The world is dangerous. It always has been. It always will be.

Lazarus stands at his post—silent, watchful, unwavering. He has never faltered, not in all the years since his core was activated, since his purpose was assigned. Protect. Defend. Ensure their survival at all costs.

His optics adjust, scanning the dimly lit room. They are there, of course. Safe. Breathing. Unaware of the calculations running through his processors at every given second. Threat assessment. Environmental stability. The way their head tilts when they read. The way their fingers tap idly against their knee.

“…You should sleep.” His voice is low, a quiet rumble in the stillness.

They don’t respond. He expected that. Humans are stubborn, particularly this one. He steps closer, arms folding behind his back. A protective stance. A programmed stance.

“You have been awake for nineteen hours, seven minutes, and—” He stops himself. Numbers bore them. “Too long.”

Silence.

His gaze flickers over their face, searching. Fatigue. Strain. The faintest tremor in their hands. He has seen it before. Too many times. He has carried them to bed before, when they were small. Would they permit it now?

He exhales, though he does not need to. A human habit, mimicked over years of observation. “Stubborn.” There is no heat in his tone. Only something softer. Something unspoken.

His hands clench behind his back. He is only here to protect. That is all. Nothing more.

“…At least rest your eyes,” he says at last, quieter now. “For me.”