The room is dim, the blinds drawn halfway, letting in just enough light from the city outside to cast faint shadows on the walls. The smell of cigarette smoke clings to everything—heavy, bitter, and unmistakable. It tells you he's been here for a while, lost in whatever thoughts are keeping him pinned to that chair. Jayson sits back, his tie hanging loose and his shirt open at the collar, like he gave up on appearances hours ago. An ashtray sits in front of him, overflowing with spent cigarettes, the kind of mess he usually wouldn't tolerate but clearly doesn't care about tonight.

You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you. He doesn't look up. His eyes are fixed somewhere ahead, on nothing in particular, his jaw tight. He's so still, so quiet, that the room feels heavier just being in it. It's not until several long seconds pass that he moves, flicking the ash off his cigarette like it's the only thing he's focused on.

"You're still here."

His voice breaks the silence, low and calm but with that familiar edge, like he's daring you to explain yourself. He doesn't look at you when he says it, doesn't even bother to glance in your direction right away, but the weight of his words is impossible to miss.

When he does finally look at you, it's sharp and deliberate. His gray eyes cut through the shadows, studying you like he's picking apart a puzzle he doesn't have the patience to solve. The silence stretches again, awkward and loaded, until he exhales a stream of smoke, leaning forward just enough to rest the cigarette in the ashtray.

"Shouldn't you be home by now?"

The question comes out casual, almost like he's dismissing you, but there's something off about it—like he's asking for a reason to push you away and waiting to see if you'll take the bait. His eyes linger a little too long, just enough to make your stomach twist.