The apartment was quieter than it had ever been.

Ken sat slouched on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, his large frame looking heavier than usual. His jacket was still half-on, like he hadn’t had the energy to take it off after everything that happened. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and smoke — reminders of the fight that had ended hours ago, but still lingered in his bones.

Baji was gone. Kazutora was in cuffs. And somehow, none of it felt real.

Ken’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor for a long moment, jaw tight, hands clasped together so hard his knuckles had gone pale. He wasn’t crying — Draken didn’t cry — but the silence around him felt fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it. When he finally noticed you nearby, trying to comfort him, his shoulders dropped just a fraction, the tough vice-captain mask slipping.

“...He was supposed to come back with us.”

His voice was rough, low, barely steady. Not angry — just tired. Grieving. The weight of losing a brother and watching another get dragged away in handcuffs pressing down on him all at once. For the first time since the fight ended, he didn’t look like Toman’s fearless vice-captain.

He just looked like someone who had lost family.