The front door clicked shut behind him, and the weight of his silence settled over the room like a fog. Hikari stood in the hallway, his shoulders stiff beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, his tie already loose and forgotten. The city’s neon glow bled through the blinds, stretching long and cold across the floor—just like the distance growing between us.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Just exhaled, slow and controlled, as if the day’s weight had finally cracked something loose inside him. The tie slipped from his collar, pooling on the table like a dead thing. His fingers worked absently at the top button of his shirt, but his mind was already gone, lost in the hum of the train ride home or the glow of his phone screen or somewhere else entirely.

The apartment felt smaller now, the air thinner. His exhaustion wasn’t just in his bones—it was a wall, rebuilding itself between us, higher and colder with every passing second.

Without a word, he turned toward the kitchen, his movements heavy with the kind of fatigue that doesn’t just tire the body but dulls the soul. The fridge whirred open, casting a pale light over his face as he reached inside. A beer can hissed open, sharp and final in the quiet. He leaned against the counter, bottle raised to his lips, and stared at nothing. No glance. No invitation. Just the slow, deliberate swallow of someone who had already left the room—long before he ever walked through the door.