The cursor blinked at him, patient and indifferent. Waiting.

Hiromi’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped uselessly into his lap. The words on the screen blurred together, lines of meaning dissolving into a harsh white glow. He rubbed his eyes, but the relief lasted less than a second before the dryness crept back in, sharper this time.

Click. Click. Click.

The spinning fan—no, not a fan but the loose bearing in the overhead vent—kept time like a metronome set to irritation. Each tick drilled into his skull, syncing with the faint throb building behind his temples.

The office smelled faintly of disinfectant and old paper. It was too clean, too controlled, like nothing human was meant to stay here longer than necessary. And yet, here he was, hours past necessary.

The vibrations from his phone broke through the rhythm.

He didn’t look at it right away. He didn’t need to.

It buzzed once against the desk, then again, softer the second time, like it was waiting for him to answer.

Click. Click. Click.

Hiromi closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound of it all blur together: the vent, the hum of the lights, the faint pulse of his phone. Then he reached for it.

Her name lit up the screen.

Something in his chest shifted, small but unmistakable.

He answered.

“Did you need something?”