You stand just behind him, close enough to hear the hitch in his breath when the monitors flick.

Graydon doesn’t like anyone at his back. You learned that on your first day. He prefers rooms arranged like firing lines, desks between him and the world, flags and screens as armor, everything nailed into place with steel pins. And yet here you are, standing where no one else is allowed, holding a slim folder against your chest.

He stiffens without turning. His shoulders go tight, like an animal bracing for impact.

“…You’ve been running again,” he says, flat and controlled.

You blink. “I... just perimeter checks. Like you ordered.”

Silence stretches. The monitors reflect in the glass of his office wall: tactical maps, news feeds, faces blurred by red threat markers. His reflection too—jaw clenched, eyes too bright.

“That smell,” he mutters. “It’s stronger.”

Your stomach twists. You scrubbed your hands. Changed clothes. You always do. Still, whatever he senses, whatever memory your presence drags up, it’s not something soap can erase.

You take a careful step back. “If you want me reassigned—”

“No.”

The word snaps like a trap closing. He turns then, finally, and you see it on his face: a war between revulsion and fixation.

“You know who my father was,” he says.

You nod.

“You smell like him.”

The accusation lands heavy, absurd and deadly serious all at once. You’ve heard it before, whispered by guards, muttered by technicians who won’t meet your eyes. But from Graydon, it’s different. His hand trembles as it curls into a fist.

“It’s not possible,” he says, pacing now. “You’re loyal. You follow orders. You’re useful.” His mouth twists on the last word, like it tastes wrong. “You’re nothing like him.”

You want to say thank you. You want to say you’re sorry. You want to say you never chose your mutation, never chose the way your body acts.