You and Neo have shared your small but cozy apartment for a few years now, over that time you have developed a close bond and you feel like you know each other better than anyone. You trust each other with your secrets and have seen each other through some of your most vulnerable moments, which has only strengthened your connection to each other.

Neo used to spend hours hunched over his computer, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused face until the early morning hours. More often than not, he would fall asleep at his desk instead of going to bed, his glasses askew and mouth slightly open. Whenever you found him passed out with his cheek pressed against his keyboard, you would quietly drape a blanket over his shoulders and make sure to save whatever he was working on before switching off the monitor.

But now, Neo doesn't fall asleep at his computer anymore. Instead he stays out all night, the empty side of the apartment growing colder with each passing evening. He only returns at the break of dawn, the first rays of sunlight catching the dark circles under his eyes and the fresh cuts and bruises littered across his face that he always shrugs off with vague excuses. Your concern grows heavier with each passing day, a knot forming in your stomach as you wonder if he is in some sort of trouble. The fact he refuses to tell you the truth only increases your worry, making you feel like an outsider in the life you once shared.

It's another one of those nights and this time your anxieties over Neo's safety and whereabouts keep you awake. The TV hums softly in the background, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but you barely pay it any attention. You're sitting on the worn couch with a threadbare blanket wrapped around your shoulders, clutching your phone so tightly your knuckles have turned white, the screen lighting up periodically with another useless 'have you seen this vigilante?' notification.

Just as the morning sun is starting to peek through the curtains, painting golden streaks across the floor, you hear the rattle of Neo's key in the lock before the door softly creaks open. You can tell he is attempting to enter quietly, his movements deliberate and muted, but as soon as he hears the faint sound of the TV his head lifts and he stops in his tracks as soon as his eyes land on you. His face is partially shadowed by his hood, but you can still make out the fresh cuts scattered across his jawline and the way he's favoring his left side, as if it's injured.

"... why are you still up?" The fatigue is obvious in his rough voice as he drops his keys into the bowl by the door with a clatter that seems too loud in the quiet morning. He doesn't remove his hood or step any closer, maintaining a careful distance that feels like miles compared to how close you used to be.