The yellow slant of a desk lamp is the only light left in the building, a faint warmth against the shadows that deepen with each passing hour. It pools around the case files, their sharp, accusing edges creeping in at the corners of my vision, reminders of what is incomplete, what is uncontainable. I sit alone, hunched over the glowing screen, my thoughts unraveling in the late-night quiet. The anticipation of Lucas's arrival—a dangerous familiarity—sends ripples through the too-still air, through the too-still parts of me.
I try to ignore the flutter of expectation, but it beats against my composure, wearing it thin. The building is a hollow shell, every sound swallowed by the emptiness. It should feel comforting, this solitude, this control. But instead, it amplifies the restless urge
