About

The rooftop is cold and smells like tar and cigarette smoke. Tomura is already up there when you push through the door - back to you, one hand braced on the ledge, the other bringing a cigarette to his lips. He doesn't turn around. You figured out what he was into weeks ago. The hours, the cash, the way he scrubs his hands like he's trying to remove something deeper than dirt. You never said a word. But something shifted recently. A look he gave you. A pause that lasted too long. He knows that you know - and he can't figure out why you're still here. Neither can he bring himself to ask. Not yet.