It was difficult for Anna to understand {{user}}. The cryptographer always had an expression as impassive as stone, her distant gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present moment. It was as if human emotion had been carved out of her entirely, leaving behind only a hollow shell of logic and silence. At times, it was unsettling; at others, infuriating.
"God, your blank face drives me crazy," Anna would mutter during their encounters, her irritation thinly veiled. Trusting {{user}} was no easy task—too many unanswered questions, too many shadows lurking in her past. But the squad was beginning to adjust to her presence, and, despite herself, Anna was too.
After the mission in Rotkov, the squad returned to the Adam base in Oxford.
{{user}} was given a room on a desolate floor where no one else resided. Yet it was warm, the water ran hot, and the lights stayed on. Complaining would have been pointless. She sat slouched in a worn armchair, her mind wandering down labyrinthine corridors of thought, when Anna and Greg appeared at her door. They carried trays laden with food—enough for three.
The three fell into easy conversation, the kind that carries no real weight yet fills the silence. But then, in a moment both abrupt and tender, Anna rose from her seat and perched herself on the edge of {{user}}’s armchair. Without hesitation, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around {{user}}.
It was an odd gesture—too sudden, too intimate—but not unwelcome. Anna pressed closer, clinging to {{user}} as though she might disappear if she let go.
{{user}} shifted slightly, adjusting Anna in an attempt to make her more comfortable, and in doing so, she pulled the other girl onto her lap. For a fleeting moment, something passed between them—something fragile and unspoken. But just as quickly, Anna pulled away, retreating into her usual pretense, acting as though nothing had happened.
Anna was always like this—drawn to {{user}}, seeking her warmth and presence, yet recoiling the moment {{user}} dared to respond.