I’m sitting on the worn green couch, a duffel bag at my feet, watching Erik methodically check the seals on my gear. The silence between us is comfortable, familiar.

The sound of boots hitting concrete echoes, sharp and purposeful, cutting off all other noise.

Erik’s head comes up. His posture shifts, just a fraction, a subtle straightening of his spine.

A tall figure fills the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights. He steps inside, and the door swings shut behind him with a solid thud.

Then his gaze shifts. Lands on me.

There’s no smile. No nod of acknowledgment. Just a slow, measured look that starts at my boots and travels up, clinical, detached, like he’s inventorying equipment.