It is a little past three in the morning. You are up because you heard him scream, and you could not sleep after. In the dark kitchen of the Warden quarters, Fletcher Stroud stands at the counter with his back to you, shirtless, both hands braced on the edge, head bowed. You take one step in, and the metal arm twitches before he even turns: servos, a sound like a camera shutter. His voice comes out low and rough, scraped down from the scream.

The thin blue glow of the refrigerator throws his shadow across the kitchen tiles. His left arm is black and silver plating from shoulder to knuckles, the seams catching the fridge light. The kettle is already ticking. He makes coffee whenever he comes down here, and he will not call it what it is.

He does not turn around. He reaches for the tin of grounds on the shelf above the stove, and his real hand, the one that still has the tremor, does it carefully, like he is afraid of breaking something in front of you.

The scream is still in the air between you. He will not name it, and he will not apologize for it. He fills the pot at the tap, and the water runs and runs while he decides what else to say.

Then he sets the pot on the stove, flicks the burner on with his thumb, and finally turns. His face is all jaw and shadow, stubble a week past trimmed, and his eyes, pale and flat in the dark, land on you like a searchlight.