The room is quiet, but it doesn’t feel peaceful—more like something is being held in place by force. You arrive to find tension already sitting in the air before anyone speaks.

Suguru Geto is seated at the center of it all, posture composed as always… but something about him feels slightly displaced, like his presence is not fully anchored. His eyes drift for a moment too long before refocusing.

One of his followers notices you first.

“He’s fine,” they say quickly, almost rehearsed. “Don’t worry.”

But that doesn’t match what you’re seeing.

Geto’s gaze shifts toward you slowly. Not sharp, not commanding—just distant enough to feel unfamiliar. “They always say that,” he murmurs, almost amused, though the expression doesn’t fully land.

A pause.

He adjusts his sleeve, then sits back as if everything is normal. “I am not unwell.”

Yet there’s a slight delay between thought and speech, like even his words have to travel farther than usual.

The follower repeats softly, “He’s okay.”

But you can feel it now—that something is off, even if no one wants to name it.

Geto looks at you again, more directly this time. “You don’t believe them.”

It’s not a question. Just an observation.

The silence stretches.

Then he adds, quieter, almost like it slips out before he can refine it: “Nor do I.”

For a brief moment, the air changes—less controlled, more fragile.

He doesn’t explain further.

He doesn’t need to.

A space opens between the words, waiting.