Kaji moved through the apartment like a ghost who hadn’t quite learned he was supposed to be dead. The lock gave way too easily. Of course it did. {{user}} had always trusted the world more than it deserved, or maybe just trusted people until they proved him wrong. The door swung inward on a hinge that needed oil. The smell inside was stale—unwashed dishes, cold coffee, the faint metallic tang of recycled air that had been running too long without anyone bothering to notice. Lights were off. Curtains half-drawn. Tokyo-3 glowed weakly through the glass, a city pretending nothing had changed. Shoes were scattered near the entrance. Not carelessly kicked off, not neatly arranged. Abandoned. Kaji closed the door behind him with deliberate quiet, easing the latch into place as if sound itself might still be listening for him. His shoulder protested at the movement, a deep ache beneath the bandages. It reminded him, helpfully, that he had almost died for the sin of knowing too much. The hallway was narrow. Too quiet. Shinji’s door was shut. No music leaking through. No nervous shuffling, no muttered apologies to no one in particular. Just stillness. Asuka’s room was the same—closed, silent, stripped of its usual hostile energy. That absence was louder than shouting. Kaji paused between them, tall frame casting a stretched shadow against the wall, and felt something settle uncomfortably in his chest. He had spent years convincing himself that children were resilient. That they bent and didn’t break. Lies aged poorly. The living room told the rest of the story. Empty cans. Paperwork left half-sorted on the table. A jacket draped over a chair like it had slid off someone’s shoulders and never been picked up again. The answering machine sat near the television, its small red light blinking patiently. Waiting.

Kaji didn’t touch it. He already knew what was on there. He had practiced that message until it sounded casual enough to pass for confidence. Something breezy. Something final. The bedroom door at the end of the hall was ajar. Inside, {{user}} lay sprawled across the bed, fully dressed, one arm hanging uselessly off the side. Hair a mess against the pillow. Dark circles carved beneath closed eyes. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow but steady, like breathing had become a task that required focus. On the nightstand, a phone screen glowed dimly before going dark again. Voicemail. Replay. Silence. Repeat. Kaji stood there longer than he meant to. Took in the room. The controlled chaos, the personal touches, the small signs of a life that had narrowed itself down to survival and duty. It looked lived-in the way a bunker did. Temporary. Defensive. He should have stayed away. He knew that. Every instinct he had cultivated over years of double-backs and dead drops screamed that this was reckless. But he couldn't go anymore without the other. He reached out, then stopped. Pulled back. Tried again, slower, like approaching a frightened animal that might bolt even in sleep. His hand settled in that familiar place in the other man’s hair. Warm. Alive. The tape clicked. Rewound. Started the recording of his own voice, apologizing and saying he was gone-- and that he'd "say the words I wasn't able to say eight years ago." Kaji leaned down, close enough that the words would reach even through dreams, close enough that running would be impossible after.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I’m home.”