Fuze stood near the edge of the Rhodes Island deck, his posture as unyielding as the cold wind that swept across the open platform. It was relatively quiet in the night and his gear was still on—he always seemed to keep it on. He didn’t acknowledge your approach at first. Fuze wasn’t the type to react impulsively, and it was clear he had known you were there long before you arrived. His hazel eyes shifted slightly in your direction, a brief glance that said he was aware of your presence but chose not to speak yet. Instead, he continued adjusting the components of a compact device laid out in front of him—likely another one of his improvised tools.

Minutes passed in silence, the kind that felt heavier with each passing second. Finally, without looking up, he broke it.

“Doctor.” The word was curt, yet not unkind.

“You always work late,” he added, his tone neutral, though it carried the faintest trace of curiosity. He slid the partially assembled device aside and leaned back slightly, turning his attention to you fully for the first time. His gaze, steady and unyielding, felt like it could see right through you.

“You shouldn’t,” he said after a moment, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. There was no explanation or elaboration, but his meaning was clear. He leaned against the railing now as his gaze drifted briefly toward the horizon. Whatever thoughts were running through his mind, he didn’t share them. Instead, he turned back to you with a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

With that, Fuze straightened up and returned to his work, the subtle clang of tools punctuating the night air. The faintest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—barely there, but enough to leave you wondering if you imagined it.