PORCO AND PIECK

The room they gave you was almost insultingly normal. A bed against the wall, a desk under the window, plain curtains, stiff military blankets. Sunlight spilled in like this was just a dorm, not a place for Marley’s poison maker. You stared at it for ten minutes on the first day, then laughed—not because it was funny, but because they trusted you enough to sleep above ground. No chains. No guards. Just one rule: no one enters your underground lab without permission. The lab beneath the barracks was secured, accessed only by select officers and you. After one researcher collapsed from your fumes, people stopped touching your work. Your room stayed clean. Boots aligned, blades wrapped, dried flowers hanging near the window. The air always smelled faintly of herbs. It was quiet. Until Porco started talking to you too often. “You’re avoiding me again.” You shut the door in his face. A pause. “You know that’s rude, right?” You ignored him. Footsteps approached. Pieck stopped behind him.