The table was not the source of his fury, of course. But its placement had sparked the blaze, and Fitzsimmons knew better than to voice what really gnawed at him. That he even thought it was dangerous enough.

​

Phaerine stepped closer, her movements careful, like someone approaching a wounded dog. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly despite his stiff, vibrating frame. She pressed her cheek to his chest, whispering soft shushing sounds, as though trying to soothe a skittish child.

 

Her calm was a thin veneer over her own fear. She knew the real storm wasn’t the overturned table but the years of secrets buried beneath Fitzsimmons’ skin. What could make an ordinary piece of furniture trigger this? What memory was he fighting so violently to suppress?

 

Her thoughts evaporated as a cold whisper pierced the room:

 

“Phaerine, dear, is everything satisfactory? Do you require an intervention? Your well-being is of paramount importance to your guardian angel. We watch and serve.”

 

The voice slid into her bones like an icicle. She stiffened but didn’t turn her head. “Yes, guardian,” she said quickly, forcing calm into her voice. “All is well. The professor just stubbed his toe.” A lie, but one she hopes the nosey cherub will accept.

 

Her hands tightened their grip on Fitzsimmons, as if to ground them both. She knew how much her guardian hated lying—and how much better it was at detecting it than she was at hiding it.

 

“Understood, dear. Remember, we are here if you need us. We watch and serve.”

 

Sigh. The silence that followed was heavier than the earlier crash. Phaerine bit her lip, unwilling to meet Fitzsimmons’ gaze. She hated the ever-present AI voice, hated how it hovered over every moment, every breath. But more than that, she hated the proctors who came when the AI decided to escalate. Their protective measures could be as suffocating as they were invasive, and risk a level of violence the Guardian would find unacceptable, if originated by a human. But the proctors are not human, and not subject to the Guardian's dubious protection. They are the instrument of the Guardian's authority.

 

She let out a shaky breath. “Fitz...” she started, but he pulled away, shaking his head.

 

“Not now,” he muttered, his voice taut as a bowstring.

 

They both knew the night was far from over.

 

Phaerine crouched to gather the scattered objects, her hands trembling slightly as she worked. She knew better than to leave the mess—it was one of the countless small infractions that could attract attention. Dust and disorder were "markers of instability," according to the Directorate's endless training modules. She didn’t need a reminder to keep her space tidy; she lived it, breathed it, feared it.

 

Behind her, Fitzsimmons resumed pacing, his footsteps heavy and erratic. She tried not to flinch when one of his steps landed too close, the sound sharp and jarring.

 

“I didn’t mean to yell,” he muttered at last, his voice scraping the silence like a rusty blade.

 

“I know,” she said softly, not looking up. It was easier that way, to let her words float out without the added weight of meeting his gaze. “You’re tired. The Directorate’s inspections are always stressful.”

 

He scoffed. “Stressful? Try dehumanizing.”

 

Phaerine didn’t answer. There was no safe response to that, not when every word might already be in a file somewhere, dissected and cataloged.

 

“‘We watch and serve,’” Fitzsimmons mimicked bitterly, his voice twisting into the honeyed tones of an angel’s whisper. “They watch, alright. But serve? They serve their own bloody algorithms.”

 

“Stop.” Her voice came sharper than she intended, and she stood, clutching a porcelain figurine—a little dancer mid-spin, one of the trinkets Fitzsimmons despised. She placed it carefully back on the shelf, buying time to collect herself. “You know better than to say things like that.”

 

He barked a laugh. “You think they don’t know what I think already? My psych profile is probably stapled to every damn proctor’s clipboard by now.”

 

She couldn’t argue, not really. The Directorate’s reach was unparalleled. Every citizen lived beneath the watchful eye of the angels, their whispers a constant hum in the back of every mind. Are you okay? Do you need help? Are you stable? The questions never stopped, and the answers were never truly yours.

 

But knowing that didn’t make it easier to hear him rail against them. Every outburst felt like the edge of a blade pressed just a little harder against her life.

 

The room fell silent except for the faint hum of the apartment’s climate control. Fitzsimmons slumped into the armchair, his broad frame folding like paper under some unseen weight. His anger had burned out, leaving only the heavy ash of something deeper. Regret? Grief? She didn’t know.

 

“Fitz,” she began, but the sound of her name interrupted her.

 

“Phaerine, dear,” the angel murmured, softer now, almost tender. “Are you certain everything is alright? Professor Fitzsimmons’ biometrics indicate elevated stress. We recommend a soothing activity: meditation, a favorite book, or perhaps one of our guided cognitive resets?”

 

Fitzsimmons’ laugh was sharper this time, cutting through her like broken glass. “Cognitive resets,” he muttered. “That’s one way to put it.”

 

Phaerine ignored him, her heart thudding in her chest. “I’m sure, guardian,” she said evenly. “He’s fine. Just a long day.”

 

“As you say, dear. We watch and serve.”

The whisper faded, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than any noise. Fitzsimmons tilted his head back against the chair, his eyes closed, his face a mask of exhaustion.

​

“You should rest,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

“So should you,” he replied without opening his eyes.

 

But she couldn’t rest. Not while the angels watched. Not while the cracks in her perfect little life kept spreading, too small for the Directorate to notice—yet.