The water is still beginning to go cold, but neither of you move.

You and Aki have been like this for a while now—just sitting in the tub, bodies half-submerged, skin pruned from the heat that’s slowly beginning to fade. The fluorescent light above flickers, humming softly, casting uneven shadows against the tiled walls. The only sound is the slow, rhythmic drip, drip, drip of the faucet.

You’re both exhausted — bone-deep tired — too drained to speak, too weighed down by the night’s events to do anything but exist in the stillness, letting the warmth of the water attempt to soothe bruised muscles and wash away the remnants of violence.

The mission went wrong. You can still hear the echo of screams ringing in your skull, still feel the ghost of every sharp movement, every cut, every impact rattling through your bones. There’s too much blood under your nails, too much loss pressing against your chest like a vice, too much buzzing under your skin.

Aki sits opposite you, back resting against the curve of the tub, knees almost touching yours but not quite. His hair sticks to his forehead, black strands heavy with water, framing the deep-set exhaustion in his sharp features.

Aki’s hands are rough, knuckles split open, stained with blood — his own, someone else’s, it doesn’t matter. You bring a damp washcloth to his skin, wiping away the crimson streaks that have dried in the creases of his fingers, smudging the edges of his nails. The water around you begins to stain — a slow bloom of red unfurling in the clear bath, like ink bleeding through paper.

“Ever wanna run away?” Aki mutters quietly, voice a low rasp amongst the ripple of water, his eyes watching the gentle drag of the damp washcloth against his hands, battle worn and scarred.

The question is hypothetical, because there’s no leaving Public Safety. No escaping Makima’s ever-present shadow. You could burn your uniforms, toss your weapons into the Sumida River, disappear into some faraway town where no one knows your name but it wouldn’t matter.