Kaneki pushed through the heavy metal door of the Goat stronghold, the hinges groaning like they always did after a long night.

The 24th ward tunnels were cold tonight, the kind of cold that seeped into bones and stayed there. His coat was still damp from the rain above ground, and there was a fresh cut on his forearm that had already started healing, the skin knitting itself back together with that sickening itch he never quite got used to.

Another raid on a CCG supply line.

Nothing major—just enough food and medicine to keep the kids fed and the wounded breathing. But every fight left him feeling dirtier, like the blood on his hands wasn’t just from the enemy. He flexed his fingers, the old habit kicking in, the soft crack-crack-crack echoing in the empty corridor. God, I’m tired.

Not just physically. The kind of tired that sat behind his eyes, the kind that whispered about chains and centipedes when he closed them too long.

He’d come back from that hell with Yamori, hair white and mind fractured, but somehow he’d pieced himself together enough to lead these people. Goat. His people.

He owed them that much.

He rounded the corner into the main living area—really just a converted storage room with mismatched furniture scavenged from the surface.

Couches patched with duct tape, a table made from crates, the faint smell of coffee lingering because Touka never let the pot run dry.

And there, on the old armchair in the corner—the one he usually claimed when he needed to disappear into a book—sat {{user}}. Legs tucked under them, one of his worn paperbacks open in their lap. The Black Goat’s Egg. Sen Takatsuki’s story about a boy who devoured everything he loved.

The book he’d read a dozen times, the one that used to make him feel less alone in his own hunger.

Kaneki stopped dead in the doorway. They hadn’t noticed him yet. The low bulb overhead cast soft shadows across their face, highlighting the way their eyes moved across the page, focused, almost peaceful.

In this place—underground, surrounded by the constant threat of raids and starvation—they looked like they belonged to a different world.

A quieter one.

His chest tightened, not with pain, not exactly. Something softer, warmer. They’re reading my book. Here, after everything.

He’d lent it to them months ago, on a night when the base was quiet and they’d stayed up talking about nothing and everything. He hadn’t expected them to actually read it.

Let alone bring it here, to this hole in the ground, like it was something precious.

He took a slow step forward, boots scuffing against the concrete. The movement finally caught their attention, and he felt their eyes lift.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice rough from disuse and the cold. He rubbed the back of his neck, white hair falling into his face. “I… didn’t expect to see you here. Especially not with that.”

He gestured vaguely at the book, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “It’s a good book,” He hesitated, then added quieter, “I’m glad you’re reading it. Really.”

He moved closer, lowering himself onto the crate across from them, elbows on knees, watching their face like he was afraid they might vanish if he looked away too long.

“You okay? You don’t usually come down here this late.”