Work Text:
Naoto has always been punctual. She keeps a pocketwatch inside her jacket, a watch around her wrist, and a flip-phone in her pocket. There is a clock on the wall of every room in her home, and next to the laptop on her desk sits a square digital clock with red numbers that flash the time. It is rare that she loses track of time, but as she stares at the case files sprawled out before her, something nagging at her brain suggests that she has done exactly that. She jerks her head up, staring at the clock sitting next to her, and blinks.
The red numbers flash 5:25 back at her.
Oh.
She stares at the clock, then turns, peering out her window, but-- no, it is winter, and though the morning is on its way, the sky is still dark. No wonder she lost track of time. Usually, her eyelids would grow heavy and she would find the frequency of her yawns increasing, but these days, where stress and sleeplessness mire her in equal measure, she is not as tired as she should be.
Tired isn't quite the right word, she reflects. Naoto is tired (it is hard not to be when the fog rests thick on the concrete and the murders weigh heavy on Inaba's shoulders), but she is not sleepy. Her eyes feel dull, but do not weigh her thinking down, and her poor excuse for a circadian rhythm has long abandoned her to live in a land where Naoto doesn't have to juggle academics, detective work, and the supernatural. She might be just as exhausted as the rest of the Investigation Team, but her body adapted to the weariness the world demands of her years ago.
She lets out a sigh, reclining back in her seat and staring up at the ceiling.
Rest is important. She knows that.
Effects of sleep deprivation may include a worsened attention span, an inability to focus properly, slower thought processes, poor mood, fatigue, reduced cognitive function, and a variety of somatic symptoms. Naoto does not need to be told this. She has read the facts again and again, burning enough information into her brain about her poor habits to fill an encyclopedia. Logically, she knows what she is doing is wrong, but when she dares try even glancing at her bed, the work resting on her desk screams her name. The ceiling's patterns twist themselves into the murder victims' agonised faces, and sometimes, she swears she can hear them begging, please, please, bring our killer to justice.
She is tired. Too tired to concentrate on her work, but too accustomed to this atrocious sleep cycle to stave off the horrors of being awake. If she attempts sleep, it will not come. It rarely does.
Again, Naoto sighs.
Time spent pondering her situation is time spent unproductively. If she is to be awake at such an hour, then she must make use of it.
She runs a hand through her hair, takes a deep breath, and gets back to work.