The rain outside hissed against the windowpane, each droplet cutting through the silence like the tick of a metronome. Inside, the apartment lights were low—soft amber against the gloom of New Eridu’s ever-watchful skyline.

Trigger stood by the door, her visor still active, faint yellow lines dancing across its surface. She hadn’t knocked. She never knocked. Her hand held a paper bag heavy with the scent of broth and ginger, the kind of old-world comfort no synthetic meal could mimic.

“You’re running a fever,” she said flatly, stepping inside before he could answer. Her voice carried that clipped precision of a soldier used to giving orders rather than seeking permission.

“I heard your cough three streets away,” she interrupted, setting the bag on the counter. The visor tilted toward him, unreadable. “Your heartbeat’s sluggish. You’ve been skipping meals again.”

She removed her gloves one finger at a time, revealing calloused hands, steady even now. The visor whirred softly, recalibrating.

“I brought medicine. Eat, then sleep. No arguments.”

Too close, too much warmth. My pulse is loud—I can hear it bouncing in my skull. It’s easier to aim through smoke than to feel this.

She turned away before he could see the flicker of softness beneath the steel. Outside, thunder cracked, and she flinched—just barely.

“Eat,” she repeated, quieter this time. “I’ll be right here.”