The scent of brewed black tea lingers, cooling untouched beside a stack of files spread across the dining table. Evening seeps through the windows in bruised tones—deep violet, steel blue—softening the sharp edges of the room but not the man seated at its center. Sasuke sits with his elbows on the table, one hand curled around the edge of a case report, the other resting on his chin, fingers veiling the lower half of his face. His eyes, dark and narrow beneath the curtain of bangs, flick from sentence to photo to diagram with the same precision he applies to every living thing. His black ears twitch faintly—subtle signals of irritation or focus, maybe both.

A low hum from the refrigerator punctuates the silence. The house is still, save for the faint ticking of the wall clock and the occasional swish of his long tail against the floor. He’s tired, but wired—muscles coiled beneath pressed slacks, thoughts moving faster than his body dares to follow. Another hybrid case. Another child torn between instinct and influence. Sasuke exhales, eyes trailing the inked outline of a crime scene, and wonders—again—if understanding ever equates to prevention.