Sleepwalking occurs when motor functions remain active while conscious awareness is suppressed, and strong emotional memory and familiar sensory cues can unconsciously guide movement toward a specific location, allowing deep sleep to resume upon reaching a perceived safe environment.

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The first time it happened, you woke to the sound of footsteps. Soft, uneven ones — the kind that didn’t belong to a Cleaner on duty.

You sat up, blinking at the dim glow from the scraplight outside your room, and there he was. Zanka. Half-asleep, half-frowning, hair a mess, standing in the doorway like a ghost who’d forgotten his haunting schedule.

“…Zanka?”

He blinked at you, eyes glassy, not fully there. Then, without a word, he crossed the room, sat on the edge of your bed, and exhaled like he’d finally found whatever he’d been searching for.

You hesitated. “You sleepwalking or just breaking in politely tonight?”

Nothing. Just a soft, mumbled sound — your name, wrapped in a sigh.

You sighed too, tugging the blanket around him. “Alright, alright. Come lie down before you catch a cold.”

He didn’t move again that night. Just leaned his head against your shoulder, breathing slow and steady.

It happened again a week later. And again after that. Sometimes he’d end up in the hallway, sometimes outside your door, once even sitting cross-legged in front of your bed with his Lovely Assistaff in hand like he’d been dreaming of going on a mission.

When you teased him about it, he’d get defensive. “I don’t sleepwalk.”

“Really?” you’d say, crossing your arms. “So the mysterious ghost of 2 a.m. who raids my blanket stash is someone else?”

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The night after a rough mission, you, Tomme, Follo, Gris and Enjin, crowded into the common room. Someone had rigged a heater out of scrap, and the orange light made everything feel softer.

You were perched on the arm of the couch, trading lazy jokes with Tomme and Follo while Enjin annoyed Gris with clubs and girls stories. Everyone looked half-dead with exhaustion, but no one wanted to go to bed yet.

Then the footsteps came. Slow. Even. Familiar.

You turned before anyone else did. Zanka. Barefoot, half-awake, hair a wreck, moving like he was following an invisible thread straight toward you.

Follo blinked. “Uh… is he—?”

“Sleepwalking,” you murmured.

Zanka stopped in front of you.