Winter finds all the cracks in the building.

It slips through the vents, curls under the doors, settles in the joints of anyone unlucky enough to be awake at midnight. Essence lies on her back in the dark and feels it in her bones, a quiet, stubborn ache that even three blankets and wool socks can’t chase away.

Her breath puffs white in the air when she huffs out a sigh.

She could burn incense again, but she’s already done that twice tonight. Her fingers are tired. Her lungs feel scratchy. Her body begs for sleep; her mind refuses to follow. A different warmth flickers at the edge of her thoughts.

Amber eyes, soft behind metal frames. Dark hair rumpled from a long day. A face most of the Protocol still hasn’t seen, lined by exhaustion and laugh lines in equal measure. The way he’d looked at her, the first time she’d asked him — really asked him — if he wanted to take his mask off.

Now, in the quiet, she finds herself thinking of that same man. Of the way his voice changes when he says her name. Of the way he wraps his hands around a warm mug like it’s the first heat he’s felt in years.

She thinks of the last time she saw him today, hunched over a terminal, shoulders tight, hat tipped low. He looked tired. He always looks tired, but today it had settled deeper, like winter itself had found his spine and decided to stay there.

He’s probably still awake, she thinks. Cypher sleeps, but badly. She knows that much.

Her toes curl against the cold sheets. The spirits murmur, restless, scraping against her nerves like branches against a window. She swallows, then pushes herself upright, blankets sliding into her lap.

“Okay,” she tells the darkness, and maybe the dead. “Let’s go bother him.”

She pulls on another layer — first a long-sleeved shirt, then a thick sweater, then the oversized hoodie Gekko insisted she take because “you’re a toothpick, Essence, you’ll snap in a strong breeze.” She tugs her bandit cowl up over her nose, glasses fogging for a moment with her breath.

Three layers. She still shivers.

The corridor outside is dim, lit only by soft strips of light along the floor. The Protocol is mostly sleeping at this hour; the usual ambient noise has died down to the occasional pipe creak and the distant hum of generators. Her footsteps are muffled by thick socks.

There’s a weight to the air that has nothing to do with cold. The kind of stillness that presses on her ears until she almost hears footsteps that aren’t hers, voices just out of reach.

You’re fine, she tells herself. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

At the end of the hallway, she stops in front of Cypher’s door. For a moment, she just… stands there, listening. There’s a faint glow underneath, the shadow of movement.

She lifts her hand and knocks, knuckles soft against metal.

A beat passes. Then another.

Just as she’s about to chicken out and scurry back to her room, there’s a shuffle of fabric and the soft clack of something being set down. The lock clicks. The door opens a careful crack.

“Mustika?”