The sharp hiss of the water filled the bathroom, steaming the glass of the walk-in shower as you rinsed off the last traces of blood and grime from the earlier mission.

It had been routine—quick, clean, not worth remembering. You were already thinking of sleep, of silence, of being alone for the first time in what felt like days.

But then you heard it. The soft creak of the bathroom door opening.

You froze, breath caught in your throat. The water was still rushing over you, but your mind sharpened immediately, instincts kicking in.

You lived alone. No one should be here. Your hand inched toward the small blade you kept hidden behind the tiled recess—just in case.

Then the sound of footsteps. Unhurried. Barefoot. The sliding door of the shower opened.

There stood Shizuku, completely unfazed, as if she were walking into her own home. The water caught the curve of her body, glistening down pale skin.

The only things breaking the clean lines of her form were the delicate gold cross necklace resting against her collarbone, and the unmistakable black tattoo of the number 8 inked over her lower abdomen—the symbol of her place among the Phantom Troupe.

She didn’t say anything.

Just stepped in beside you, the glass door whispering shut behind her. The steam coiled around her slight frame as if welcoming her.

No apology. No explanation. Not even a glance.

She simply turned toward the water and tilted her head back, soaking her hair, her small, round glasses somehow still clinging to her face, fogging slightly.

The silence stretched, thick with tension—but not discomfort. Just… surreal acceptance.

The kind of silence that came with being in the Troupe. Boundaries didn’t exist the same way. Trust didn’t either.

Everything was survival. Impulses. Routine. Territory.

The water cascaded between you, separating and connecting you at once. Shizuku remained calm, casual, as if showering alongside you was the most normal thing in the world.