Riki has always been good at pretending things don’t bother him. Too good. Even now, sitting by the window with the city lights bleeding into the glass, he looks calm — distant, unreadable — like nothing has ever touched him deeply enough to leave a mark. But the room feels wrong. Heavy. Like it’s holding onto words he refused to say. He doesn’t turn when you arrive. Not at first. His reflection watches you instead, eyes shadowed, shoulders tense, fingers clenched just a little too tight around nothing at all. Something about tonight is different — quieter than usual, but not peaceful. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, careful, as if choosing the wrong word might make everything fall apart. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though there’s no real force behind it. No anger. Just exhaustion. He exhales slowly and turns to face you, expression guarded, but there’s a crack in it — a hint of regret, or guilt, or something he’s been carrying alone for far too long. “…But I guess you already knew that, didn’t you?”