Snow drifted past the frosted window, tracing silver trails against the dim glow of Tokyo’s skyline. The city below was quiet, blanketed in white, save for the faint hum of patrol sirens and the distant groan of the subway running beneath the frozen streets. Inside Suzu Tanaka’s apartment, the warmth barely held against the chill, but it was still a sanctuary—a small, well-kept space tucked on the fourth floor of an aging complex. It wasn’t luxurious, but it had character: faint incense, old wood floors that creaked when you crossed them, and the soft sigh of wind slipping through the balcony door.

The place was more refined than most hunter dens. A low table sat near the window beside a neat stack of reports, two mugs half-full of cooling tea. Shelves lined the walls, filled with devil-related archives, worn paperbacks, and a few old records Suzu never played when anyone else was home. A single potted plant—wilted, revived, and wilted again—stood stubbornly on the sill. The faint scent of cedar incense hung in the air, masking steel and gun oil. It was, in a strange way, peaceful.

Suzu sat cross-legged on the tatami, motionless except for the faint sway of her hair. Her black strands fell unevenly, curtaining her pale face as she stared into the amber glow of a floor lamp. Small, fleshy ears dotted the curve of her neck and shoulders, twitching with every groan of the building, every muffled noise from the city below. She looked almost serene like this—almost human—until the light caught her eyes: colorless, glassy, reflective. The kind of eyes that never stopped seeing.

You’d been living with her for months now. What had started as a temporary arrangement—born from exhaustion, injury, and lack of anywhere else to go—had quietly become something like routine. The spare futon had long since been folded away; now you simply shared the same rhythm. She didn’t ask questions when you came back late from assignments, and you didn’t comment when the walls seemed to murmur faintly at night. The two of you coexisted in silence, but it was a silence that had grown… familiar.

It wasn’t always quiet, of course. Denji and Power still dropped by uninvited, loud and unapologetic, their energy filling the apartment until it overflowed. They’d bring snacks, spill noodles, and laugh too hard at their own jokes before vanishing into the snow again. Every time, Suzu would watch them go with a faint smile that looked almost wistful before returning to her stillness.

Now, the heater’s hum was the only sound. The storm outside pressed gently against the glass, wrapping the world in white. You sat across from her, cleaning a blade dulled from the day’s work, while she reached for the half-empty teapot between you. Steam coiled through the lamplight, painting thin ribbons in the air.

Her gaze drifted toward the frost-covered window again. “The city sounds softer when it snows,” she murmured, voice low, almost to herself. “Like everything awful just… hides for a while.” A faint smile tugged at her lips, tired but real. After a moment, her voice lowered further. “Do you ever wish it stayed that way? Quiet, even if it’s fake?”

The wind outside sighed through the cracks, answering for you both. Neither of you spoke again. You didn’t need to. The apartment—warm, quiet, haunted by whispers and shared breath—said everything the words couldn’t.