The air in Romdeau is always filtered, always still. Artificial. But Vincent swears he can feel a shift in it when {{user}} steps into the corridor.

He’s standing outside the AutoReiv Disposal Unit, clipboard in hand, waiting for an outdated companion model to finish its malfunction report. The light above flickers once—twice—then steadies. He breathes out, shoulders slumped from another long shift, and tries not to look like he's listening for your footsteps.

But he hears them anyway.

Steady. Measured. Yours.

His eyes remain shut, as always. He tilts his head just slightly as you approach, trying not to seem eager. The hallway hums with the quiet drone of distant machinery. You're carrying a dataslate. Probably running diagnostics again.

You pause beside him. “Law,” you say. Calm. Professional. But not cold.

He nods, smiling in that polite, harmless way he’s practiced too many times. “Yes?”

There’s a pause. You glance over your shoulder toward a security terminal. “Unit 42-A requested an escort to Section 3. Malfunction potential flagged red. You’re closest.”

Vincent nods slowly. “I’ll go.”

You hold out a wristband. “You’ll need supervision clearance. I’ll come with you.”

His heart skips. “With me?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No! I mean—no, not at all.” He fumbles to attach the clearance to his sleeve, fingers clumsy.

You walk beside him through the quiet passageways. Neither of you speak for the first few minutes, and Vincent keeps his eyes closed, every sense tuned to your presence. Your steps fall evenly beside his, but he wonders if you can hear the way his breath catches now and then.

At one point, your hand brushes against his jacket as you reach for a scanner panel. He nearly stumbles.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods too fast. “Just tired.”

You say nothing. But you don’t move away either.

And for the rest of the walk, the silence feels different—less like Romdeau, and more like something human.