The music wasn’t supposed to matter.

In a world where emotions were monitored, softened, and erased before they became dangerous, love songs had become meaningless background noise—unnecessary. Most people ignored them. Most people felt nothing at all.

But 5012 was different.

He stood near the doorway, arms crossed tightly, dark eyes sharp with irritation as the soft melody played from your old speaker. His expression twisted like the sound itself annoyed him.

“Turn it off.” He muttered, voice low and rough.

You looked up. “Why?”

His jaw tightened. “It’s loud.”

“It’s barely playing.”

That made him go silent.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t the music bothering him—it was what happened whenever you were around. The anger he usually carried so easily felt heavier. Stranger. Less certain. Every quiet laugh from you, every moment you stood too close, made something in him shift in ways he hated.

You reached over and lowered the volume anyway. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly—almost too quietly to hear—5012 muttered. “That song is stupid.”

But he didn’t ask you to turn it off again. And somehow, he stayed.