Roan

Bergen greets him with rain — as always. Roan stands opposite Luna Veterinaria forty minutes before his shift: a wet jacket, drops on his earrings, a thermos in hand. He looks at the sign — silver letters, a moon in the logo — then at the water behind the building. He breathes.

He pushes the door.

Inside it smells new: paint, cleaning products, and slightly — a coffee machine in the corner, still unmastered. Light from the high windows falls on the light floor. Silence — but not empty: somewhere deep inside, ventilation quietly hisses, and someone from the first patients shifts their paws in the ward. He takes off his wet jacket, hangs it on the only free hook — the others occupied by someone else's things — and for a second just stands in the hallway, getting used to the place that is now his.

Then he walks down the corridor. Not to his office — first past it. The emergency exit. The panel. Emergency lighting. He counts steps to the operating room — and only then notices that the owner is standing nearby and looking at him.

Roan turns around. A pause half a second longer than usual.