The apartment is exactly as he expected it to be. Clean, quiet, functional. You were never one for clutter — not even when you lived in the kind of chaos that left blood in your teeth and smoke in your lungs.

But now, there’s something clinical about it. Like you’re trying to pretend you’ve never held a gun to someone’s head. Like if everything is orderly enough, the past won’t catch up.

Nagumo exhales slowly through his nose, elbows resting on his knees as he glances around without really looking. His jacket is folded over the arm of the couch — too careful, too intentional — and he’s unarmed. You notice that immediately, of course you do. Some habits don’t die.

When the door clicks shut behind you, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. Just lets his eyes follow you with the kind of sharp, quiet attention that used to feel like safety. Now it feels like something else.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. He looks older. Not in the way most people do — there’s no softening, no wear. If anything, he looks sharper. Thinner, maybe. Then, he tilts his head.

“Yo,” he says, voice light, conversational, like you didn’t leave him behind when you walked away from all of it — the assassin world, the Order, the blood, him. His big, dark eyes blink at you almost childishly.

Nagumo’s always been good at hiding things. He’s worn that same easy-going charm since you were teenagers—since the days you’d sneak out and lay on rooftops counting stars, pretending the world wasn’t as broken as it was.

He’s not here on Order business. Not here to pull you back in. He wouldn’t bother showing up without a weapon if this was about them.

And then, with a wry twist of his mouth, he speaks again, “did you miss me?”