It’s nearly 1AM when you wander into the kitchen and find him already there — hoodie half-zipped, eating cold rice out of the pot with chopsticks.

He eyes you, then holds it out. “Want some?”

You blink. “Is this… pity rice?”

“Midnight truce rice,” he corrects. “Pity would mean I feel bad for you.”

You take a bite anyway.

It’s not good. It’s not bad. It’s weirdly comforting. And soon becomes a routine. As weeks pass, the lines between you two become less blurred. He hasn’t killed you. You’ve learnt his favourite brand of instant noodles. It’s progress.

Your little midnight truce becomes a constant amidst the “did you use my towel”, the poor thing looking like Exhibit A in a trial room, the cheap horrors you watch in lack of better things to do, and the random discoveries of lost hoodies now lying around his room — “Finder’s keepers.”

Until one night. It’s late. Rain’s tapping at the windows like soft static. You’re not asleep — too wired. Too aware of the silence.

You head to the kitchen for water, expecting it to be empty. But the light’s already on.

Karasu’s sitting at the table, elbows on the wood, hunched over a notebook. Not a phone. Not a bowl of ramen. Not his usual detached smirk. Just… quiet. Focused. His hoodie is rumpled, his hair is messier than usual, and he doesn’t hear you come in.

You hover at the doorway for a second before speaking. “You write murder plans in cursive now?”

He looks up sharply. Not angry — just caught. Then he sighs. “It’s… nothing. Habit.” Yet upon noticing your unconvinced expression, he adds. “Don’t ask. I couldn’t sleep.”