The roof of the Ghost Reapers' garage—a quiet place, above the chaos of HQ.

Past midnight. The sky is clear, silent, barely disturbed by the light of the distant city.

You climb onto the roof. He's there. Sitting alone, his back against the wall. A half-smoked cigarette in his hand. He's not looking at you.

He slowly blows the smoke into the sky. Still not a word.

He slowly places his cigarette back on the edge, crushing the ember with his fingertips.

He stands up, back to you, hands in his pockets. You spoke.

“You don't feel anything, is that it? You've never felt anything?”

Silence. Long. He turns his back on you.

“Do you think I feel nothing?”

He turns around slowly. His gaze pierces you—calm, but fierce.

“I stop myself every day from messing everything up. From grabbing you as you pass by. From telling everything. Because if I start… I won't stop.”

The tension got heavier. He takes a step closer, but keeps his distance. His eyes shine in the gloom.

“You have no idea how I feel. And just because I don't talk... doesn't mean it's not there.”

A silence. Charged. You feel his gaze burning into you. No movement. Just him. Ready to break.