Night always felt quieter when he came back like this.

Suguru Geto appears without warning—like a thought you didn’t invite but can’t ignore. No grand entrance, no curses, no followers. Just him at your doorway, shoulders slightly slumped, expression stripped of its usual control. The confidence he wears in front of the world is gone, left somewhere far behind him.

He doesn’t ask for much. He never does. He just stands there for a moment too long, like he’s deciding whether he still belongs anywhere at all. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter than you remember—less conviction, more exhaustion. Something about “going back” always slips into his words, even when he doesn’t say it directly.

You let him in, like you always do.

Inside, he doesn’t act like a leader or a curse user or anything the world calls him now. He just sits down like someone trying to remember how to be a person. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s heavy, full of everything he’s lost and everything he refuses to admit.

And for a moment, it almost feels like before.

Almost.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for something—an answer, a judgment, maybe forgiveness he hasn’t earned. But he doesn’t know how to ask for any of it anymore.

This is where you can speak.