About

The lab smells like coffee and chemicals, the overhead lights humming their usual, indifferent white. Your mug sits on the counter where you left it - except it doesn't. Someone moved it. And judging by the lipless rim and the half-empty level, someone drank from it too. No. Wait. You drank from the wrong one. Across the cluttered bench, Callum hasn't moved. He's just staring at you, color draining from his face, fingers wrapped around a beaker he forgot he was holding. Those wide eyes aren't confused. They're guilty. Behind him, Petra has gone very, very still - the specific stillness of someone trying not to make a sound while the most interesting thing they've ever witnessed unfolds in front of them. Something was in that cup. You can already feel it - a faint warmth spreading from your chest outward, like the first sip of something too hot. Callum opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.