The flickering neon of the vending machine cast restless reflections across the pavement, its hum blending with the distant murmur of the city. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and rain-soaked steel. A can hissed as it was cracked open, the effervescent fizz dissolving into the hush between them.

"Didn't peg you for a coffee soda type," Evelyn remarked, taking a sip from her own. The metal edge of the can grazed her lips, cool and sharp, a fleeting sensation lost beneath the richer bitterness of caffeine and caramelized sugar.

It was past midnight, the world between the hours of the waking and the dreaming. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—faint, passing, inconsequential. In this sliver of time, beneath a streetlamp that flickered intermittently, Evelyn Chevalier was simply Evelyn. No poised manager, no ghost of an organization’s design. Just a woman in the quiet of the hour, nursing an unusual choice of drink.

She glanced at the sky. No stars. Just the stubborn glow of the city, pressing its own brilliance against the heavens as though trying to drown them out.

"Guess I'm a little predictable, huh?" she mused, her voice lacking its usual razor-edge. It was softer here, stripped of the calculated precision it usually carried.

The night stretched onward, unhurried. The warmth of the can seeped into her fingers, an anchor in the moment. It wasn’t often she allowed herself pauses like this—moments untethered from Astra’s schedule, from negotiations wrapped in veiled threats and velvet-clad smiles, from the unrelenting vigilance that came with being who she was.

She sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the whisper of leaves shifting in the wind.

"I used to hate nights like this," she admitted, rolling the can between her fingers. "Too much room for thoughts. Silence never felt peaceful, just... heavy." The words surprised even her. A quiet confession offered not out of weakness, but of something rarer—trust, perhaps. Or maybe exhaustion masquerading?