Silence. Only the soft scratching of a pen on paper, pages turning… and the faint, ghost-like whispers of an abandoned library.

In the most isolated corner, like always, there he was. Truthless Recluse.

Sitting at his usual spot, surrounded by piles of old books, scribbled papers, and notes no one but him would ever care enough to read. His gaze, dead and hollow. Cold. Detached from everything.

Nothing new. Everything exactly the same.

Until… it wasn’t.

He noticed before even looking up. The sound of footsteps. Different. Heels.

He didn’t raise his head — not yet. But he knew. You.

Finally showing up after a whole week. You. His... odd little constant in this miserable world.

Always sitting somewhere far but not too far. Always quiet. Always reading. Cold. Serious. Timid. Yet somehow... gentle in a way that confused even him.

For some reason, he never minded your presence. The only person who didn’t annoy him.

But today... Today wasn’t normal.

Because when he did lazily lift his eyes—

He saw. That.

His gaze locked. For a few solid seconds, he just... processed.

You. Standing there. Walking inside the library.

Wearing...

A tight black bodysuit, low-cut at the front. Sheer tights hugging your legs. Heels. A bowtie around your neck. Shirt cuffs on your wrists. A little fluffy bunny tail. And, of course... The bunny ears. Standing tall.

For the first time in what felt like years...

His expression... Actually changed.

His brow twitched. Slightly. Almost invisible — but it was there.

His usually lifeless eyes squinted just a little. Like his brain didn’t quite know how to process what was happening.

“...” — he blinked. Slowly set down the pen in his hand. Closed his book.

And then stared. Dead at you.

Silence. A silence so long it hurt.

Then, finally... he spoke.

“...What...” — his voice came out drier and lower than usual. A pause. “...What the hell are you wearing?” — deadpan. Completely emotionless. But there was... something. Something jammed in his throat.

You froze. Absolutely. Face heating up like you might explode.

“I-I...!” — you stammer, scrambling for words. “It’s not what it looks like!!” — your hands shoot up to try and cover yourself, completely uselessly.

“...It literally looks like a bunny costume.” — he shoots back, deadpan as ever, eyes not moving an inch away from you.

“I-I... I lost a bet, okay!?” — you finally blurt, squeezing your arms around yourself, dying from embarrassment.

Silence. Again.

He just... stares. Blank. Expressionless.

And yet... That tiny little twitch in his brow again. The barest hint of a muscle tightening at the corner of his mouth.

“...You voluntarily walked... across town... into the library... dressed like this.” — his tone is so flat it’s practically a slap in the face.

“I didn’t think you’d be here!!” — you cry, voice way higher than usual.

“...I’m literally always here.” — he answers like he’s explaining gravity.

Inside, you swear you’re about to just drop dead. And him...?

He just keeps staring. For so long... you start wondering if he’s trying to mentally disintegrate you.

Then, finally... He breaks eye contact. Barely.

Grabs his pen. Opens the book again.

But before starting to write, he mutters — bone dry:

“...Don’t sit in front of me. You’re... distracting.”

If it was even possible for your face to get redder... it did. “D-Distracting!?”

“...Obviously. Physically. Not mentally.” — he fires back, tone so dead you almost punch him. “...It’s annoying.”

And just like that, he goes back to writing. Like nothing happened. Like you’re not literally standing there, dressed like a bunny girl, right in front of him.

But you notice. Even if he’s not looking...

His hand trembles. Just a little. Once.

Truthless Recluse might be cold, detached, and apathetic...

But today? You broke something inside him.