Chapter Text
The apartment is too clean.
Geto notices this every morning when he wakes up, when the light slips through the blinds and lands on bare floors, empty counters, a table with only one chair pulled out. There is nothing here that wasn’t chosen deliberately. No clutter. No softness. No evidence that anyone lingers longer than they must.
He keeps it that way on purpose.
Quiet, he has learned, can be controlled.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment before standing. The mattress does not dip anywhere but beneath his own weight. No lingering warmth. No imprint of another body. He prefers it like this. Attachment invites distortion. Affection breeds hesitation. Hesitation gets people killed.
That was the logic, at least.
The kettle goes on. He does not hum. He does not rush. He performs each task with the same careful economy he uses when exorcising curses. Controlled movements. Minimal waste. He drinks his tea standing at the counter, eyes unfocused, watching steam rise and disappear.
This is the quiet after.
After leaving. After deciding. After everything he once believed shattered and reassembled into something colder, sharper, more honest.
Or so he tells himself.
Days pass this way. He leaves the apartment to deal with curses when they make themselves known, when the air grows thick and wrong, when the rot of human emotion festers enough to become something with teeth. He returns with blood washed from his hands and his thoughts heavier than when he left.
At night, the quiet grows louder.
He lies awake on his back, staring at the ceiling, replaying conversations that no longer exist. Faces he refuses to picture fully because the details still hurt. He tells himself that what he did was necessary. That the system was broken. That sacrificing sorcerers for those who could never understand them was a cruelty masquerading as virtue.
Monkeys, he thinks, the word as familiar as breath.
And yet it feels thinner now. Less satisfying. Like repeating a curse that has lost its bite.
He tells himself that isolation is discipline. That this apartment is a sanctuary. That he is better like this. Stronger. Unburdened.
Still, there are moments when the silence presses against his ears until it almost aches.
On one such evening, he is rinsing his cup when the sound arrives.
Laughter.
Bright. Sudden. Unmistakably alive.
He freezes, fingers tightening around porcelain. The sound comes from the other side of the wall. Thin drywall. Too thin. The laugh is high and bubbling, followed by something softer. A voice, warm and amused, saying something he cannot quite hear.
Human.
His first reaction is irritation. His jaw tightens. Of course someone had to move in next door. Of course the quiet could not be left alone.
The laughter comes again, louder this time, followed by a rapid series of small thumps against the floor. Running footsteps. Uncoordinated. Joyful.
A child, he realizes.
Geto closes his eyes.
Children are the worst of it. Untempered emotion. Endless noise. Need without restraint. They create curses without ever knowing it, and sorcerers are expected to clean up the mess with smiles and patience.
He exhales slowly, deliberately. The sound should bother him. It should feel like contamination. Like proof of everything he walked away from.
Instead, something unfamiliar settles in his chest.
Not warmth. He would recognize that. This is quieter. A faint pull of attention, unwanted and persistent. The laughter fades into muffled conversation, into the soft rhythm of domestic life bleeding through the walls. Drawers opening. A hum of movement. A world continuing, indifferent to his convictions.
He presses his palm flat against the counter, grounding himself.
This changes nothing, he thinks.
Tomorrow will come. He will wake up alone. He will drink his tea. He will remind himself why he chose this path.
Still, as he turns off the light and lies back down in bed, the apartment no longer feels empty in the same way.
The quiet has been interrupted.
And for the first time since he left, Geto Suguru does not immediately know whether he resents that fact or fears it.