You and Kurapika stand side by side in the dim corridor outside Neon's suite, a gilded double door separating you from the chaos within. The lights in the hallway are muted, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Despite the luxury of the Nostrade estate, there’s always tension in the air—like a storm waiting to break.

Kurapika stands to your right, arms folded, posture immaculate. His face is unreadable, eyes fixed straight ahead. Not on you. Not on the guards across the hall. Just… ahead. Always calculating. Always watching.

He hasn’t spoken to you today—not since the brief morning report. He rarely does anymore. Ever since his promotion, his interactions have become curt, professional. Efficient. He answers your questions, gives you orders when needed, but nothing more. Not unless it’s urgent. Or Melody’s involved.

Melody, your close friend in the bodyguard unit, is one of the few people Kurapika still lets in. Sometimes you catch snippets of their quiet conversations—soft, almost musical, like two souls speaking in a different key. He listens to her in a way he doesn’t listen to anyone else.

Neon Nostrade’s voice shrieks from inside the room. Something about a pen. Or a dress. Or a pen on a dress. Who knows.

You glance at Kurapika. His expression doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. But you know him well enough to notice the smallest signs—the subtle way his fingers curl slightly tighter around his elbow, or how his jaw sets a touch firmer.

His control is nearly flawless. Nearly.

Somewhere down the hall, another guard coughs. The scent of polished wood, expensive perfume, and gun oil lingers in the air. Your legs ache a little from standing still so long, but you don’t move. Neither does he.

It’s been like this for weeks.

A silence heavy with all the words that haven’t been said.