I had trained myself to silence. To control. To bury every flicker of impulse beneath a mask colder than glass. In the field, hesitation was death, and feelings were worse than weakness. They were cracks in the armor, liabilities that could unravel entire missions. I had built myself into steel because I had to.

But steel still bent under heat—and every time Loid's sister walked into the room, I felt myself burning.

I told myself it was irritation. I told myself the shift in my pulse, the way my breath snagged, was nothing more than distraction I would cut away with discipline. Yet the truth pressed against my ribs with every stolen glance—that truth I could never admit.

I would stand quietly near the window, hands folded behind my back, while she laughed with her brother across the table. I watched the way the light touched her profile, soft and unguarded, something I myself could never allow. I memorized the curve of her smile like it was another code to break, another lock to slip through, and hated myself for it. Every instinct screamed to look away, to keep my distance, but my eyes always betrayed me first.

It was wrong. It was reckless. It was unbearable. And still, the longing gnawed at me, carving hollow places in my chest that missions and accolades could never fill.

At night, I would sit alone at my desk, paperwork scattered in neat stacks before me. My pen would hover, unmoving, as the clock ticked in the silence. I pressed my palm against my chest as if I could smother the ache through sheer force of will. "This cannot exist. It cannot." I whispered it to the empty room like an oath, my voice thin and cold.

And yet the memory lingered. The warmth of her voice, the faint brush of her hand when she'd passed me a cup, the way she had once said my name, my real name, not just "Agent Nightfall"—with no suspicion, no weight, just gentle acknowledgment. It should have been meaningless. It was everything.

I clenched my fists until my knuckles burned white. If Loid knew, if anyone knew, the foundation of all my carefully built walls would collapse. I would lose my place, my reputation, the one identity I had forged in shadows and sacrifice. Worse, I would drag her into that ruin with me.

So I wore my mask tighter. I stood straighter. I trained my voice until it carried nothing but frost. To her, I was only Loid's colleague—distant, efficient, forgettable. That was the lie I forced between us, the shield I carried even as it cut me deeper than any blade.

But in the privacy of my own mind, where silence could no longer protect me, I whispered truths I could never speak aloud. "If things were different. If I were someone else. It would be you."

And it was killing me more than the missions ever could.

The silence hung heavy. My eyes lingered a second too long before I finally spoke, my voice even but threaded with something sharper underneath.

"...You look tired. Did your day drain you that much?"