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What had once been a clearly labeled research wing had been reduced to a maze of half-lit corridors, the aftermath of the raid leaving its mark in scattered debris and flickering lights of the LCE.
Sinclair had already passed through several halls that looked nearly identical—each one lined with sealed doors and broken observation windows. Each containment unit was just as empty as the last.
“…Ryōshū…?”
His voice came out quiet, barely above a whisper.
There was no response to his call, which he had expected.
The others had split off not long ago, their footsteps and voices fading into distant echoes as they combed through separate sections of the facility. It had been the logical decision at the time, but now, left to his own devices, Sinclair found himself acutely aware of just how vast and suffocating the LCE could be in its current state, no longer surrounded by the hustle and bustle of other employees contributing to the restoration efforts.
His grip tightened slightly around his weapon as he glanced around.
He wondered where Ryōshū—the one responsible for their odd search—had disappeared in the first place.
Though no one knew the exact reason for her disappearance, it wasn’t difficult to assume it may have been related to the events that had unfolded at the House of Spiders a few days ago.
She did not give any clear indication that the events had left her deeply hurt, but it was difficult for him not to notice how quiet she occasionally became, more so than usual.
Her sudden disappearance was all the reason for Dante to urge a number of Sinners to search around and see if they could find her soon–even if the repairs were the main priority at the moment.
Sinclair himself was especially worried for her…
—THUMP.
A faint sound broke through his thoughts.
Sinclair froze.
—thump.
It came again.
A dull, muted noise, like something striking against a confined surface.
His gaze shifted slowly to the side.
There, at the far end of the corridor, sat a narrow, unassuming door.
Unlike the reinforced containment units scattered throughout the wing, this one looked almost mundane—its surface slightly dented, its handle worn from use. As his eyes trailed upwards, he found a label confirming his suspicions: a storage closet.
The sound of muffled movement could be heard on the other side.
Sinclair swallowed.
His feet began to move before he could second-guess himself, each step measured as he approached the door.
Sinclair’s hand trembled over the handle of the seemingly inconspicuous room in front of him—silently weighing his options as his brain continued to rack with trepidation.
He initially considered the thought that Ryōshū might be in there, before immediately dismissing it. She… didn’t seem like the type to hide.
That only left two other options off the top of his head…
There could be a group of peccatulum that had somehow managed to cram into the dead-end—prepared to leap out the moment he opened the door. Maybe it was even an abnormality that had gone unnoticed during the chaos instead?
Did he really want to take that risk over such a pointless death? Dying such a pointless death when he could simply go find one of the other Sinners that may be nearby to assist him?
…
As he continued to stare ahead of himself aimlessly, contemplating his options, he took a shuddering, quiet breath—stealing his nerves. It was most likely not an abnormality—he determined—both due to the nature of such an area being too cramped for many of the ones contained within the LCE, and the virtue of them being mostly accounted for and still repressed within their egg forms.
That only left the conclusion that there were stray peccatulum hiding behind the door.
Sinclair swallowed as his brows furrowed, the lump in his throat disappearing as he felt himself growing more confident—even as a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
He didn’t want to be as weak and helpless as he had often found himself in the past when it came to depending on his coworkers. Just like everyone else, he had grown stronger thanks to his time as part of the LCB—and he at least felt confident enough, thanks to the level of competence he displayed with only one other Sinner at their initial visit to the LCE, that he could handle the perceived threat on his own.
…
If not… then he would at least do his best to reduce their numbers and apologize for his incompetence later–or accidentally spook an innocent employee.
…
With one last inhale—his grip on the handle tightening, as too did his resolve—Sinclair swung the door open, his body adjusting quickly as he prepared to initiate combat—
—but instead of the shape of some creature leaping at him, there was only an uncomfortably still darkness, causing Sinclair’s mind to pause.
But a shape shifted in the darkness, its movements impossibly precise, and before Sinclair could even react, a sharp, dull pressure was pressed against his chest.
His breath hitched, the feeling against his chest restrained enough not to be painful, yet the cold certainty of its presence was enough to freeze him where he stood–emphasizing just how vulnerable Sinclair had been to his “attacker.”
Yet, Sinclair was able to recognize the weapon pressed against his chest; more specifically, its handle.
And then, just as quickly as the weapon had been drawn toward him, it vanished.
The figure’s hand withdrew with such precision that it felt unnatural, her sheathed blade lowering a small bit as her gaze narrowed on him through the dark.
For a moment, she said nothing, her crimson eyes staring directly ahead, glowing faintly in the darkness, before eventually dimming.
Sinclair blinked, still frozen in place. The tension had not left his body even after he had recognized the figure before him.
It was just Ryōshū.
…With an expression that made it painfully obvious that she was not pleased to have been discovered.
“…”
Her expression did not soften. If anything, it became a little more aggravated, her brows drawing together in a manner Sinclair had long since learned to associate with a warning sign of an impending dismissal or searing remark.
Sinclair did not expect to find her here.
But judging by her expression, he couldn’t help but assume that she was going to ask him to leave, possibly latch onto the door, and slam it shut. Maybe, while also calling him some variation of 'bothersome' or 'intrusive'.
Not because he thought Ryōshū would under normal circumstances, but because the expression that was plastered onto her face was so different than anything he had seen before—that he couldn’t help but shrink back ever-so-slightly.
Instead, though, she only moved slightly in the cramped space, the movement constrained by the closet’s narrow width. One shoulder was pressed against the wall, her coat folded awkwardly beneath her like a sort of cushion.
He couldn’t help but be keenly aware of just how cramped and confined the space was—or how small and unassuming Ryōshū looked inside of it, compared to her usual self-assured and stoic stature.
Sinclair’s grip tightened briefly on the edge of the closet door.
He wasn’t sure what to say as he glanced toward her, then at the dim space behind her—or lack thereof, for that matter.
Eventually, Sinclair took a short breath before lowering his voice to a slight whisper, deciding that it was probably best not to talk about his reason for being here just yet.
“…A-Are you okay?”
Ryōshū’s stare sharpened immediately, as though she had been insulted.
“…Tch.”
Sinclair flinched slightly at the sound, though not enough to step away. He had come to know by now that not every irritated noise from her meant that he had said something wrong.
…Usually.
Her hand shifted against the sheath of her blade, tracing a finger against its material as she struggled to make eye contact.
“…G.O. S.C.” Ryōshū responded bluntly, even by her own standards.
He looked at her and the surrounding darkness, then at the space between them.
It was only at that moment that he noticed how still she had been, how her shoulders had remained locked in place, how she had not made any move to stand up or exit, even after realizing it was him.
As if the flow of time was frozen for her, as she basked within the closet’s darkness.
Alone.
Sinclair hesitated.
Perhaps… the sensible thing would have been to close the door, apologize, and walk away. That seemed to be what she was asking—and therefore, what he should have done.
…But the sight of her there—curled into a cramped little space as though the walls themselves were somehow preferable to the rest of the world—caused his heart to tighten.
Ryōshū was someone important to him.
But Sinclair also knew that—perhaps—it was due to the feelings of guilt that he held at how the most recent events that involved the company and Ryōshū had unfolded, with him being unable to be there for her when she needed him—or when she had gone still in a way that had made it obvious to everyone that those events were not so easily forgotten.
He had survived that with her, yet found himself absent in the ways that mattered most to him.
So when she asked him to leave, he couldn’t accept it so easily.
“…Can I stay?”
The question was quiet, carrying the awkward sincerity Sinclair always possessed whenever he was unsure of whether he was overstepping. He said it without trying to move closer to her, afraid that if he pushed the matter too far, she would shut down entirely.
Ryōshū did not answer immediately, continuing to stare at him with no discernible emotion.
As she remained silent, Sinclair felt absurdly aware of how he was halfway out of the closet, awkwardly sticking out, the light spilling in through the open door, somewhat obstructed by his presence. The narrow space before him would make it impossible for either of them to maintain much distance without leaving the other half crammed against the opposite wall.
And Ryōshū—
Ryōshū still had not smoked.
It was something he had only just noticed, after the shock had worn off.
Usually, there was at least the faint trace of ash on her breath or the ember of a cigarette between her fingers. Yet, there was not the scent of soot in the room, nor the smoke that curled lazily around her shoulders.
Just the faint, still air of the closet and the quiet weight of her silence.
Her gaze shifted, just slightly, as if she were weighing her options before him.
Then, to Sinclair’s surprise, she spoke.
“…P.S.”
He blinked, before nodding quickly–worried that she might’ve changed her mind if he hesitated a moment longer.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the door, then back to him.
“…C.T.D.”
He swallowed, then reached back and carefully pulled the closet door shut.
The moment it clicked into place, the little bit of light from the research room vanished, leaving the two of them in a dim, enclosed darkness broken only by the faint strip of light beneath the door. Even that barely reached where they stood. The closeness of the space became more pronounced all at once, making Sinclair painfully aware of his own breathing and the fact that Ryōshū was now only a short distance away from him.
He shifted awkwardly, unsure what to do with his hands, with his posture, with his entire body. His shoulder brushed the wall first, then his hands on the edge of her coat. He winced at the contact, though she did not react. After a moment, he settled into stillness near her, the two of them occupying opposite sides of the closet as best they could.
It was cramped enough that their legs rested close together. Close enough that if either of them moved just a little, their limbs could touch, and possibly get entangled.
Sinclair stared ahead at nothing, avoiding eye contact as best as he could.
He could hear the soft movement of Ryōshū’s breathing in front of him. There was nothing especially strained in it, and yet the entire situation carried the faint pressure of something painful that Sinclair found hard to describe.
He wondered, briefly, if he should even say anything.
Ask whether the room had been bothering her. Ask why she had been hiding here in the first place. Ask whether there was anything he could do to help her…
But each question felt like it might break whatever fragile quiet had settled between them.
So he said nothing.
And Ryōshū—though he wasn’t surprised—said nothing either, allowing the silence to continue weaving its thin web around them.
Sinclair became vaguely aware of the warmth of her leg near his arm. She remained motionless at first, as if waiting for him to try to move it away. When he did not, she exhaled softly through her nose.
He glanced toward her, indecisive.
The answer came only a moment later, low and blunt.
“Too small.”
He nodded, not entirely certain whether that was a complaint about the closet or an observation about him occupying the space that was previously hers alone.
“…Sorry.”
Ryōshū clicked her tongue.
“…N.P.”
He nodded again.
Still aware of the way she refused to feed into her vice.
The absence of it lingered in his mind, in this small, hidden place where she had chosen not to indulge in her habits.
Or perhaps she simply couldn’t.
His chest tightened faintly.
After a while, Ryōshū shifted. It was only a slight movement at first, a small adjustment of her shoulders against the wall, but it made enough space for Sinclair to notice that she had turned her head a little in his direction.
“…S.O.S.”
He blinked.
Sinclair stared at her in the near-darkness.
There was no room to sit beside her properly. Not in any comfortable sense. The floor was cold, and the closet was too narrow for both of them to move much once one of them got too close. He continued to look around, as though inspecting the cramped space might somehow produce a more obvious solution than the one he initially jumped to.
Ryōshū watched him with a blank expression that somehow felt more impatient than any open irritation would have.
Sinclair swallowed, finally electing to point to the spot he first settled on.
“…There?”
“…R.”
There was the faintest hint of softness in the answer, though not enough for him to truly tell.
He understood.
Which caused Sinclair’s face to grow warmer.
His eyes trailed between his surroundings and the person sitting before him, before carefully beginning the awkward process of crawling towards the narrow space beside her.
It was not graceful.
His knee bumped the side of the closet, an elbow brushed against the wall, and he held his breath each time he accidentally entangled himself with her. When he finally settled down, the cramped interior forced him close enough that one of his shoulders rested lightly against hers.
Ryōshū did not stop him.
After a moment, he allowed himself to settle more fully, the side of his body pressed against hers out of necessity rather than intention.
Sinclair drew in a slow breath and let it out again, staring ahead into the dark. The cramped space felt strangely protective, the world reduced to the small press of air between them and the quiet that surrounded it all.
Time had remained frozen outside—save for their small world.
Beside him, Ryōshū leaned back against the wall before leaning a little toward him.
Sinclair went still again, his entire body tensing up out of instinct, though not from fear. The contact was so slight that he initially thought he had imagined it. But, as she continued to ease into him, he could feel the faint weight of her shoulder.
He didn’t dare move.
She remained just as still.
The closet remained dark as it enveloped them, the muffled sounds of the outside fading into a low, distant hum.
The blonde’s eyes did not risk looking beside him—instead settling against the opposing wall, as he continued to stare.
Eventually, he grew used to the faint pressure of her shoulder against his.
Until he was startled by a sudden movement.
Ryōshū shifted.
Sinclair startled, his breath catching in his throat at the unexpected motion, her weight settling against his far more firmly than before. It wasn’t forceful, nor controlled in its motion, such as a subtle attempt to make an affectionate motion against another. It was… clumsy, the way her body seemed to fall onto his, as though she did not have the energy to carefully settle onto his body.
Her shoulder pressed into his chest, her face curling into his neck as her posture collapsed inwards as if the limited space within the closet was far too big for her.
As though she needed to be smaller.
Before Sinclair could fully process her actions, her shirt brushed against his skin faintly—her head desperately pressing against his skin, attempting to bury itself as deeply as she could within his body, no matter how impossible such an action could be.
Her presence folded into his in a way that caused his thoughts to stumble—yet, it was not due to the proximity, which would probably have flustered him under most circumstances.
It was instead the way that she seemed so small—her movement unsteady in a way that didn’t belong to her.
His body remained stiff, hovering uselessly at his side as he continued to stare helplessly at Ryōshū—her body remaining limp in a way that seemed so lifeless that he would have mistaken it for her corpse, were it not for the occasional twitch of her body.
She continued to remain there, pressed desperately against his chest.
Her grip against the hem of his clothing was faint, anchoring herself to him, even as her posture continued to unravel before him.
Sinclair swallowed as he opened his lips, testing her name on his lips.
“...R-Ryōshū?”
She did not respond.
Only the weak shift of her breathing–now closer than before, and uneven in a way that he could barely perceive, but was impossible to ignore once noticed.
The realization had come slowly, his chest tightening as it did.
Carefully–hesistantly–Sinclair’s limbs began to move once more. At first, it was just his hand, lifting slightly as though to test whether the motion itself would cause her to recoil.
But Ryōshū did not push him away.
So, slowly, treasuring something far too precious and fragile, he let his arm settle around her. It gently wrapped around her body, being careful not to pull her too roughly against himself.
There was no resistance, as her body seemed to lean in just a bit more.
His other hand followed after a moment, more certain than before as it wrapped around her in a careful hold, being careful not to make his motions feel entrapping. His chin dipped slightly as his breath quieted, staring into the darkness ahead, more aware of the weight against him and the way that they had settled into this small, suffocating space.
“...It’s okay,” he murmured softly, barely above a whisper. “I’m here,” he uttered quietly, as a hand began to stroke her hair reverently.
She didn’t tell him to stop.
By the time that they had opened the closet door again, the facility had seemed to return to its usual order.
The distant sounds of the repairs had returned, accompanied by the occasional echo of voices that drifted down the corridors.
Sinclair had stepped out first, nervously glancing around. His movements were slow, both conscious of the possible presence of others, but also still aware of the confined space behind him and what it had led to.
He turned slightly, giving Ryōshū enough space to follow without obstructing her. She had stepped out without a word, her posture returning to its usual composed and self-assured gaite.
If it were not for the creases in her clothing where she had been pressed against him or the absence of smoke that usually lingered around her, he might’ve mistaken everything that had happened as part of his imagination.
“...There you are!”
The voice, boisterous and loud, rang out before either of them could move further.
Sinclair flinched at the sound, noticing the familiar figure approaching them, her boots clacking on the floor.
Immediately, he pulled the hems of his goat over his chest.
“I mean, disappearing in the middle of clean up, Shū?” Rodion sighed dramatically, though the glint in her eyes failed to portray any kind of real annoyance. “You really had everyone running around looking for you.”
Sinclair immediately stiffened at the sight of his coworker, his shifting only exacerbated by the way her gaze flickered between him and Ryōshū.
“...Mm.”
The sound escaped her lips, though she did not offer Rodion a real response–only causing her gaze to shift back to Sinclair, much to his embarrassment.
Her smile widened just slightly, as though a devious thought had entered her mind. “Well,” she continued, tone filled with amusement. “I guess you did find her. Nice job, kiddo.”
Sinclair opened his mouth at her playful comment, struggling to form words in response.
“I just–”
“Hmm~....”
She hummed far too knowingly as her eyes flickered towards Ryōshū, lingered for longer than he would have expected, before she turned away with a light shrug.
“No need to explain,” she added casually. “Though I guess I should tell Dante that Ryōshū isn’t missing anymore.”
Sinclair let out a soft sigh, relief washing over his body as Rodion seemed to drop the topic.
Ryōshū exhaled quietly through her nose. “N.C.”
The blonde felt his cheeks tinge for a moment at Ryōshū’s reply, unsure if he should vocalize the comment and its implication.
Rodion, however, laughed regardless and already walked ahead as she called over her shoulder. “Come on, try not to disappear without any warning, alright?”
“...Some of us might get the wrong idea~.”
His cheeks, once tinged, had now fully blossomed in bright red, attempting to stutter out a reply as their coworker giggled ahead of them.
Sinclair's gaze immediately darted towards Ryōshū, as though he was nervous about whether she would have been comfortable with such a comment after the state he had found her in.
His eyes had made contact with hers, realizing that she had been staring at him before he had turned towards her.
Then, without a word, she began to follow in Rodion’s direction, as though nothing had happened.
Yet, as Sinclair stumbled to follow right behind her…
He thought he could feel the faintest brush of her gloved hand against his.