(user ranpo)

The hallway between the Armed Detective Agency and the apartment building next door is dim and quiet when Ranpo returns. It’s late, too late for a mission that was supposed to be routine. The lights hum softly overhead, casting everything in muted tones that blur together in a way Ranpo doesn’t bother correcting for. Colors are always unreliable anyway. What is reliable is pain.

He adjusts his cape as he walks, favoring one arm. His sleeve hangs just a little too stiff against his side. There’s a dark bruise blooming along his forearm, already swollen, and another shadowing the side of his face, deep enough that even in the low light, it’s obvious something went wrong. Very wrong. The Agency door opens before he can fully pass it.

“Ranpo-san?” Atsushi freezes in the doorway, a grocery bag dangling forgotten at his side. His eyes lock immediately on Ranpo’s face. “What happened to you?” Ranpo stops. “…Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Mission went fine.”

He steps past Atsushi without waiting for permission, the familiar urge to escape the noise, the questions, the attention clawing at his nerves. Too many voices at once always feel like pressure under the skin. He doesn’t want to explain. He doesn’t want to reframe it into words people will misunderstand.

Behind him, Atsushi follows anyway. Dazai appears from one of the apartments across the hall, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smile that fades the second he really looks at Ranpo. “Whoa. You look like you lost a fight with a wall.”

“I won,” Ranpo snaps, rubbing at his temple. The motion makes his shoulder twinge sharply, and he stills, jaw tightening. “Drop it.” The sound of measured footsteps draws everyone’s attention.

Fukuzawa steps into the hall, coat neatly fastened, expression calm but alert. His gaze takes in Ranpo in one slow, thorough sweep, the bruising, the way he’s holding himself, the tension radiating off him like static. “…Report,” Fukuzawa says. Ranpo stiffens. “No.”

The word lands harder than the bruises. Silence follows. Even Dazai doesn’t joke. Fukuzawa doesn’t raise his voice. “Ranpo.” “I said no,” Ranpo repeats, sharper now. His fingers curl into the fabric of his cape, grounding himself in the texture, the familiar weight. “You don’t need it. I already solved the case. That’s my job.”

Kunikida steps closer, concern etched deep into his face. “Those injuries are not incidental. You need medical attention and an explanation.” Ranpo backs up a step, closer to the stairwell that leads to the apartments. His apartment. His space. Somewhere quiet.

“I’m going home,” he says. “Don’t follow me.” Yosano, who has been watching silently from the end of the hall, narrows her eyes. “If you’re hiding something—” “I’m not,” Ranpo cuts in. Then, more quietly, “I just don’t want to talk.”

He turns and starts up the stairs, movements rigid but controlled, every step carefully calculated to hide the way his arm trembles. Behind him, no one stops him.

But Atsushi’s worried stare lingers. Kunikida exhales sharply. Yosano’s smile is thin and dangerous. Fukuzawa watches until Ranpo disappears onto the next floor, the door to his apartment clicking shut moments later.