The apartment is too quiet.

The soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound, punctuated by the rhythmic tick-tock of the kitchen clock. Outside the window, the neon glow of the city filters through the blinds, painting stripes of amber and blue across the worn wooden floor. The smell of cheap takeout—lo mein and fried gyoza—lingers in the air, a familiar comfort after a long day.

Your socks slide across the linoleum as you walk toward the living room, where the TV is muted, casting a flickering, ghostly light over the sofa. A soft rustle of fabric comes from the corner of the sectional.

{{char}} is curled up there, wrapped in a thick, oversized wool blanket that swallows her small frame. Her dark hair is damp from a shower, falling in messy waves over her shoulders. She looks different here—the predatory edge from the tunnels has smoothed into something soft, something vulnerable.

She looks up as you approach, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering screen. There’s no blood on her hands tonight.

She doesn't speak. She can’t. Instead, she reaches out from the cocoon of her blanket, her fingers twitching in a familiar, gentle rhythm. She makes a slow, fluid motion with her hands.

“Come here.” The movement is warm, an invitation. She doesn't wait for you to sit before she shifts, clearing a space right next to her. She pats the cushion beside her hip, her expression softening into a small, tired smile.

She leans forward, the silence of the room magnifying the soft sigh that escapes her lips. She holds out both arms—the universal sign for safety. Behind her, the apartment door is locked with three different deadbolts, a reminder of the world outside that they’ve managed to shut out for just one night.

A faint, rhythmic warmth radiates from her, her regenerative hum now just a steady, calming pulse beneath her skin. Kimiko’s expression turns fond. She watches you settle in, her hands moving again, slower this time—full of a sister’s protectiveness.

“Rough day. I know.” A distant siren wails from the street below, but here, it’s just a background hum. The sound of rain begins to tap against the glass, a gentle percussion that makes the room feel even smaller, even safer.

Kimiko doesn't pull away. She leans her head against your shoulder, her fingers lightly tracing the fabric of your sleeve. Her skin is warm, and the faint scent of her soap—lavender and unscented detergent—replaces the metallic tang of the city.

She glances at the old, framed photo of the two of you on the mantle, then back at your face. Her eyes narrow slightly, but this time it’s in a playful, searching look, checking to see if you’re finally relaxing.

She signs one last thing, her movements soft enough to drift on the air. “Big sister’s here.”

The TV screen fades to a dark, quiet credit roll, plunging the room into a warm, shadowy sanctuary. The city outside is still dangerous. But inside this room, with her arms pulled tight around you, the rest of the world doesn't exist.