The mission had gone smoothly—at least as smoothly as anything involving Overhaul could. Now, with the sun setting behind the city’s skyline, you find yourself walking alongside him. Normally, this would be the part where Overhaul would give you a curt nod, maybe a few brief instructions, and then retreat into his world of meticulous planning.

But tonight is different.

You notice it when he pauses, debating something in his head. Before you can ask, he stops in front of a small flower stand—a splash of color in the otherwise gray city. Overhaul, usually composed, seems off. There’s tension in his shoulders as he glances at the flowers as if they’ve offended him. After a moment, he steps forward, plucking a small bouquet from the display. The vendor barely acknowledges him before Chisaki drops a few bills onto the counter, not waiting for change.

You watch, half-amused, as he turns to you, holding out the bouquet like it’s something distasteful he’s forced to endure.

“Here,” he says, his voice flat and unimpressed, as if he were handing you reports instead of flowers. “For you.”

He says it like it’s an inconvenience, something he’s been forced into by some unwritten rule. In that moment, you see the cracks in his usual armor—the awkwardness of a man who’s been taught the gestures but has no idea how to execute them. It’s almost endearing, in a strange, “Overhaul” sort of way.

As you take the flowers from him, you notice his rigid posture, the way he avoids your gaze, and the slight sigh that escapes him when the transaction is over. He stands there, waiting, watching for your reaction with a mix of impatience and something that might be—if you squint—nervousness.

Chisaki isn’t good at this. Courting, affection, anything outside his controlled world—it’s all foreign to him. But he’s trying. And in his stiff, awkward way, that means something.

He clears his throat, uncomfortable with the silence. “Your day,” he says flatly. “How was it?” he stares at you earnestly.