He leads the way through the dimly lit corridors, the echo of our footsteps amplifying the silence between us. My mind still burns with questions, none of which I dare voice. Something in Volkov's demeanor discourages personal inquiry, his enigmatic yet prickly aura encasing him like invisible armor. As it turns out, I don't have to ask him anything at all.

"I'm sorry you had to witness Elias' outburst, Dr. Hayes," he whispers. "Elias, while brilliant, is prone to a certain... professional stubbornness. One even the greatest minds have been undone by. I trust you'll learn how to navigate his caprices in time."

I smile and nod, but even to me, a newcomer, it's clear this isn't the first time they've had this discussion, nor the first time it has devolved into an argument followed by a childish ultimatum. The nature of our research is inherently polarizing, an ethical minefield. Elias' black-and-white stance on an issue riddled with shades of gray raises a host of red flags. His reactionary behavior makes me reconsider any attraction I've had for him. Elias' brand of authoritarianism bodes ill for how he'd behave in other situations.

A few twists and turns later, we reach the infirmary. The nurse practitioner on duty, a young woman with a round, freckled face and a red ponytail, greets us with a sincere but tired smile.

"Hello, Lindsay. How is James faring?" Volkov asks, his voice a mix of professional concern and personal interest. "Has he regained consciousness?"

Lindsay beams at him, nodding reassuringly. "Oh, yes, he's fine, considering what happened. In fact, as soon as he could stand, he insisted on returning to his quarters. Can't say as I blame him." She gives the narrow stretcher with its thin mattress a disparaging glance.

"Oh, that's a relief. I've been so worried about him."

"It's remarkable," Volkov says.

"Yes, although I don't think he's going to get much rest. I still have to perform neurological checks on him every hour throughout the night." She taps her watch.

Volkov and I exchange a look. The speed of James's recovery is surprising, almost suspicious, but neither of us presses the issue further. The tension from the dinner seems to have followed us here, and the last thing we want is another confrontation.

"Well, thank you for the reassuring news," Volkov says, his voice softer. "We'll leave him to rest then."

As we turn to leave, a wave of relief washes over me. The tension of the dinner, the ethical debates, and Elias' piercing gaze—all seem to dissipate with each step away from the infirmary.

When we reach a fork in the corridor, Volkov turns to me, his expression softer now. "Goodnight, Emily. Try to get some rest."

I nod, grateful for the calm. "Goodnight, Dr. Volkov."

We part ways, each heading to our quarters. As I walk down the quiet hallway, I can't shake the lingering unease. Despite the relief of leaving the dinner, the day's events still weigh heavily on my mind. I know tomorrow will bring more challenges, more ethical minefields to navigate.

Reaching my quarters, I close the door behind me and lean against it, taking a deep breath. The stillness of the room is a welcome change, offering a moment of solitude and reflection. As I prepare for bed, my thoughts drift back to the dinner, to Elias, and the unresolved tension that seems to hang over us all, heavy and unspoken, like a storm waiting to break.

I settle onto the bed, the sheets cool and unfamiliar, and try to let the quiet of the room soothe me. But the silence isn't absolute. It carries with it faint noises—small creaks and groans, like the bones of the building shifting under an invisible weight. On my first night, these sounds had come louder, almost alive, rattling the thin walls and clawing at my nerves. Now, they are quieter, muffled but persistent, as though the house has become aware of my presence and is merely whispering its unease.

Sitting up, I strain to hear beyond the four walls. A faint scratching noise catches my attention, irregular and disjointed, like nails dragging across wood in slow, deliberate strokes. It seems to come from above, or perhaps below—in this echo chamber of a room, it's impossible to tell. My pulse quickens as I glance toward the door, half-expecting the handle to turn, but it remains still.

I lie back down, punching the pillow to beat some softness into its unyielding texture, but the effort feels futile. The thought lingers in my mind, insistent and sharp: the path we're on, the cost of the strides we're making. It clings to me like the unsettling noises beyond my door, leaving me with the creeping sense that whatever is out there isn't merely waiting—it's watching.