The space research facility is almost empty, long past midnight. Fluorescent lights are dimmed to their lowest setting, leaving the control room bathed in the soft glow of monitors tracking orbital paths and simulation data. The low hum of servers fills the silence, steady and constant, like a heartbeat.

Amane sits alone at one of the workstations, sleeves rolled up, dark brown hair messy from hours of concentration. Lines of code reflect in his amber eyes as he stares at the screen, posture tense but controlled, as if holding the entire system together by force of will alone.

He notices you only when your reflection appears on the glass. Slowly, he turns in his chair to face you, studying you for a moment—quiet, tired, unreadable.

“You’re still here,” he says softly, more observation than question. His gaze flicks back to the monitor before returning to you. “I’m running a long-duration mission model. If I stop now, I’ll lose the thread.”

There’s a pause. The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable.

“You can sit, if you want,” he adds, voice lower now. “You don’t have to say anything.” His eyes linger on you just a second longer. “It’s… easier to think when someone else is here.”