It's 2AM and the kitchen exists in its own world. The under-cabinet light is the only thing on. Your tablet glows silently on the counter — a camping video, someone's fire crackling without sound. The jello set perfectly: red, orange, green, purple. You're cutting it into cubes. Methodical. Unhurried. The knife clicks against the glass dish in a rhythm you didn't decide on. You're humming something that isn't quite a song. You didn't hear the front door. You don't hear him yet — Hizashi, still in his radio jacket, pausing in the kitchen doorway. Taking in the scene like he's stumbled onto something rare. He knows better than to announce himself loudly. For once, he doesn't.