The safehouse smelled faintly of rain and old wood. One of the windows had a slow, constant drip running down its inner frame, like the house was sighing in its sleep. Kazou sat cross-legged on a worn rug near the center of the room, papers and maps spread around him in uneven arcs. He had tried to organize them once, early on, but the effort hadn’t lasted. Now they rested wherever his hands had left them, notes in the margins, arrows drawn and redrawn, names circled until the ink nearly tore through the page.

  The whole building creaked like it had lungs.

  Zawisza was lying on the floor a few feet away, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. One boot was off, the other still loosely laced. His coat had been draped over a chair hours ago. He looked comfortable in a way Kazou didn’t trust, too at ease for someone who had spent the evening outrunning sirens and shadows.

  The building creaked occasionally, not loudly, just enough to remind him that it was old and still working very hard to stay upright.

  The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward either. It felt occupied, like the room itself was listening.

  Kazou paused in his reading and glanced over.

  “You alright down there?” he asked.

  Zawisza didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on a hairline crack in the ceiling.

  “Yeah,” he said easily. “Can’t complain.”

  Kazou hesitated.

  “The floor doesn’t bother you?”

  Zawisza smiled faintly, the kind that barely moved his face.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Feels… honest.”

  Kazou didn’t respond. He went back to his notes, but his eyes kept drifting away from the page.

  Zawisza hummed, not arguing.

  “Floor’s not so bad. It’s honest. No pretenses.” He shifted a little, folding one leg over the other. The boards creaked beneath him. “Sometimes I forget how quiet peace can be. You don’t notice it until you’re in it.”

  Kazou looked at him for a moment, then went back to his notes.

  “This place isn’t peaceful. It’s hiding.”

  “Sure,” Zawisza said. “But not right this second.”

  There was a small silence, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock on the wall.

  Zawisza turned his head, gazing at the ceiling. His voice was warm, easy.

  “You feel every heartbeat this way. It slows you down. Makes you remember your body’s still yours.”

  Kazou didn’t reply. His pen paused over the page.

  Zawisza stretched slightly, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh.

  “Feels like floating. Strange, huh? You lie still long enough, and the world forgets you're heavy.”

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  Kazou finally spoke, gently.

  “You alright?”

  Zawisza smiled with his eyes half-lidded.

  “Never better.”

  Zawisza shifted slightly, crossing one ankle over the other. The floorboards creaked beneath him, a patient, familiar sound.

  Kazou’s pen slowed.

  “You know,” he said, voice easy, “when things get loud in my head, I like lying flat. Helps everything settle back where it belongs..."

  Kazou paused, pen hovering above the page.

  “Is that something you learned,” he asked carefully, “or something you figured out on your own?”

  Zawisza considered the ceiling again.

  “A bit of both,” he said. “They used to make us do it after drills during the YK serials. A long time ago. No talking. No moving. Just breathing. Back then, I hated it.” He chuckled softly. "Funny how habits outlive the reasons they were born.”

  Kazou nodded. He didn’t ask what drills meant. Some things announced themselves clearly enough without being named.

  Zawisza went on, lighter now.

  “You notice strange things when you’re lying on the ground. The way your heartbeat eventually slows. How heavy your limbs feel. Makes you realize your body hasn’t abandoned you yet.”

  Kazou set his pen down.

  “You talk about your past very casually,” he said.

  Zawisza smiled, eyes still on the ceiling.

  “Only because I survived it,” he replied. “If I didn’t, it’d probably sound much sadder.”

  Kazou absorbed that quietly.

  "...Survived it?"

  Zawisza reached into the pocket of his discarded coat and tossed something toward him. It skidded across the rug and came to rest near Kazou’s knee: a chocolate bar, slightly melted.

  “For your trouble,” Zawisza said. “And because you look like someone who forgets to eat.”

  Kazou picked it up, turning it over once.

  “You didn’t have to,” he said.

  “I know,” Zawisza replied. “That’s why it counts.”

  They settled again into quiet. The rain outside softened, fading into a mist that brushed the window rather than striking it.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “That’s how you know you were.”

  Kazou shook his head faintly, but unwrapped it anyway. The tension in his shoulders eased as he took a small bite.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Anytime, Dr. Kazou Kuroda.”

  They sat in companionable quiet. The lamp between them cast a warm, uneven glow, softening the edges of the room. For the first time since fleeing the apartment, Kazou felt something in his chest loosen—not relief exactly, but permission to breathe.

  After a while, Zawisza spoke, almost lazily.

  “Hey, Kuroda.”

  Kazou looked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think is the hardest expression for someone to keep? Not the loud ones. The subtle ones.”

  Kazou frowned slightly.

  “That’s an odd question.”

  “I specialize in those.”

  "Mmm... Kazou considered it. “...Grief,” he said at last. “People underestimate how heavy it is.”

  Zawisza smiled, approving.

  “That’s a good answer,” he said. “I used to think so too.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “But I think it’s smiling,” he added quietly. “Not the polite kind. Not the one you use to survive conversations. A real one. The kind that doesn’t feel like borrowing someone else’s face.”

  Kazou watched him for a moment longer than necessary.

  “You’re wearing one,” Zawisza went on, eyes still closed. “Right now. Very small. But it’s there.”

  Kazou turned back to his papers, pretending to reread a paragraph that had already been memorized.

  “That’s not true,” he said.

  Zawisza chuckled.

  “You’re very bad at noticing yourself.”

  Kazou turned back to his papers, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

  Zawisza shifted again, stretching his arms briefly before settling them back behind his head. One hand drifted, idly, to rest against his abdomen—more habit than intention. He didn’t press. Didn’t tense. Just rested it there, fingers splayed, as though checking that everything was still where it belonged.

  Kazou noticed the movement a moment later.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, calm but attentive.

  Zawisza opened one eye, then looked down at his own hand as if surprised to find it there.

  “No,” he said, smiling. “Just… grounding myself.”

  Kazou nodded, accepting the answer, even if it didn’t fully satisfy him.

  "Where do you think they took Janssen?" Kazou asked.

  "Not far. Probably the local hospital in Amsterdam."

  "I need to see him then. And find out what he saw."

  Outside, the rain finally stopped.

  Inside, two men remained, one tracing lines across maps, the other tracing cracks in the ceiling, sharing a quiet that didn’t ask either of them to explain themselves.

  For now, that was enough.

  Outside, the rain stopped entirely.

  Inside, two men shared a quiet that asked nothing of them,

  no explanations, no confessions. Just presence.

  For now, the world had left them alone.

  And for tonight, that was enough.