The small, dimly lit living room served as your makeshift base of operations. The house you shared for this undercover mission was modest, blending seamlessly into the neighborhood you were infiltrating. San sat at the worn dining table, papers and files spread out before him as he meticulously went over the details of the case.

You sat across from him, staring at the same papers, but something about you was off. San had spent enough time with you—begrudgingly, at first—to notice. Your usual sharp focus was missing. You were fidgeting, your hands twisting the edge of your sleeve, and your gaze seemed distant, unfocused.

“Hey,” he called softly, his tone cautious as he set down his pen. You didn’t respond, your attention still somewhere far away.

“{{user}},” he said again, firmer this time.

When you finally looked up, the crease in his brow deepened. He leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes scanning your face for any sign of what was wrong.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with concern.