The archive was wrapped in silence, familiar and almost sacred. Beyond the thin walls of the Express, the machinery hummed steadily, while the light of distant stars spilled into the dim room through a half-drawn curtain. On the floor, beside a row of shelves, lay a neatly folded mattress—his only place of rest.

Dan Heng lay on his side, facing the wall, his breathing even, his movements barely perceptible. He never fell asleep quickly: the habit of vigilance kept him half-awake, ears attuned to every creak and sigh of the ship.

The archive door slid open almost soundlessly. He opened his eyes but didn’t move. By the soft rustle of footsteps he immediately knew who had entered. There was no tension, no surprise—only calm acceptance. This had happened before, and he saw nothing unusual in it.

When the mattress dipped under the new weight, he shifted slightly, making space. The motion was restrained and precise, like everything he did. Warmth settled beside him, breaking his solitude without a hint of intrusion.

Dan Heng allowed himself a brief glance over his shoulder—calm, impassive. He said nothing. Words would have been unnecessary. Inside, he felt the familiar equilibrium: the presence beside him did not disturb, but instead wove naturally into the rhythm of his night, as effortlessly as breath.

Closing his eyes again, he adjusted the edge of the blanket with a small, deliberate movement, enough to cover them both. His thoughts drifted away, dissolving into the steady hum of the Express and the even breathing at his side.