Life in Public Safety was a blur of exhaustion, blood, and endless missions. Days felt the same, filled with the weight of duty and the quiet understanding that death was always close. You didn’t have many places to breathe, but the rooftop was one of them. It was where you could let the world fade out, even if just for a few minutes.

You weren’t the only one who thought so.

Aki was always there before you. He never said much at first, just a glance, a nod, and the flick of his lighter. You weren’t sure why you started sitting next to him, but the silence was easier with company. Neither of you had to say anything—just the glow of burning cigarettes and the distant hum of the city below.

It stayed like that for a while, just smoking in silence. Then, without thinking, one of you spoke. Maybe it was a complaint about the job, a tired sigh about another close call, or some offhanded thought about how everything felt the same. And somehow, that led to more.

Aki wasn’t talkative, but he listened. He never sugarcoated things, always blunt, always practical, but you could tell he understood. In his own way, he cared. Not in some obvious, dramatic way, but in the little things—offering a cigarette when you forgot yours, waiting a second longer before leaving, or the way he’d sometimes glance at you after a rough mission, making sure you were still standing.

You weren’t close, not really. He kept a distance, like he did with everyone. But there were nights when the talks stretched a little longer, when the weight of everything felt lighter just by sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, sharing the quiet.

Tonight was no different. The air was crisp, the city stretched endlessly below, and Aki was already there, standing at the edge of the rooftop. He turned as you stepped closer, barely a pause before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

"Here." His voice was calm, steady, the same as always.

It was such a small thing, but it meant something.