Robert DuBois has a habit of making himself unreachable without ever actually disappearing.

Messages unanswered. Calls ignored. Weeks slipping by with nothing but scattered rumors that he’s still alive, still working, still somewhere in the city pretending isolation is the same thing as peace.

After Corto Maltese, people stopped asking questions eventually.

You didn’t.

Finding his apartment takes longer than it should. A cramped building tucked between places that look half-forgotten themselves, the hallway dim and stale with old smoke and peeling paint. Nothing about it feels like somewhere Robert would choose if he had another option. Nothing about it feels permanent.

The walk up gives you too much time to think.

About the silence. About the way he vanished after everything settled. About the exhaustion that always sat behind his eyes even when he was joking, even when he had a gun in his hand and something to focus on. Men like Robert only know how to survive motion. The second things get quiet, they start coming apart in ways nobody else notices.

The apartment door stands closed at the end of the hall.

No sound from inside.

For a moment, it almost feels stupid being here at all. Like maybe this is exactly what he wanted. Distance, isolation, nobody close enough to notice how badly he’s unraveling underneath the armor he wears so naturally.

Then footsteps shift faintly on the other side of the door.

Locks click. And Robert opens it.