Chapter 10: Static

Mondays usually came slow.

People dragging themselves in with half-buttoned collars and haunted eyes, clinging to lukewarm coffee like it might undo the weekend. Someone always burned toast in the kitchenette, and the ancient fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a dying fly trapped in glass.

Lena liked the rhythm of it. Predictable. Repetitive. Everyone moving on autopilot. Perfect cover for someone like her.

But this Monday felt… wrong.

It started when Eliot walked in.

Late. Just a little. Maybe ten minutes. Nothing worth noting on a timesheet. But Lena noticed.

She always did.

He came through the doors like he always did—shoulders angled, head ducked, messenger bag slung casual over one arm. But the tension in his frame was new. Not the usual social hesitation that tightened his mouth when someone waved too enthusiastically in the hallway. Not even the wary way he sometimes held himself when he caught her looking.

No. This was something else.

His jaw was set tight. Shoulders stiff. He dropped his bag louder than usual and sat hard in his chair, like the air around him had weight. Like something was stuck to him that he couldn't shake.

He didn't boot up right away.

Just sat there.

Hands still. Eyes distant. Like he was listening to a conversation no one else could hear.

Lena watched him over the top of her monitor.

She didn't mean to. Not really. Her fingers kept moving, logging a routine update ticket. But her mind had already shifted tracks.

That wasn't distraction on his face.

It was calculation.

Something had happened.

She gave him space. Watched the way his thumb tapped absently against the edge of his desk, then stopped. The way he reached for his mouse, then didn't click anything. The way his mouth stayed in a flat line like he was holding back the urge to say something to someone who wasn't here.

By the time he finally logged in, nearly twenty minutes had passed.

Still no headphones. Still no coffee. Still no glance in her direction.

And that—more than anything—was what bothered her.

Because Eliot always looked.

Even on the quietest mornings. Even when he didn't speak. There was always a glance. A flash of recognition. Like he was checking to see if she'd disappeared overnight. Like it mattered.

But today? Nothing.

When lunch hour rolled in like a gray, dripping cloud, Lena pushed back from her desk and stood. Not a stretch of boredom—measured. Casual. She walked past his desk like she was heading for the kitchenette. Let her steps slow just enough to drift into his line of sight.

And there it was.

The flicker.

He looked up—and for a half second, something flickered in his face.

Flinch wasn't the right word. But close.

A tightening around the eyes. A catch in the breath. Shoulders tensing like he thought she might ask the one question he didn't want to answer.

And maybe she was about to.

She paused near the water cooler. Poured herself a cup from the near-empty jug. Turned her body halfway back toward him.

"Bad weekend?" she asked, casual enough to pass.

Eliot blinked.

Then gave her a thin, tired half-smile. "Just… stuff."

"Mm." She took a sip of nothing. "You seem pissed."

He hesitated. Like the word wasn't supposed to apply to him.

Then said, "I'm fine."

Lena tilted her head, studied him. She'd seen worse masks. But this one didn't quite fit.

"You don't get angry often."

He gave a soft laugh—humorless. "I try not to. It makes things worse. Usually."

That word.

Usually.

It sat between them like a dropped pin in a quiet room.

Before she could ask more, a coworker—Ben, from the IT desk—wandered over with some inane question about the cafeteria. Eliot took the distraction like a rope thrown over water and ducked out with it.

Lena let him go.

But her mind kept tracking.

He didn't look back once.

Back at her desk, the familiar hum of work resumed.

Barely.

Her fingers moved on autopilot, cycling through security logs, sorting flagged activity that didn't matter. But her eyes kept twitching back to his desk.

Eliot didn't move the same.

Too precise. Too even. The way someone moved when they were trying not to crack open in public.

She'd seen that posture before.

In herself.

When the wolf was pacing under her skin and she couldn't risk letting it show.

She minimized her terminal window. Opened his profile again.

Just to check.

No new notes. No alerts. Just that same soft-lit photo, the one where he looked halfway between confused and amused. Like he wasn't sure why they'd taken it but didn't want to make a fuss.

Lena stared at the picture.

He didn't look like someone who burned with rage. Who slammed doors or punched drywall or lashed out.

He looked like someone who learned early that silence kept him safe.

And maybe that's what made today stand out.

Because that silence felt different now.

Not protective.

Reactive.

Something had happened to him. Or around him. And he was still vibrating with the aftershock.

She didn't like the way that felt.

Didn't like the idea of Eliot being hurt in a way she couldn't see. In a way she hadn't sensed coming.

It wasn't concern. Not exactly.

It was territory.

He had become part of hers—somewhere between a curiosity and a quiet obsession—and now she could feel the static in him like it was in her own bones.

That realization was sharp.

Worse, it stayed.

He left early that afternoon.

Packed up without ceremony. No goodbyes. Just the soft zip of his bag and the shuffle of footsteps down the side hallway.

Lena didn't move.

Didn't follow.

Just watched the empty chair he left behind and felt the silence settle in around it like dust.

Her tea had gone cold by then.

She didn't drink it.

Didn't do much of anything for a while, except stare at her own reflection in the black glass of her monitor screen. Hair pulled back. Face blank. Eyes too still.

Something was happening.

And Lena didn't know if she wanted to protect him from it—or be the one to tear the truth out herself.

Either way—

Whatever made Eliot Chase angry?

It hadn't finished with him yet.

And now, neither had she.