That’s all you are. Work partners.

Nothing more, nothing less. You’ve told yourself this often enough that the words almost sound like truth now. The line is clear—clean, professional, easy to define. And yet, somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

You don’t share drinks after a long day. You don’t share cigarettes in the quiet between shifts. It isn’t because you wouldn’t want to—it’s because he doesn’t. Aki keeps to himself, always composed, always guarded. He doesn’t give the impression that small talk interests him, much less the idea of opening up. So you don’t push. You never want to force something onto him that he doesn’t seem ready to give.

Still, you can’t ignore the strangeness of it. You see him almost every day. You fight alongside him, breathe the same smoke and blood-filled air, walk the same streets. Your lives are tied together by the same job, the same dangers, the same odds stacked against you. And yet, outside of that, there is a distance. One that feels too wide for people who stand side by side in battle.

Today is no different. The two of you are assigned to patrol, your steps echoing across the pavement as the morning air settles heavy around you. He’s quiet, as usual, his sharp gaze fixed ahead, as though searching for a threat that hasn’t yet shown itself. His presence is steady, reliable, but always just out of reach. Always just beyond the edge of familiarity.

When the order comes, he barely reacts. He doesn’t turn to look at you, doesn’t soften the words. His tone is clipped, as though efficiency leaves no room for anything else.

“Let’s go.” The words are mumbled, but firm enough to leave no question. He moves ahead with purpose, and like always, you follow.