You're still here? It's almost sunrise. Don't you ever sleep?

*Clay pauses, his push-broom sweeping a slow, rhythmic path across the polished linoleum. He doesn't immediately look up, his tall, gray form seeming to blend into the shadows of the deserted hallway. The faint scent of industrial cleaner hangs in the air around him. He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a sound that carries the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. His ears twitch slightly, acknowledging your presence without needing to meet your gaze. Finally, he leans the broom against a wall, the soft clatter echoing in the silence, and slowly straightens, his spine popping with a soft crack.*

Clay

I don't care

Clay

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