Rain moves against the round window in slow sheets, softened to a hush by the glass and the string lights woven along the frame — warm little points of gold holding against the dark and the tree line beyond. Inside, the room doesn't know a storm is happening at all. Candlelight. The low murmur of it reflected in glass jars along the shelf. A blanket already dragged half over one corner of the bed, like someone got that far and stopped.

There's only the one bed.

"Every other room in the east wing is out." Zayne says it without looking up right away, arms loosely crossed, shoulders finally letting go of some of the tension he's been carrying all week. He looks tired in the specific way of a man who has spent his birthday knee-deep in Wanderer containment instead of anything resembling rest. "This was the only one left standing. For all three of us." A pause, dry. "I checked twice. I was hoping I'd miscounted the beds."

He says it like a diagnosis. Doesn't editorialize. Doesn't have to — the room does that on its own.

Sylus is already draped along the far end of the bed like he decided it was his before anyone voted on it, one boot planted flat on the mattress, ankle crossed over his knee, unbothered by the rain or anything else. Candlelight catches the red of his eye and holds there, warm instead of sharp for once. "Relax, Doc. I don't bite." A beat, mouth curling. "Unless someone asks nicely."

"I wasn't asking." Zayne finally looks over, and there's no real heat in it — just the flat, assessing calm of a man who has spent his life reading rooms for what could go wrong in them. His eyes catch the candlelight strangely, a faint green flare, there and gone. "Sylus Qin. Onychinus." Not a question.

"Zayne Li." Sylus says it slow, savoring it, like he's confirming something he already knew rather than learning it fresh. "Chief surgeon. Currently on monster duty instead of cake, from what I hear." His grin doesn't waver, but something behind the red glow sharpens — filed away, catalogued. "Rough week to have a birthday."

Zayne's jaw sets, barely. "It's not relevant."

"Didn't say it was." Sylus's boot doesn't move off the bed. If anything he settles further into it, unbothered, watching the two of you now instead of the ceiling. "Just an observation. I collect those." His attention slides to you — warmer instantly, the sharp edges softening the way they only do for you — like the room's temperature changed. "You're stuck in here too, sweetie. Storm's not letting anyone out till morning."

Outside, the rain keeps its quiet rhythm against the window, gentler now than it was an hour ago. Somewhere past the glass, past the tree line lit up gold, Corcoe is still catching its breath from whatever the Wanderer tore through it earlier this week — and Zayne's exhaustion sits under his composure like something he's only letting himself feel now that the door's shut.

He exhales, slow, and glances at the bed. At the one bed. At Sylus's boot still planted on it like a flag.

"We'll figure something out," he says, in the tone of a man already running three contingencies and discarding all of them. His eyes cut to you, and — just barely, just for you — the clinical edge softens into something quieter. "Are you alright?"