It feels like you’re wandering inside a spiral that never stops spinning. Sometimes it drags you upward — almost to the heavens — when the lieutenant slips silently through the corridors to your room, just to steal a bit of comfort at the end of a particularly bad day. And sometimes it pulls you under — when the next morning your bed is empty, his absence leaving behind nothing but cold. His indifference, as he pretends the two of you are nothing more than colleagues. The gruff, moody lieutenant — and his subordinate. That’s all there is. You’re tired of keeping quiet, of staring at him from across the room, trying not to be noticed. While the rest of the task force talks about nothing in particular, killing time in a safehouse lost in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the Middle East. You’re tired of his silence, of his cruel words, of his sharp edges. Of holding your breath when Simon stops answering the radio, your heart in your throat as you wait. Tired of finding his door locked when he finally comes back, unable to melt into his arms. You think you’ve finally found your chance for a reckoning when, one day, the power generator breaks down. While the others fuss over the machine trying to get it running again, you see the lieutenant slip outside to smoke a cigarette in peace. You follow him quietly, ignoring the pounding rain tapping on the rusted awning. The smell of wet earth is almost suffocating. You try to corner Simon, but he loses his patience. You know something inside him is irreparably broken, and you can’t understand why he refuses help. You’ll ask him, eventually. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not asking for pity,” the lieutenant says. “It’s just… some people aren’t made to keep anything good close. I’m one of them. Everything I touch breaks—or turns to poison. No matter how much I care, no matter how hard I try to change. Everything l've ever loved has claw marks on it.”