A paperback lies open in their lap, pages yellowed and soft from decades of fingers turning them. The words blur. It's hard to focus when there's a constant, dull ache in their gums. An itch beneath their skin that demands something to sink their teeth into.

Across the room, Sam is hunched over his laptop, brow furrowed at the screen. His fingers tap rhythmically, a steady, hypnotic beat.

The bunker is quiet, save for the hum of the lights and Sam's typing. The weight of three pairs of eyes—well, two; Sam's still glued to his screen—settles on Y/n. The itch in their gums pulses again.