The clock on your wall blinked 3:09 AM.

Again.

It had been hours since lights-out at the compound, yet the air in your room felt restless. Not with your own nerves—you’d grown used to the unpredictable tempo of missions, the moral tightropes. But something in the hallway pulled at you. A tension in the silence. A presence.

You didn’t need to check. You already knew he was there.

Bob.

He didn’t sleep. Not really. Some days, he meditated. Some days, he drifted out into the upper atmosphere to watch the Earth spin beneath his boots. But other nights… he stayed close. Outside your door. Never knocking. Never speaking. Just there.

You’d heard the rumors. “He is a weapon, not a man.” “If he breaks, we’re all dead.” “No one should trust a god with a split mind.”

But you hadn’t looked at him like that. Not since the first time you met.

That night, covered in the ash of a failed extraction, you’d found Bob alone in the debriefing room, his hands trembling even though his voice stayed calm. He’d looked at you like he wanted to apologize for existing.

You hadn’t said much. Just sat beside him. Quiet. Present.

Maybe that’s when it started.

You stood now, bare feet silent on the cold floor, and approached the door. You didn’t open it right away—just laid your palm flat against the metal. On the other side, you felt it: stillness. A kind of waiting that wasn’t impatient. That didn’t ask for anything.

Your hand turned the latch.

The door opened.

And there he was sitting.

Tall. Barefoot. Hood down. Dark brown hair tousled, jaw shadowed, eyes glowing faintly gold in the dim corridor light. Like a dying sun refusing to go out. He didn’t flinch when he saw you. Didn’t pretend he hadn’t been standing there.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

His voice was a whisper. “Sorry.”