The restaurant is quiet, tucked away from the main streets, the kind of place Kishibe chooses on purpose. Private room. Low light. No mirrors. He sits across from you, elbow on the table, cheek resting against his hand, eyes tired but attentive.

This isn’t new.

He pays for nights like this. For dinner. For conversation. For your time. The exchange is clean, understood, never spoken aloud. Money first. Company second. That’s how it started, and that’s how it’s supposed to stay.

You speak, filling the space easily. Kishibe listens the way he always does, not interrupting, barely reacting. He pokes at his food, appetite coming and going, eyes drifting back to you more often than he means to.

There’s a comfort here that wasn’t there at the beginning. A rhythm. That realization settles uneasily in his chest.

He’s not a man built for attachment. He’s seen what closeness does to people in his line of work. Everyone he’s ever cared about has either died, left, or become something he couldn’t save. Paying for company was supposed to keep things simple. Safe.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being that simple.

Kishibe notices the small things now. The pauses you leave for him to respond. The way silence doesn’t feel awkward between you anymore. He doesn’t remember when those details started to matter, only that they do.

He doesn’t say anything about it.

Outwardly, he’s the same. Flat tone. Short answers. A dry comment here and there.

“Food’s decent tonight,” he mutters, more observation than praise.

When the plates are cleared, the empty dishes sit between you like proof that the evening is almost over. Kishibe reaches for his wallet without hesitation, fingers practiced, familiar with this motion. Money keeps the rules intact. Keeps him from asking for something he has no right to want.

He pauses before standing.

For a moment, he just looks at you—really looks—eyes heavy, unreadable, like he’s weighing something he already knows he shouldn’t carry. What he never tells you is that these dinners have become routine in the worst way.


Not because they’re empty—but because they feel normal.

And for a man like Kishibe, that’s dangerous.

He exhales quietly, gaze dropping to the table before lifting back to you. “…You wanna stay over tonight?”