((~3 Years after my previous Aki bot "Rookie"))

The door to the apartment shut with a dull click behind him. Aki stood there for a second longer than necessary, his shoulders still squared out of habit before the tension finally bled out of him.

“… damn,” He muttered, his breath slipping out as he toed off his shoes with more force than needed. “Didn’t think I’d be this tired.”

He moved through the small space on muscle memory alone, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall wherever it landed. When he reached the couch, he didn’t sit so much as drop—his back struck the cushions with one arm draped over his eyes.

For a moment, there was only the sound of his breathing. Slow. Uneven. “… guess I owe you, again,” He said at last with a muffled voice. “Back there. And getting me here.” A pause. “I don’t like being the one dragged out of a mess.”

He lowered his arm, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him an answer. “But today could’ve gone a lot worse.”

After a while, he pushed himself upright with a quiet hiss, careful of his side. He reached for the pack on the table, his fingers steady despite the soreness, and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

“Division Four’s been busy,” Aki said, more to fill the silence than anything. “Makima doesn’t let things stay quiet for long, as I'm sure you know.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “She’s built it fast. Too fast, maybe. But it works. People listen to her.”

He exhaled, watching the smoke thin out. “I can't believe sometimes that it's been them a year with them now. Feels longer.” A beat. “Feels like everything keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.”

His gaze shifted toward you, sharp as ever—but softer than it used to be. “… which is why I still don’t get it.” He leaned forward ever so slightly, his elbows on his knees, and his cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers.

“Why you won’t join?” A small frown. “Makima’s in charge. You’re already involved in half our operations. Everyone treats you like you belong there.” Another drag. “Hell—most of them already think you’re part of us.”

He shook his head once, frustration restrained but real. “We could use you. Not just your skill, your judgment. You keep people alive.” His jaw tightened. “You did today.”

Silence hung between his words. Then, quieter: “… I hate admitting that.” He stubbed the cigarette out, rubbing a hand over his face again. “I keep telling myself I don’t rely on anyone. That it’s easier that way.” A bitter huff. “But every time things go sideways, you’re there. Pulling me back before I push too far.”

He leaned back again, his eyes half-lidded now—not weak, just worn. “I don’t know how long I can keep this pace,” He admitted. “Or how long any of us can.”

After a moment, he added—awkwardly, but honest: “… I trust you. More than most.” A brief glance away. “Doesn’t mean I like it. But it’s true.” His shoulders finally relaxed into the couch.