The night in Capriha felt heavy, as if the broken city itself exhaled through the cracks of its ruined streets. Inside the small apartment, the world seemed quieter. The lights from outside bled through the fractured blinds in thin golden slits, striping the walls and casting shadows that swayed like half-formed memories.
Gendai sat on the couch, knees pulled up close, her long green hair spilling like silk over her shoulders. The dim lamp painted her emerald strands in soft halos. She hadn't spoken much since the tea; her eyes lingered on the window, where the city's wounds glowed faintly from fires still burning in the distance.
Sando leaned against the wall, watching her. His chest rose with unspoken words, his hand flexing as though he wanted to reach for her but feared breaking the fragile calm.
"You're quiet tonight," he said at last, his voice low, careful.
Gendai tilted her head, lips pressed into a faint line. "I don't know what to say without sounding… broken."
Sando pushed off the wall, slow steps carrying him closer. He stopped near the arm of the couch, crouching so his gaze met hers. "Maybe broken isn't something you need to hide. Not with me."
Her breath caught. The flickering light made her emerald eyes glimmer—like glass about to shatter, or a jewel fighting to keep its brilliance.
"Why are you being like this?" she whispered. "You don't even know me… not really."
"I know enough," Sando murmured. "I know the way you carry pain like armor. I know how your voice softens when you talk about what you lost. And…" His lips curved faintly, tender. "I know that right now, sitting here, I don't want to be anywhere else."
Silence pressed between them—thick, unyielding. Gendai's hand tightened around the hem of her sleeve. She looked away, her chest trembling with words she wasn't sure she wanted to release.
"You make it sound so easy," she said, her voice breaking softly. "Like I can just… let myself be seen."
Sando reached out slowly, as though giving her every chance to pull away. His fingers brushed hers, warm, steady. "You can. Tonight, here. No masks. Just you."
Her eyes darted to his hand, then up to his face. For a moment, the walls she'd built wavered—her lips parting, her body leaning the smallest bit closer.
The air lingered thick between them, the city's ruin humming faintly outside, but in that apartment it was only the two of them—their breaths, their shared vulnerability, the way their hearts reached into the quiet as if trying to find each other in the dark.