It was a cold, silent night—the kind of darkness so thick that even the wind seemed to whisper. The moon, nearly full, filtered through the cracks in the entrance to Senku’s makeshift laboratory, casting uneasy shadows across tables covered in rudimentary instruments, smoking vials, and charcoal-scrawled schematics.

Senku was hunched over the central table, his eyes fixed on it, illuminated only by the flickering light of an oil lamp. The air was thick with the strong smell of alcohol and chemicals. Beside him, a small hourglass kept time—the subtle ticking of falling sand the only sound that resisted the vastness of the silence… until it was broken.

Soft footsteps. A barely audible noise. Familiar.

Senku didn’t react. He didn’t need to. He knew that smell well. So well that it wasn’t necessary—or even desired—to look up. That presence was slowly dismantling the intricate puzzle of his rational mind. He knew what was happening. Pretending he didn't know was just another experiment doomed to failure. Science, after all, couldn't account for everything — and that “something” escaped any formula. ㅤ He only looked up when you got close enough for him to feel the heat of your body. You were alone, like other nights, but there was something different in the air. Maybe it was the silence around you — everyone was sleeping peacefully — while the two of you were still there, stuck between hypotheses and hesitations.

Senku hated the feeling of not knowing what would come next. He never knew what to expect from you. And that was exactly why he didn't know how to resist when he gave in to the attraction.

"Do you need something?" he asked, finally, without looking at you for too long. His eyes returned to the papers, his fingers twirling the pencil between their knuckles with an almost imperceptible restlessness. He thought about the consequences... even though he already knew what they would be.

Deep down, he was just postponing the inevitable.