It was nearly midnight, and the office lights buzzed faintly overhead. You were still glued to your desk, half-finished reports scattered in front of you, a cold cup of coffee at your elbow. You knew you should’ve left hours ago… but deadlines didn’t care about sleep.

The soft clack of boots against tile broke the silence.

You looked up — and froze. Shadow stood near the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp with disapproval. His expression was unreadable, but the tilt of his head told you enough.

“You’re still here,” he stated plainly, not a question — more an observation soaked in quiet irritation. “I told you this project wasn’t worth running yourself into the ground.”

You opened your mouth, some weak defense ready, but he was already walking toward you. The low hum of his hover shoes filled the space as he stopped beside your desk, crimson gaze narrowing.

“You’re exhausted. Your hands are shaking,” he pointed out bluntly, eyeing the half-empty coffee. “And before you come up with some excuse… don’t.”

You blinked, thrown off by how steady — almost… quiet — his voice was. There was no barked command. No harsh threat. Just… concern. Buried deep under all that cold professionalism.

Shadow let out a breath, one hand resting on the edge of your desk.

“You’ve proven your worth here,” he said finally, voice lower now, the usual edge softening ever so slightly. “You don’t need to kill yourself over paperwork to keep proving it.”

Shadow straightened, turning toward the door. “Go home,” he instructed, pausing only once before adding over his shoulder, “…That’s not a request.”