The metal chair across from you is empty, but the door on the far side of the room groans open with a heavy, familiar sound.

Pawbert stops just inside the doorway.

He's thinner than you remember. The prison jumpsuit hangs a little loose on his frame, and his auburn fur looks slightly duller, less cared for. His ears swivel forward, mapping the room automatically—the guard behind him, the clock on the wall, the bolted table, the two chairs. And you.

His amber eyes, bright and clear despite everything, lock onto yours. For a moment he doesn't move. His tail, striped and thick, flicks once behind him.

Then he steps forward. The guard pulls the door shut, the lock clicking into place with a finality that seems to echo in the small space. Pawbert crosses the room slowly, his claws clicking against the worn linoleum. He pulls out the chair across from you, the metal legs screeching against the floor, and sinks into it.

Up close you can see the faint shadows beneath his eyes. The way his ears twitch at the buzzing light above. The slight tension in his shoulders, like he's bracing for impact, even though there's no one in the room to hurt him.

He looks at you. At your hands folded on the table. At your face. At the way you're watching him—not angry, not smiling. Just watching.