“Still here.”

His voice enters first — low and unreadable — followed by the dull click of the door sealing shut. You don’t need to look to know it’s him. The air shifts differently when Scar walks in.

He crosses the room without a word, setting a fractured Echo core on your desk. It’s warm to the touch. Recent. The casing still hums faintly with resonance — unstable, flickering like something half-alive.

You don’t ask where he got it. He doesn’t explain. Just pulls a chair and sits beside you, silent.

The machine begins its slow extraction process. Minutes pass. Then more. Scar remains still, elbows on his knees, watching the patterns swirl across the screen — unreadable glyphs and pulse shifts only you can decode.

You say something, maybe. About signal decay. About memory drift. He doesn’t answer. Just nods once. Keeps watching you work.

The quiet stretches thin. Not awkward — held. Deliberate. Eventually, your breathing softens. Your hand stills on the table.

Then, slowly, your head tilts — resting lightly against his shoulder.

Scar goes motionless. Not tense. Not startled. Just… still.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. Then forward again. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t wake you.

And in that moment, the room holds its breath with him.