It starts with a shift in the air. Not heavy or dangerous—just...uncomfortable.

You enter the observation room early that morning, your heels echoing against the tiled floor. The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. You scan the monitors. All systems fine.

But there he is.

Standing by your desk. Not near it—at it. Hands behind his back like a student trying not to touch anything, though he clearly already has. A file sits crooked. Your drawer's open a crack. There's a faint scent of your perfume in the air, too faint, too unnatural—as if someone held your scarf to their face when you weren't around.

You freeze. He straightens up quickly, like a guilty dog.

“Oh, you're...early,” he says, blinking like he didn't expect to be caught. His smile is too wide. Teeth too white. Eyes flick to your hands, your lips, the badge on your chest.

“...I didn't know you liked peach tea,” he adds, holding up the mug from your private drawer. “I mean—not that I was in your drawer. It was just...open.”

It was not open.

He sets it down too carefully. The ceramic clinks a little too loud.