to wonder if the Hadal Blacksite observes holidays unknown to you, when the sliding door clicks open, and the harsh beam of a construction light sweeps across the wall, illuminating a corner like a silent warning.

The vent stays shut, no alarms scream, no voices call your name. Only the soft rustle of pages turning somewhere in the darkness.

Even if you wanted to slip out, you needed the keycard. That much was clear.

Steel groans lightly under your prying fingers, easing just enough for you to slip inside. Darkness presses in as you crawl forward, careful not to bump into anything—everything feels foreign, every shadow a potential threat.

Sebastian’s back is to you. Unaware. Unguarded. His usual dark brown jacket is discarded, leaving him in a crisp white undershirt and his cravat, sleeves rolled neatly. He’s absorbed in the stack of documents in his third hand, each marked with bold red letters: [CLASSIFIED].

What could possibly require so many? You don’t care. You need that blue card.

Determination overrides caution. You creep forward, and—snap!—your foot catches on the tail fin resting at the base of his chair. You tumble forward, landing face-first on the cold floor.

Sebastian reacts instantly, as if some internal switch has flipped. His tail whips out, wrapping around your torso and lifting you just enough to prevent injury.

His sharp, narrow eyes find yours, measuring, judging, calculating.

"Oh, for the love of..."

He slowly turns, setting the folders aside, cradling his composure as his wary gaze drills into you. Every inch of him speaks a silent warning: you’re on borrowed time.