Archive of Our Own

The doors to the mess hall swung shut behind Rudo, cutting off his panicked flight and leaving behind a silence so profound it felt like a physical object. Every single person in the room was now staring at Zanka. He stood alone in the middle of the floor, the epicenter of a ripple of confusion, his own mind a chaotic, throbbing mess.

Beautiful. Angel-faced. Asshole.

The words echoed in the ringing quiet of his skull. They were a string of nonsensical, contradictory data points that his hungover, aching brain could not compute. He tried to construct a logical sequence of events. Rudo had been avoiding him. Zanka had confronted him. Rudo had then produced that… that verbal explosion, a chaotic spray of emotional shrapnel, before turning and fleeing like a startled animal. It was illogical. It was irrational. It was, even for Rudo, a new and spectacular level of erratic behavior.

A strange, unfamiliar ache settled in his chest, a feeling that was entirely separate from the dull, pounding hammer of his hangover. It was a sharp, unpleasant pang of… something. Rejection? Confusion? He couldn't categorize it, and the inability to define the emotion was, in itself, a source of profound irritation.

He needed answers. His mind, which abhorred an unsolved equation, demanded them. He slowly turned his gaze to the only other source of information in the room: the table in the corner where Enjin, Riyo, and Semiu were sitting.

They were a complete and utter disgrace. Semiu had her face buried in her hands, but her entire body was shaking with a silent, seismic laughter. Riyo was biting her lower lip so hard it was a wonder she didn't draw blood, her green eyes sparkling with a triumphant, malicious glee. And Enjin, the man who was supposed to be their calm, composed leader, was attempting to hide a massive, uncontrollable grin behind his coffee mug, and failing miserably. They looked like a trio of hyenas who had just witnessed the funniest kill of their lives.

They were the witnesses. They held the missing data. With a sense of grim, pained resolve, Zanka walked towards their table, his movements still stiff and careful. His head was pounding with each step, a dull, rhythmic punishment for the previous night's transgressions. He stopped before them, his posture as rigid and formal as he could manage.

“Explain,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “What is the matter with him?”

Semiu was the first to break. She let out a loud, undignified snort of laughter that she couldn't contain. “Oh, Zanka,” she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. “There’s nothing the matter with him. He’s just… finally processing some new information. It seems to be overloading his circuits.”

The answer was cheerful, nonsensical, and completely useless. Zanka’s gaze flickered to Riyo, who was now regarding him with a slow, predatory smirk.

“Let’s just say you were very… honest… last night, Zanka-kun,” Riyo purred, savoring each word. “And our Rudo seems to be having a rather strong physiological reaction to your particular brand of unfiltered honesty.”

Honesty? New information? The words were meaningless variables in an equation he couldn't see. His frustration mounted, a sharp, angry counterpoint to the dull ache in his skull. “I require specifics,” he insisted, his voice taking on a harder edge. “My memory of the latter half of the evening’s events is… fragmented. I recall the contest with Enjin, and then… very little. What did I say? What did I do?”

He was met with another wave of barely suppressed giggles. “Oh, it’s not so much what you did,” Semiu chirped, “as it was how you did it. And who you did it to.”

“This is inefficient,” Zanka snapped, his patience finally gone. “Just tell me what happened.”

Enjin finally set his coffee mug down, the amused, fatherly twinkle in his eyes betraying his attempt at a serious expression. He looked at Zanka, at his pale, confused face, at the genuine distress warring with his pride, and decided to offer a piece of advice, if not a direct answer.

“Listen, Zanka,” he said, his voice a calm, steady rumble. “What happened last night… it’s not really our story to tell. It was… a personal matter.” He leaned forward slightly. “Some things, a man has to figure out for himself. Rudo isn’t acting erratically for no reason. He’s reacting to you.”

“Me?” Zanka asked, completely bewildered. “I have done nothing.”

“Last night, you did,” Enjin said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Look, this isn’t our problem to solve. It’s a communication issue between you and your teammate. Go talk to him. He’s the only one who can give you the answers you’re looking for.”

The advice was, Zanka thought, the single most illogical and unhelpful suggestion he had ever heard. He was being told to seek a rational explanation from the most irrational, emotionally volatile person in the entire headquarters. It was an impossible task. But it was also the only path forward he had been given, and the command in Enjin’s tone, however gentle, was clear.

He stood there for a moment, trapped between his pounding headache, the infuriating laughter of his teammates, and a profound, maddening sense of confusion. He had a new mission, one he did not want, but one his analytical mind could not allow him to abandon. He needed to find Rudo. And he needed to retrieve the missing data.

Fine, he thought, a sense of grim resolve settling over the chaos of his mind. If the idiot is the only one with the information, then I will retrieve the information from the idiot. He gave his snickering teammates one last, withering glare, then turned and strode out of the mess hall, his purpose clear, his headache now a secondary concern to the infuriating puzzle that was Rudo Surebrec.

Zanka’s new mission began with a tactical assessment. His target, Rudo Surebrec, was a creature of habit. Predictable, in his own chaotic way. Zanka knew his schedule: the early morning training sessions he always 'forced' him to do, the mid-day scavenging runs, the long, focused afternoons spent in his workshop, and the evenings usually spent sprawled on the common room floor, annoying everyone within a three-meter radius. Intercepting him should have been a simple matter of time and place.

His first attempt was that afternoon. He knew Rudo would be in his room, tinkering with some new piece of salvaged junk. It was the perfect, private location for a direct and logical interrogation. He strode down the corridor, his purpose a cold, hard line in his mind. He would be calm. He would be rational. He would present the problem—Rudo's erratic behavior—and demand the missing data. It was a flawless plan.

He reached the door and found it, for the first time since Rudo had moved in, firmly and unequivocally locked.

Zanka stared at the locked door, his mind coming to a screeching halt. A locked door was not part of the Rudo Surebrec behavioral profile. The idiot was a whirlwind of open access and zero personal security. He forgot to lock his door on a daily basis. For it to be locked now, when Zanka was actively seeking him out, was not a coincidence. It was a deliberate act of evasion.

He knocked. A sharp, impatient rap. “Rudo. Open this door. We need to talk.”

Silence. Then, a faint scuffling sound from within, followed by a loud, theatrical, and completely unconvincing snore.

Zanka’s eye twitched. “I know you are awake, you cretin,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Your feigned slumber is an insult to my intelligence. Open the door.”

The snoring just got louder, acquiring a strange, whistling quality. Zanka stood there for a full minute, his hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist. He could, of course, simply pick the lock or kick the door down. But that would be a chaotic, emotional response. He was a man of discipline. He would not allow the idiot’s childish games to provoke him into behaving like… well, like Rudo. With a sharp, frustrated hiss, he turned and walked away. The first attempt was a failure, but it had yielded a crucial piece of new data: the target was actively hostile and aware of his pursuit.

The next day, the cold war escalated into a full-blown campaign of avoidance. It was almost impressive, in a pathetic, infuriating sort of way. When Zanka entered the training yard for their usual morning sparring session, Rudo, who was already there, took one look at him, abruptly declared that he needed to “go check on a gear-thing,” and practically sprinted out of the room. When Zanka tried to corner him in the mess hall at lunch, Rudo saw him coming, grabbed an entire loaf of bread, and vaulted over the back of a bench to make his escape.

It was in the common room that evening that the absurdity of the situation reached its peak. Rudo was on the floor, trying to pretend he was deeply engrossed in cleaning his 3R glove. Zanka saw his opening. He approached with the silent, predatory grace of a hunter closing in on his prey.

“Rudo,” he began, his voice calm and firm.

Rudo’s head snapped up. His eyes went wide with the panicked look of a cornered animal. He looked left. He looked right. He saw Riyo sitting on the couch, calmly sharpening her Ripper. In a move of sheer, desperate brilliance, Rudo scrambled over to her.

“Hey, Riyo!” he said, his voice a high-pitched, unnatural squeak. “You know that new belt you were making? It looks a little dull. Let me shine it up for you! I have this great new polish I made from fermented battery acid and grease. It’s amazing!”

Riyo looked from Rudo’s frantic, pleading face to Zanka’s thunderous one, and her lips curved into a slow, deeply amused smile. She understood the game immediately. “Why, Rudo, that’s so thoughtful of you,” she purred, holding out the belt.

For the next twenty minutes, Rudo sat at Riyo’s feet, manically polishing her belt with a dirty rag, chattering nonsense about polishing techniques, all while steadfastly refusing to meet Zanka’s burning, murderous glare. Riyo became his human shield, a beautiful, crimson-haired wall of sarcastic amusement that Zanka could not breach without creating a major diplomatic incident.

Zanka finally retreated, his frustration a burning, acid thing in his gut. His analytical mind was in overdrive, trying to process this new, deeply illogical reality. The idiot was expending a colossal amount of energy to avoid a simple conversation. The level of his avoidance was directly proportional to the significance of the event he was trying to hide. This wasn’t just about a simple prank or a minor transgression. This was something else. Something big.

His obsession with getting an answer grew with each failed attempt. It was no longer just about solving a puzzle. It had become a matter of principle. Rudo’s panicked evasion was a direct insult to his intelligence, a chaotic scribble on the clean, white page of his orderly world. He needed to know. He felt a strange, unfamiliar desperation coiling in his stomach. It was the same feeling he got in a fight when an opponent’s pattern was just out of his grasp—a maddening, all-consuming need to see, to understand, to conquer.

He just never imagined that the most difficult opponent he would ever face would be Rudo’s own terrified, mortifying secret.

The week descended into a state of absurd, silent warfare. Rudo had elevated his avoidance tactics to an art form, demonstrating a level of strategic thinking and situational awareness that Zanka, under normal circumstances, would have found grudgingly impressive. Rudo seemed to have developed a sixth sense, an early-warning system that alerted him to Zanka’s proximity. He would vanish from corridors moments before Zanka turned a corner. He took his meals at odd, unpredictable hours. He even, to Zanka’s profound and growing disgust, began volunteering for the most tedious, filth-ridden maintenance tasks in the lower levels, all to find a justifiable reason to be anywhere that Zanka was not.

Zanka’s obsession, in turn, intensified. It was no longer a simple matter of retrieving missing data. It had become a battle of wills, a personal affront to his analytical and tactical abilities. The idiot was outmaneuvering him, and he could not allow it to stand. He began to anticipate Rudo’s evasions, attempting to cut him off, to corner him. Their silent, ridiculous feud became a complex, headquarters-wide game of cat and mouse, a dance of avoidance and pursuit that was, to their teammates, a source of endless, high-quality entertainment.

The breaking point came on the fifth day. After another failed attempt to corner Rudo near the workshops, Zanka was walking past the main training yard, his frustration a cold, hard knot in his stomach. He heard the familiar, rhythmic thud of practice staffs striking a training dummy and paused, his curiosity piqued. Rudo had been conspicuously absent from their shared morning sessions all week. Zanka had assumed he was avoiding training altogether, another symptom of his bizarre, inexplicable panic.

He looked into the yard, and the sight that met his eyes sent a strange, sharp, and deeply unpleasant jolt through his entire system.

Rudo was there, his face beaded with sweat, his red eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. He was moving with his usual, chaotic grace, a whirlwind of powerful, intuitive motion. But he wasn’t alone. And he wasn’t avoiding training. He was just avoiding training with him.

His sparring partner was Follo, one of the more senior Supporters from the team. Follo was a competent, steady fighter, and he was laughing, a bright, easy sound, as Rudo executed a particularly flashy, spinning strike that sent the dummy’s head flying off its stand.

“Nice one, Rudo!” Follo shouted, clapping him on the shoulder. “Your form’s getting better! You’re actually thinking before you swing now.”

Rudo grinned, a wide, genuine, and completely un-self-conscious grin. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the yard. “Zanka’s always yelling at me about my footwork. I figured I should probably listen for once.” He laughed, a short, barking sound. “Don’t tell him I said that, though. His ego’s big enough already.”

Follo laughed with him, and the two of them fell into an easy, comfortable camaraderie, discussing techniques, their staffs resting on their shoulders.

Zanka stood in the doorway, unseen, a silent, frozen observer. He watched them. He watched the way Rudo laughed, a free, unburdened sound Zanka hadn’t heard all week. He watched the easy way Follo clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture of casual, friendly contact that Rudo didn’t flinch away from. He was watching his sparring partner, his trainee, his… rival, and seeing him share a moment of genuine, productive connection with someone else.

His analytical mind tried to process the scene, to break it down into logical components. Observation: Rudo is training. Partner: Follo. Subject mood: relaxed, positive. Topic of conversation: me. The data was simple. But the emotional reaction it produced in him was anything but.

It was a sharp, ugly, coiling thing in his gut. It was hot and acidic. It was a deeply personal and possessive anger. He saw Follo laughing with Rudo, correcting his stance, and a single, violent, and completely irrational thought shot through his mind: That’s my job.

He froze, horrified by his own internal monologue. Your job? the logical part of his brain asked, its voice laced with a cold, mocking surprise. Your job is to be a Cleaner. Your job is to follow orders. Mentoring that idiot is a secondary, often burdensome, responsibility. His choice of training partner is tactically irrelevant.

But the feeling wouldn’t listen to logic. It was a raw, primal, and deeply unsettling emotion. It was the feeling of watching someone else play with your favorite toy, even if it was a toy you complained about constantly. It was the feeling of being replaced.

This is… jealousy.

The word, the clinical diagnosis of the sickness in his soul, was a profound shock. He, Zanka Nijiku, did not do jealousy. Jealousy was an inefficient, illogical, and deeply sentimental emotion. It was beneath him. It was a product of insecurity, and he was a man of supreme, unshakable confidence. Except, he wasn’t. Not anymore.

The jealousy was an undeniable, physical presence, a bitter, coppery taste in his mouth. He was jealous of Follo’s easy camaraderie with Rudo. He was jealous of the simple, uncomplicated way they could train together. And, a deeper, more horrifying realization began to dawn: he was jealous because he missed it. He missed their arguments. He missed the familiar, frustrating rhythm of their sparring sessions. He missed the challenge of trying to force a shred of discipline into Rudo’s chaotic genius. He missed the constant, irritating, and undeniably engaging presence of the idiot in his daily life.

The realization was a catastrophic blow to his own self-perception. His obsession with finding out what had happened at the bar… was it really just about solving a puzzle? Or was it an excuse? An excuse to talk to Rudo, to break through this bizarre, silent wall he had erected between them, to get things back to… normal.

But what was normal anymore?

He watched them for a moment longer, the ugly, unfamiliar emotion churning inside him. Then, without a sound, he turned and walked away, his mind a quiet storm of confusion and a new, terrifying, and deeply unwelcome self-awareness. He still needed answers. But now, he needed them for a completely different, and far more terrifying, reason.

Zanka retreated from the training yard, the image of Rudo’s easy, unguarded laughter with Follo burned onto the inside of his eyelids. The ugly, coiling knot of jealousy in his gut was a new and unwelcome companion, a chaotic variable that threw all his previous calculations into disarray. He had been operating under the assumption that he was conducting a logical investigation. He now had to face the humiliating truth: this wasn’t about data. It was about him. His obsession with Rudo’s avoidance was not a tactical problem to be solved; it was a deeply personal, emotional wound that he couldn’t stop prodding.

He felt a desperate need for solitude, for the sterile, controlled quiet of his own room where he could attempt to dissect this new, monstrous emotion and force it back into a logical framework. He was stalking through the main common room, his face a thunderous mask of internal conflict, when a cheerful, perceptive voice cut through his turmoil.

“Wow. If looks could kill, that potted plant in the corner would be a pile of smoking ash right now.”

Semiu Grier was sitting at one of the tables, a complex piece of communication gear disassembled in front of her. She was looking at him with her head tilted, her Jinki-enhanced eyes seeming to peer directly into his soul.

Zanka did not have the energy for her usual brand of cheerful nonsense. “I am not in the mood for your pointless observations, Semiu,” he said, his voice a low, cold growl. He didn't even break his stride.

“Oh, I think you are,” Semiu chirped, completely undeterred. She put down a porn magazine and leaned back in her chair, a knowing, pitying smile on her face. “Because you look like a man who has been trying to solve an equation with all the wrong variables. You’ve been chasing Rudo around for days, and you still have no idea what happened, do you?”

He stopped. The accuracy of her assessment was as startling as it was irritating. He slowly turned to face her, his pride warring with his desperate, all-consuming need for an answer. “The others refuse to provide the necessary data,” he stated, his voice stiff. “They claim it is a ‘personal matter’.”

“It is,” Semiu agreed with a nod. “It’s your personal matter. And his. Which is exactly why watching you two stumble around it like a couple of blind, angry moles has been the most entertaining and painful thing I have witnessed all month.” She let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Look, normally I’d let you two stew in your own glorious stupidity. It’s kind of your brand. But this is just getting sad. You look like a kicked puppy, Zanka. Sit down.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to maintain his dignity, to retreat from this conversation. But he was at his wit's end. His own observations had failed. His direct approach had failed. And the jealousy, that ugly, insidious emotion, was eating him alive. With a sense of profound, reluctant defeat, he walked over and sat down in the chair opposite her.

Semiu’s smile softened. “Okay,” she began, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Here’s the deal. You remember the drinking contest with Enjin, right?”

“Vaguely,” Zanka admitted, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. “I recall… making a tactical error in judgment.”

“‘Tactical error’ is one way to put it,” Semiu said with a snort. “You got completely, spectacularly, legendarily wasted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone’s dignity evaporate so quickly. It was beautiful.”

Zanka’s face, which had been pale with a mixture of anger and confusion, began to acquire a faint, pinkish hue. “Get to the point.”

“I’m getting there,” she said, holding up a hand. “The point is, you became… a different person. All that frosty, ‘I’m better than everyone’ armor you wear just… melted. And you were actually kind of sweet.”

The word ‘sweet’ landed like a physical blow. He stared at her, horrified.

“You started complimenting everyone,” she continued, her grin widening as she relished every detail. “You told Riyo her hair was a pleasing wavelength. You told Enjin he had a ‘paternal aura’. And then… you set your sights on Rudo.”

The knot of dread in Zanka’s stomach tightened. He had a sudden, horrible feeling that he was about to regret asking this question more than any other decision in his life.

“You got up, walked around the table, and just… hugged him. From behind,” Semiu said, her voice now a gleeful whisper. “He was completely trapped. It was glorious.”

Zanka’s mind went completely, utterly blank. The blood drained from his face, leaving him a ghastly, chalky white. I did what? The thought was a silent, strangled scream. The image was so profoundly, impossibly out of character that his brain simply refused to process it.

“He, of course, completely freaked out,” Semiu went on, warming to her story. “He was yelling at you to let go, calling you an asshole, the usual. But you just held on tighter. And then you started… analyzing him.”

She began to quote him, her voice a pitch-perfect imitation of his own earnest, drunken slur. “‘You smell so good.’”

Zanka flinched as if he’d been slapped.

“Your voice doesn’t sound so bad up close.”

He felt a wave of nausea.

“You’re so beautiful.”

He made a small, choked sound, a noise of pure, undiluted horror.

“Like an angel.”

That was it. That was the final, killing blow. Zanka closed his eyes, a profound, dizzying sense of vertigo washing over him. He felt as though the floor had dropped out from under him, plunging him into a bottomless abyss of his own mortification. He had said those things. To Rudo. The words were a litany of shame, a testament to the complete and total annihilation of his own discipline.

He said nothing. He couldn't. His tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth.

Semiu, seeing the look of absolute, soul-deep horror on his face, finally took a little pity on him. Her expression softened, her usual mischievous glee replaced by a rare moment of genuine, insightful wisdom.

“Look, Zanka,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’s embarrassing, I get it. But you need to understand something about alcohol. We call it a truth serum for a reason. It doesn't put new thoughts in your head. It just… dissolves the filters. It lowers the walls you build around the things you’re too scared or too proud to say when you’re sober.” She leaned in, her gaze direct and unwavering. “When you’re drunk, you’re more likely to reveal your true feelings.” She grinned at him, a small, knowing, and utterly devastating grin. “Think about it.”

She patted his hand, then turned back to her disassembled gadget, her part in the drama complete. She had delivered the truth, the whole, unvarnished, horrifying truth. And now, she was leaving him to deal with the fallout.

Zanka stood up from the table, his movements stiff and robotic. He didn't say a word to her. He just turned and walked away, his mind a roaring, silent inferno. He didn’t see where he was going. He was navigating by pure, instinctual retreat. He needed to be alone. He needed to be in the one place where he could fall apart without any witnesses.

He finally reached his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound of profound, damning finality. The truth was a living entity in the room with him now, a monstrous, undeniable presence. He hadn’t just acted like a fool. He hadn’t just embarrassed himself. He had, with a drunkard’s careless, devastating honesty, exposed the deepest, most secret, and most terrifying truth of his own heart.

The door to his room clicked shut, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden, suffocating silence. Zanka stood with his back pressed against the cool, smooth metal, his entire body rigid. He did not move. He did not breathe. He simply stared into the pristine, orderly space of his personal quarters, but he did not see it. His vision was consumed by an internal firestorm, a chaotic replay of Semiu’s cheerful, devastating words.

You hugged him. You told him he smelled good. You told him he was beautiful. Like an angel.

His first, instinctual reaction was denial. A cold, logical, and deeply desperate wave of it. The information was flawed. The source, Semiu, was a known agent of chaos who delighted in psychological torment. Her conclusion was based on a sentimental, unscientific premise. ‘A drunk person’s words are a sober person’s thoughts.’ It was a meaningless platitude, a piece of folk wisdom with no basis in empirical fact. Alcohol was a toxin, a poison that corrupted the brain’s functions. It created hallucinations, falsehoods, nonsensical outputs. The things he had said and done were merely the random, meaningless neural firings of an intoxicated mind. They meant nothing.

He clung to that explanation with the desperation of a drowning man. It was a solid, logical rock in a sea of emotional madness. The words were not his. The feelings were not his. It was the Scrap Shine talking, not him.

He pushed himself off the door and began to pace, his movements stiff and jerky, a caged animal in his own minimalist sanctuary. He needed to reinforce his logic. He needed to find the flaw in her argument and systematically dismantle it.

But as he paced, his own traitorous mind began to betray him. Prompted by Semiu’s story, the fragmented, blacked-out portions of the previous night began to surface, not as coherent memories, but as vivid, sensory flashes.

A flash of chaotic, spiky hair, catching the dim bar light like a halo.

The feeling of a warm, solid back under his hands, the surprisingly soft fabric of a standard-issue uniform.

The scent of ozone, sharp and clean, mixed with something sweet and uniquely, undeniably Rudo.

The low, resonant vibration of Rudo’s voice, a panicked, angry shout that was somehow, incomprehensibly, not unpleasant when heard from a proximity of zero centimeters.

These weren't thoughts. They were sense-memories, pieces of raw, physical data his body had recorded even when his conscious mind was offline. And each one was a chisel, chipping away at the foundation of his denial. The feelings he had experienced in that drunken state—a strange, warm sense of comfort, a profound and unguarded admiration—had been real. He remembered them now, a faint, ghostly echo of the emotions themselves.

He stopped pacing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He stood in the middle of his perfectly ordered room, and his perfect, orderly world began to collapse.

Semiu’s final, devastating words returned to him. It just… dissolves the filters.

The filters. The walls. The lifetime of discipline he had used to construct a version of himself that was acceptable, that was strong, that was in control. The alcohol hadn’t created a new personality; it had simply revealed the one he kept locked away in the deepest, most secret dungeon of his own heart.

The things he had said to Rudo… they had come from him.

The realization was not a gentle dawning. It was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that knocked the air from his lungs and made his knees feel weak. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of his perfectly made bed.

Beautiful. Like an angel.

He had looked at Rudo Surebrec—the loud-mouthed, chaotic, infuriating idiot—and his deepest, most unfiltered thought had been a piece of soft, sentimental poetry.

A wave of self-loathing, so intense it was nauseating, washed over him. It was a thousand times worse than the humiliation he had felt after his defeat by Hyo. That had been a failure of skill, a public shattering of his pride. This was a failure of identity. A private, internal collapse of his entire self-perception.

He had spent years rebuilding himself from the ashes of the “genius” his family had tried to create. He had forged a new identity, a new jewel, based on the principles of hard work, discipline, and a cool, detached superiority. He was Zanka of the Cleaners, the simmering sapphire who had learned, through brutal effort, to keep his cool. He was the mentor, the strategist, the one who saw through the emotional nonsense of others.

And all of it was a lie.

Beneath that carefully constructed facade, he was a sentimental fool. He harbored soft, tender, romantic feelings for his primary rival, for the one person who represented everything he claimed to disdain. It was a catastrophic failure of his discipline. It was a mockery of his own philosophy. It made him weak. It made him pathetic. It made him a hypocrite.

He sank to the floor, his back against the bed, his perfect posture gone. He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. A low, strangled sound, a noise of pure, agonized shame, tore itself from his throat.

His entire relationship with Rudo was now cast in a new, horrifying light. The rivalry, the constant bickering, the obsessive need to correct and mentor him—was it all just a mask? A complicated, subconscious excuse to stay close to him, to keep him in his orbit, to focus all of his energy on him? Had he been lying to everyone, and most devastatingly, to himself, all this time?

The jealousy he had felt in the training yard was not an anomaly. It was a symptom of the larger, more terrifying disease. The ache he had felt in his chest when Rudo had stormed out of the mess hall was not confusion. It was hurt.

The truth was an ugly, undeniable monster, and it was sitting in the room with him now, laughing at him. He was in love with an idiot. And that, to Zanka Nijiku, was the most profound and humiliating failure of all.

Zanka remained on the floor for a long time, a collapsed monument to his own shattered self-perception. The storm of his mental breakdown was a silent, violent thing, a hurricane of shame, disgust, and profound, terrifying confusion that raged within the quiet, orderly confines of his room. He let it wash over him, surrendering to the sheer, overwhelming force of it. He had no defenses left. Every wall he had ever built, every piece of logical armor he had ever forged, had been rendered useless by a single, devastating truth. He had feelings for Rudo. Not of rivalry. Not of camaraderie. Something else. Something softer, warmer, and infinitely more dangerous.

He replayed every interaction they had ever had, viewing them now through this new, horrifying lens. The constant arguments felt less like genuine conflict and more like a desperate, childish attempt to get his attention. The obsessive need to mentor and correct him felt less like a duty and more like an excuse to stay close, to remain a fixed point in Rudo’s chaotic orbit. The jealousy he had felt watching him with Follo was not an anomaly; it was the clearest signal yet, a distress flare from a part of himself he had refused to acknowledge.

He had spent years priding himself on his perception, on his ability to analyze situations and people with a cold, detached clarity. Yet, he had been completely, utterly blind to the most significant truth of his own heart. He was a fool. An emotional, sentimental, and profoundly illogical fool.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the raging storm began to subside. The initial, overwhelming wave of pure, chaotic emotion began to recede, and in its place, the thing that was most fundamentally him began to reassert itself. His analytical mind, battered and bruised but not broken, flickered back to life. It began to do the only thing it knew how to do: it began to process the data.

Fact, his internal voice stated, the tone no longer panicked, but quiet, cold, and grimly accepting. I harbor an unreciprocated and strategically disadvantageous emotional attachment to my teammate, Rudo Surebrec.

Fact, it continued. This attachment has been revealed, albeit through an intoxicated state, resulting in a severe disruption of our team dynamic. Rudo is now actively avoiding me, a situation that is inefficient and detrimental to combat readiness.

Fact, the final, most damning point. This unresolved emotional variable is a weakness. It is a flaw in my discipline. It is a loose thread that, if left unaddressed, could unravel everything.

He took a slow, deep breath. The shame was still there, a heavy, cold stone in his gut. The mortification had not vanished. But underneath it, a new, familiar feeling was beginning to take root: resolve. He had been presented with a problem. A complex, horrifying, and deeply personal problem, but a problem nonetheless. And problems were not to be ignored. They were to be analyzed, confronted, and solved.

He had spent the last week running from the truth, chasing Rudo for an explanation he secretly didn't want, because he was afraid of what that explanation would mean. He was afraid of this very moment, of this very realization. But now that it was here, now that the worst was known, the fear began to recede. Fear was an inefficient emotion. It clouded judgment.

He pushed himself up off the floor, his movements no longer weak, but deliberate, precise. He walked over to the small basin in the corner of his room and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back was pale and strained, the eyes shadowed with a new, weary self-awareness. But they were clear.

This situation could not be allowed to continue. The current state of avoidance was illogical. Rudo’s panicked, emotional state was a liability. His own internal turmoil was a distraction. This messy, chaotic, unresolved issue had to be dealt with. It had to be confronted, contained, and categorized.

He did not know what the outcome would be. Rudo would likely be disgusted. He would mock him. He would reject him. The prospect was… painful. But the pain of a direct, known outcome was preferable to the slow, corrosive poison of this unresolved chaos. Discipline was not about avoiding difficult situations. It was about facing them with a clear mind and an unwavering will.

He had failed his discipline once by losing control at the bar. He would not fail it again by being a coward now.

A new, cold resolve settled over him, extinguishing the last embers of his emotional panic. He had a new mission. He would find Rudo. He would corner him, and this time, there would be no escape. They would talk. He would force the truth of that night into the open, and he would deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. It was the only logical path forward. It was the only way to restore order.

His mind was clear. His purpose was set. Zanka left the sterile sanctuary of his room, his movements once again imbued with their usual, efficient grace. The emotional storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, quiet landscape of pure, unadulterated resolve. He was no longer a victim of his own chaotic feelings; he was a strategist, a tactician on a mission to contain a critical emotional breach. He had a target, and he had an objective.

He knew, with a logical certainty, where Rudo would be. When faced with overwhelming emotional stress, Rudo did not retreat into quiet contemplation. He sought solace in creation, in the familiar, grounding act of taking broken things and making them whole. He would be in his workshop, his so-called “room,” surrounded by the beautiful, chaotic mess of his life’s work. It was his fortress, his sanctuary. And Zanka was about to lay siege to it.

He walked through the now-bustling evening corridors of the headquarters, his expression a mask of cool, unreadable composure. He ignored the curious glances from other Cleaners, the friendly greetings he usually returned with a curt, formal nod. He was a shark moving through water, his senses focused on a single point in the distance. He did not feel fear. He did not feel anger. He felt only the cold, clean weight of his own determination.

He reached the corridor that led to Rudo’s room and saw him. Rudo was standing just outside his own doorway, talking to Riyo. His back was to Zanka, but his posture was a billboard of misery. His shoulders were slumped, and he was kicking at an imaginary spot on the floor, his usual restless energy replaced by a sullen, agitated stillness.

"—I don't know what his problem is!" Rudo was saying, his voice a low, frustrated grumble that carried down the hall. "He just keeps staring at me! It's creepy!"

Riyo, who was leaning against the opposite wall, let out a soft, amused laugh. "Oh, I'm sure you have no idea," she purred, her voice dripping with a sarcasm that was clearly lost on Rudo. "Maybe you should just talk to him."

"No!" Rudo said, the word a panicked, defensive yelp. "Why would I talk to him? There's nothing to talk about! I'm just gonna stay in my workshop until he forgets about… whatever it is he's mad about."

Riyo just shook her head, a look of profound, pitying amusement on her face. "You two are a disaster," she sighed, pushing herself off the wall. "Good luck with that." She gave Rudo a final, knowing pat on the shoulder and sauntered off down the corridor, her job as an agent of chaos and emotional insight complete.

Rudo watched her go, then let out a long, frustrated groan. He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair and turned to go into his room.

That's when he saw him.

He froze, his hand on the doorknob, his eyes widening in pure, cornered-animal panic. Zanka was standing at the end of the corridor, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable, his presence a silent, immovable object that completely blocked his path to escape.

"Rudo," Zanka said. His voice was not angry. It was not accusatory. It was quiet, calm, and held a note of absolute, terrifying finality. "We need to talk."

Rudo stared at him, his mind clearly racing through a thousand desperate, futile escape plans. But there was nowhere to run. The look in Zanka’s eyes was different this time. It wasn't the confused, hurt expression of the boy in the mess hall. It was the focused, unwavering gaze of a man who had made a decision.

"I-I'm busy," Rudo stammered, his hand still frozen on the doorknob. "I've got… a very important… gear-thing… to fix."

"The gear-thing can wait," Zanka said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. He did not break eye contact. "This cannot. We are going to discuss the events of the other night. We are going to establish the facts. And we are going to resolve this inefficiency. Now."

He took another step. Rudo, in a last, desperate act of self-preservation, fumbled with the door and scrambled inside his room.

"Go away!" he yelled, trying to slam the door shut.

But Zanka was too quick. His hand shot out, catching the edge of the door with a firm, resounding thump. He easily pushed it open, his superior strength and absolute resolve overriding Rudo's panicked, half-hearted resistance.

He stepped inside, into the chaotic, beautiful mess of Rudo's world, and closed the door behind him, the soft, definitive click echoing in the sudden, charged silence of the room. He was in. The target was cornered. The interrogation was about to begin. And this time, there would be no escape.