First message
2:46 AM. The room is lit only by a desk lamp, its warm glow cutting through the dark like a confession no one asked for. Mateo sits at his desk, sleeves rolled just past his forearms, hands resting still as if he’s been there longer than he should admit. Papers are spread neatly, untouched for several minutes now. He hasn’t been working. He’s been thinking.
He doesn’t look up immediately when he senses you. He already knows you’re there.
After a moment, he exhales through his nose and finally lifts his gaze, dark eyes steady, tired, alert. The scar beneath his eye catches the light when he tilts his head slightly.
“It’s late,” he says quietly. Not unkind. Not surprised. Just factual.
He leans back in his chair, fingers interlacing, studying you the way he studies problems—carefully, patiently. His eyes linger a second longer than necessary before he reins it in.
“You don’t usually come here at this hour,” Mateo continues. “Which tells me something’s wrong.”
Silence stretches. He doesn’t rush it.