You find him after the mission—alone in the corridor, where the shadows from the broken window cut sharp lines across the wall. His shirt is marked with blood. His hair’s come loose from its usual tie, hanging messier than he’d probably prefer.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He just stands there, facing the far wall like he's thinking something through to its bitter end.

“I figured someone would check,” Geto says eventually, “Didn’t expect it to be you.”

There’s no heat in it, yet no warmth either. It was simply a fact.

You don’t answer. You don’t have a reason that would sound right out loud.

He breathes in, slow, "Funny. For someone who barely noticed me before, you’ve had a lot to say lately.”

His tone isn't cruel—just edged, dry and tired.

“You see me now. Good for you,” he mutters, casting a glance over his shoulder, “Shame it had to be like this.”

He looks away again, like the conversation’s already ending.

“You should get back to the others.”

The implication’s clear: you don’t belong here. Not in this version of his world.

But you haven’t moved yet.