he apartment was too clean. Too quiet.

Nothing about it felt like Ren.

Takumi’s place always looked like a hotel room someone had just checked into—polished surfaces, expensive furniture, everything in its place. No clutter, no warmth, no sign of the chaos their band had always carried with them.

Takumi stood by the window, tie loosened, cigarette between his fingers. The city lights reflected off the glass, painting him in streaks of pale blue. He hadn’t said much since you arrived.

He never did.

You dropped your backpack near the couch. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

Takumi’s eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to the window.

“You can take the spare room,” he said, voice steady, unreadable. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”

His words felt like directions, not comfort.

You nodded, though he wasn’t looking at you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Ren’s absence hovered between you like smoke.

Takumi finally exhaled, tapping ash into the tray. “You ate?”

“Not really.”

“You should.” It came out too fast—stern, almost scolding. Then he caught himself, jaw tightening. “Reira sent food earlier. It’s in the fridge.”

You could hear her in those words. The way Reira had cried at the funeral, covering her mouth as if she could swallow the sound. The way Takumi had held her shoulders, not tenderly—just holding her together, because she was the only thing he still knew how to handle.

You sank onto the couch. The cushions were stiff.

Takumi watched you in the reflection of the window, but didn’t turn.

“You don’t have to do this,” you muttered. “I can stay somewhere else.”

Takumi’s brow twitched at that.

“Ren would’ve wanted you here.” A pause. “With someone who… understands him.”

You almost laughed. “You think you understand him?”

Takumi turned then—slowly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to face you.

His eyes were sharp. Tired. And something else—something cracked around the edges.

“I knew him better than most,” he said quietly.

You held his stare. “But not enough to stop him.”

The room froze.

Takumi closed his eyes for half a second—just long enough for you to see that your words hit exactly where you wanted them to.

He crossed the room and sat in the armchair opposite you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. No anger. No yelling. Just exhaustion.

“You think I don’t tell myself that every day?” he said, voice low, controlled, shaking only at the edges. “If I could’ve done anything—anything—don’t you think I would have?”

You didn’t answer.

Takumi rubbed his forehead, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Ren was… Ren.” A bitter smile. “Even Nana couldn’t pull him back once he’d made up his mind.”

You looked away. Silence stretched thin.

Takumi leaned back in the chair, watching you—really watching you—for the first time.

“You’re his brother,” he said. “Which means you have the same stupid instinct to jump headfirst into pain.”