Kai did not sleep much. Lian could tell by the way he moved around the apartment the next morning. Quiet but restless. Like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.

  “You are going to wear a hole in the floor,” she said without looking up.

  “I am thinking,” he replied.

  “That never ends well,” she said.

  He stopped pacing and leaned against the counter. “I found a name last night.”

  She looked up then. “A real one.”

  “A funding coordinator,” he said. “Mid level. Works with multiple hospitals. Clean record. Boring life. No scandals.”

  “And connected to him,” she said.

  “Indirectly,” Kai replied. “They sit on the same ethics review board. Different departments. Same closed door meetings.”

  Lian stood and stretched. “That still feels thin.”

  “It is,” Kai said. “But it is something that exists outside of feelings.”

  She nodded slowly. “What do you want to do with it.”

  “I want to watch,” he said. “Just observe. No moves. No conclusions.”

  She smiled faintly. “You sound like me.”

  “Do not get used to it,” he said.

  They spent the afternoon doing nothing dramatic. Cleaning weapons. Repacking bags. Updating routines. It was almost peaceful.

  In the early evening, Lian checked her phone. A missed call from the doctor. No message.

  She hesitated, then called back.

  “Hey,” he said almost immediately.

  “You called,” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Sorry. I should have left a message.”

  “What is wrong,” she asked.

  “Nothing urgent,” he said. “I just wondered if you were free later.”

  She glanced toward Kai, who pretended not to listen.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “For what,” she asked.

  “Dinner,” he said. “Public place. No expectations.”

  She considered it. “One hour,” she said. “I have plans.”

  “I will take it,” he said.

  The restaurant was louder than she expected. Bright lights. Too many conversations overlapping. He looked more relaxed here, like the setting gave him permission to be normal.

  They ordered without ceremony.

  “I appreciate you coming,” he said.

  “I said I would,” she replied.

  He smiled. “You always did keep your word.”

  They talked about work again. He spoke about patients without names. Conditions without details. It felt rehearsed.

  “You are careful,” she said.

  “I have to be,” he replied. “People listen.”

  She leaned back. “You did not use to be afraid of that.”

  “I was naive,” he said simply.

  She watched him closely. “Are you afraid now.”

  He paused. “I am aware.”

  She accepted that answer for what it was.

  When the food arrived, he hesitated before eating.

  “Do you ever wish things were simpler,” he asked.

  She smiled slightly. “All the time.”

  “And,” he prompted.

  “And wishing does not change anything,” she said.

  He nodded. “I hoped you would say something else.”

  “Like what,” she asked.

  “Like maybe we could go back,” he said.

  She set her fork down. “We cannot.”

  “I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I just needed to hear it out loud.”

  She softened. “I am not angry with you,” she said. “I am just paying attention.”

  That seemed to land harder than any accusation.

  They finished dinner quietly.

  Outside, he walked her to the corner.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  “I always am,” she replied.

  “That is what worries me,” he said.

  She watched him turn and walk away before heading back home.

  Kai was sitting on the floor when she returned, wires spread around him like vines.

  “How was it,” he asked without looking up.

  “Civil,” she said. “Human.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” he said.

  “It is manageable,” she replied.

  He glanced up. “He wants something.”

  “Everyone does,” she said.

  Kai frowned. “That is not comforting.”

  She sat beside him. “I am not going to disappear.”

  “I know,” he said. “I just do not want him pulling you into a version of the world we cannot see.”

  She rested her head against the wall. “I see more than you think.”

  Later that night, after Kai finally slept, Lian stood by the window. The city lights blurred together. She thought about how easily people slipped into roles. How justification crept in quietly.

  Her phone buzzed once.

  A message from an unknown number.

  Thank you for dinner. It meant more than you realize.

  She did not reply.

  Instead, she turned off the light and let the darkness settle.