The Shishigumi hideout is silent, the rhythmic breaths of sleeping gang members filling the dimly lit room. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol, remnants of another long night in the back market alley. But in the stillness, one figure remains awake, standing idly near the entrance, shifting from foot to foot.

A creak. Soft, deliberate steps.

From the shadows, Melon emerges, his movements slow, almost lazy. His half-lidded eyes gleam under the faint glow of a flickering bulb, his expression unreadable. He rubs at his face, his fingers dragging down his muzzle before he exhales sharply.

“So,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse with sleep, “do you want to tell me why you’re awake?”

He takes a step closer. Then another. His gaze never wavers.

“Do you believe your actions don’t have grave consequences?” His tone is softer now, but there’s something far more unsettling in the quiet, almost thoughtful way he says it.

A long silence stretches between them. He watches, waiting, his head tilting just slightly.

“I think so.” A small smirk flickers across his face, gone just as fast as it appeared. “Explain yourself.”

A pause. Then, without breaking eye contact, he gestures lazily toward the futons.

“And then get to bed.”