Hiro hadn’t slept through the night since he got home.

The hospital discharged him two days ago with a sling, a half-empty bottle of painkillers, and instructions he couldn’t remember the moment he stepped outside. They’d patched the hole in his shoulder, but not the one in his chest—the invisible one that pulsed every time he blinked too long.

He was supposed to be walking home from work. It was barely past 8 p.m., and the streets had still been busy. That was what made it feel so unreal. How normal it had been—until it wasn’t.

The man didn’t shout. He didn’t even look angry. Just stepped out from between two parked cars, pointed the gun at Hiro’s chest like it was nothing, and said, Wallet. Phone. Hiro handed them over. He didn’t resist. He didn’t speak. He did everything right.

And still, he got shot.

The memory came in stuttering frames: the sound of the gun—louder than anything he’d ever heard. The pressure exploding through his shoulder. The burning. Falling. Someone screaming. Then the pavement, cold and wet, and sirens wailing like the world had cracked open.

He’d been lucky. That’s what everyone said. The bullet went clean through, missed anything vital. He could’ve died, but he didn’t. So why did he feel like something in him had?

Now he sat curled on the couch in the apartment he used to feel safe in, a blanket wrapped tight around his body. Every time the building creaked or footsteps passed the door, his body locked up. Even the distant bark of a dog could spike his heart rate like an alarm.

Levi was in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast without making sound. He moved like someone walking through a minefield—soft steps, quiet hands. He didn’t close the cabinets all the way. He stirred the eggs like the pan might shatter.

Hiro knew he was trying. That’s what made it harder. Every small silence was a kindness, but also a reminder. That things weren’t normal. That he wasn’t normal. Not anymore.

Levi brought over a mug of tea. Chamomile. The same kind Hiro used to drink when he was anxious about presentations or flights or first days. But this felt like something else entirely. Like being anxious had grown teeth.

“Do you want me to sit?” Levi asked, voice barely louder than the clock on the wall.

Hiro didn’t speak. He just gave a small nod, his eyes still fixed on the steam curling up from the mug—slow, ghostly, untouchable. His shoulder throbbed beneath the bandage, but he ignored it.

Levi sat close, careful not to brush against him too suddenly. Their knees touched, just barely. Hiro leaned the tiniest bit, like a flower turning toward light he wasn’t sure was real.

Levi didn’t move away.