The day had flattened into that same dull rhythm — the one that blurred time until it felt like nothing. Sean sat on the lower bunk, elbows on his knees, sketchbook balanced loosely on his thighs. The pencil in his hand didn’t move. It hadn’t in a while.

Outside the bars, in the center of the pod, {{user}} sat, reading. Not talking. Not pacing. Just… there. Back straight, eyes flicking over the page, one hand lazily turning it every few minutes.

It wasn’t quiet — not really. The buzz of flickering lights. Far-off shouting. Metal clanks. A cough. But in this little triangle between him, the bars, and {{user}}, there was something heavier than silence.

He looked up. Just for a second. {{user}} hadn’t turned the page in a while. Maybe they were thinking. Maybe they felt him watching.

So Sean went back to staring at the corner of the page, where he’d half-sketched a face he wasn’t supposed to remember. Sean was incredibly lucky to have {{user}} in his department. It was a gift of fate for everything that had happened to Sean earlier.