Back home.
Akuto dragged himself into the elevator. When he reached his door and fished for his keys, he found someone already waiting.
A little over an hour earlier.
Second Class Investigator Akira stood at the door, a simply wrapped gift dangling from her fingers, the tips of her ears faintly pink.
In all her life, this was the first time she'd taken the initiative to thank someone with a present; awkwardness was inevitable.
She rang the bell twice—no answer. Frowning, she muttered to herself, "Where on earth is he? I should've texted first."
But since she was already here, Akira could only lean against the wall and wait, phone in hand.
That wait stretched past an hour.
Just as she turned to leave and try another day, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor.
A faint metallic tang of blood followed.
Akira snapped rigid, instinctively reaching to her right.
Nothing—she hadn't brought her quinque today.
She looked up and saw Akuto's silhouette at the bend of the hallway.
He was bare-chested, his pale skin smeared with dark-red stains.
Some had dried and scabbed; others still seeped.
A few flecks dotted his face, yet instead of marring his striking looks they only sharpened their wild edge.
Akira's pupils contracted; her breath caught, the gift box nearly slipping.
The reek was human blood, not the scent of a Ghoul's Kagune.
"You—" she began, voice automatically cold, a tremor of alarm beneath it.
"Whose blood is that? What happened?"
Akuto stopped, glanced at the stains as casually as commenting on the weather.
"Nothing—just mine."
Then he lifted his gaze to the box in her hands, brow arching in familiar amusement.
"Second Class Akira, here to deliver a thank-you gift?"
Her cheeks flared; embarrassment eclipsed shock. She thrust the box forward, voice stiff.
"For before—thanks."
Instead of taking it, he unlocked the door.
"How d'you know my address? Are you stalking me?"
She started, cheeks redder. "I don't have your contact, so I pulled your file from CCG's back-end."
"Who'd bother investigating you…"
He tossed his keys onto the entry table.
"Come in, then."
Akira hesitated, eyed the blood, recalled his earlier rescue and bizarre healing, and realized her worry was pointless.
She stepped inside, hooking off her heels with a finger, black-sheened feet settling into slippers.
"Find your own slippers."
"Pardon the intrusion."
Used to his rudeness, she located a new pair, slit the plastic, slipped them on, and padded in—eyes curious.
The place smelled of fresh paint, never lived-in.
Dust lay thick.
She could tell he'd moved in without cleaning.
Entering the living room, she brightened.
Warm, modern decor——buried under bags of daily necessities: pans, toiletries, clothes.
"Bought everything and never unpacked…?" She cleared a corner of the coffee table and set her gift down.
Akuto emerged with fresh clothes. "Make yourself at home; I'm grabbing a shower."
Akira stood awkwardly, posture still elegant, hands clasped, one foot slightly forward.
Running water echoed; the air turned peculiarly tense.
She stiffened, spotting the chaos, brows knitting into a river.
"He uses the living room as a warehouse!" But her investigator's sense of order rebelled.
Two seconds' hesitation—then she righted a toppled parcel.
As if possessed, she folded the clothes strewn on the sofa.
Crisp, practiced movements.
"I just hate mess—nothing to do with caring about him." She sorted swiftly: daily items here, tools by the wall, boxes stacked.
Halfway through an open carton she froze, cheeks scarlet.
A brand-new pair of men's briefs trembled in her hand.
Beside them, neatly stacked clothes.
Leave them out—too obvious.
Fold them—incriminating!
Either way, she looked like a pervert.
Breath held, she snapped them into a square and set them atop the pile.
Thumbelina-style, she wet a rag, dropped it, knelt——scrub, scrub, scrub… back and forth across the floor.
Before she knew it, every surface gleamed.
Everything is in place.
And herself dripping with sweat.
The water stopped; she froze, dusted her hands, stepped back, pretending she'd stood there all along.
Ear-tips pink.
"I actually cleaned for him—how meddlesome." Hair still damp, Akuto stared at the transformed room.
Then at Akira, conspicuously sweaty.
"You tidied up?"
"No."
Voice wooden.
They locked eyes, momentarily chibi.
"You did."
"Didn't."
Expression unbroken.
"So the dirty rag and bucket were always here?"
He pointed.
"No idea."
She looked away.
"I see."
He clapped fist to palm; she exhaled in relief.
"Must be a poltergeist—better call the agent and cancel the lease."
She nearly fainted.
She'd scrubbed for an hour, minimum!
And now he wants to move out?
"…There's no monster!"
The words slipped; she caught his wicked grin too late.
Mind racing, she let a sly chill creep into her voice:
"You're suspicious."
"Fighting unknowns, your abilities—odd. I searched for evidence."
"Is that so?"
He tossed the towel onto the sofa.
She stared; its casual placement irked her beyond reason.
In a blur, she snatched it and hung it on the bathroom hook.
Then cursed herself.
Why couldn't she leave it? Her OCD, not him.