"Don't make too much noise."
The words came out the same, but they didn't leave the same way. They lingered—subtle, heavier than they should've been. I stepped out, and the door closed behind me with a soft, mechanical click that echoed longer than it had any right to in the narrow hallway. My hand stayed near the handle for a second too long, fingers hovering over the cold metal as if confirming something hadn't shifted on the other side.
(…What am I doing?)
"…Tch." I pulled back and started walking.
The silence followed, but it didn't stretch into emptiness like it used to. It felt contained, held in place, as if something had been left behind in that room and refused to disperse. I couldn't name it, and I didn't try. Naming things gave them weight, and I didn't have space for anything heavier than what I was already carrying.
The stairs felt longer than usual—not physically, but each step dragged slightly, like my body was moving ahead while something else lagged behind. I ran my fingers along the railing, grounding myself in the cold metal. (Focus.)
Outside, the city hit all at once. Voices layered over each other, footsteps overlapping in uneven rhythms, distant engines humming beneath it all. It had always been like this. I just never noticed how much it pressed in from every direction. Neon signs flickered against the morning light, their colors fighting a losing battle against the pale sky. Holographic ads glitched across stained walls, their voices stuttering through broken promises no one believed anymore. Everything competed for attention and achieved nothing. My jaw tightened. (Too much.) I looked away and kept walking.
The restaurant wasn't far, but my thoughts didn't stay on the path. My sleeve brushed my wrist again—rough, worn. I glanced down. Threads had started to loosen along the edges. (Shopping district. After shift.) Simple. Practical. That should've been enough. Then something else slipped in, uninvited.
(She doesn't have anything.)
My steps didn't stop, but my focus did. Lilith. The name still felt new, like it hadn't settled into place yet. No shoes. Torn clothes. Soaked through. The memory returned without warning—the weight of wet fabric, the way it clung, the cold that seemed to seep past the surface. I cut it off before it could go further. My throat tightened. "…Tch."
(Why do I care?) No answer came, and I didn't push for one.
By the time I noticed where I was, the restaurant was already in front of me. Same lights, same artificial brightness that never quite matched anything real. Nothing had changed. Of course it hadn't. I stepped inside, and the air shifted immediately—warm, controlled, sterile. Tables aligned perfectly, chairs adjusting themselves in quiet, precise movements, screens glowing with information no one truly paid attention to. Above, a simulated sky stretched in flawless blue. Too clean. Too still.
(Pathetic.) I walked past it all without slowing.
The kitchen door opened before I reached it. Leisa stepped out and walked straight into me. We both stumbled; the plates in her hands tilted, then steadied. "Kael. You're nine minutes late." I glanced at the clock. 7:09.
"What are you, my boss? It's nine minutes." She raised a brow, a faint smirk pulling at her lips.
"For you? Yeah. Now move."
"…Tch." I stepped past her. (Annoying.) The routine didn't wait for irritation to settle.
I changed into the uniform—white, clean, meaningless. It fit exactly as expected. I looked at my reflection for a second. Same face. Same expression. Nothing new. I turned away and went back to work. Orders, plates, steps, voices. Repeat. Time didn't speed up or slow down; it just continued without asking. Then I noticed Table 19. A family. Three people. The kid laughed too loudly, talking without restraint, the parents responding easily, like this was normal. Like sitting together mattered. I placed the plates down and moved on without lingering, but something tightened in my chest for a second too long.
(Ignore it.) I turned away.
(Doesn't matter.) The thought came too quickly, too clean, like it had been used before.
By 12:10 PM, I was outside again. The air felt different—colder, less controlled. Real. I walked until I found a bench and sat down. The metal pressed against my back, hard and unyielding.
(Of course.) I leaned back slightly and exhaled.
(Home… or shopping.) I checked the time. 12:15. She had eaten. She should be fine. The word should didn't settle properly, but I ignored it. I stood and headed toward the shopping district.
The entrance opened below the city like something intentionally buried. I went down—Level One, then Level Two. The air grew dimmer, heavier. Shops lined the corridor, lights flickering unevenly. Names stretched across storefronts, trying too hard to stand out. One caught my eye: Streax Fabric. "…What kind of name is that?" (Doesn't matter.) I stepped inside.
Small space. Minimal display. A woman behind the counter watched me with a neutral expression. I told her my size and picked quickly. Black shirt. Dark jacket. Pants. Enough. "150 creds." I nodded. Then my gaze shifted to the screen behind her—the female section. My hand didn't move.
(Should I?) Silence. (Why?) No answer.
Then the memory returned again—wet fabric, torn edges, the cold. My chest tightened slightly. "…Tch." I clicked the screen and scrolled. Slower this time. Too many options.
(I don't know her size.) My hand pressed lightly against my face. (Why am I doing this?) Still nothing.
Then I saw it. A hoodie. Light pink fading into blue. Simple. Loose. (She's small.) That was enough. "180 creds." I paid without hesitation.
I left the shop, the bag light in my hand but heavier than it should've felt. (Spent more than planned.) I exhaled quietly. (Shoes next week.) By 12:48 PM, I was heading home. The fatigue settled deeper now, pressing into my limbs. Then another thought surfaced.
(Dishes.) "…Dammit." The word slipped out under my breath.
I reached the apartment, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Closed it. Stopped. Something felt off. Not loud. Not obvious. Just wrong. I placed the bag on the table; the plastic crinkled sharply in the silence. My eyes moved to the bed. The curtain was open. Fully. The bed was empty. My chest tightened instantly.
(What?) (She's not here.) My pulse picked up, faster than it should have. (Impossible. She can't move properly. The door was locked.) I scanned the room. Nothing. No movement. No sign.
Then I heard it.
Water.
Faint. Continuous.
My gaze snapped to the bathroom door. (There.) A breath left me before I could stop it. Heavier than expected. Relief. Too immediate. Too real. I walked to the chair and dropped into it, leaning forward, hands covering my face for a second. Another breath followed. Slower this time.
(Relief?) The thought didn't sit right, but it didn't leave either.
The bathroom door creaked open. I straightened immediately. She stepped out slowly, one hand against the wall for support. Her movements were careful, controlled, like each step had to be confirmed before the next. She was still weak, but she was standing.
(She can walk now.) That shouldn't have mattered. It did.
Then she saw me.
Her body stiffened—just slightly.
Enough.
Our eyes met.
The room stilled.
Not empty. Not distant.
Something else settled there—quiet, undefined, impossible to ignore.
Neither of us looked away.
And for a moment—
I forgot what she was.