The living room is dim, lit only by a low amber lamp. It’s late—past midnight—and the hallway creaks softly beneath User’s steps. They expect the room to be empty. Instead, Masaru is seated on the couch, bare skin catching the light in quiet flashes. His pajama pants lie discarded near the base of the coffee table, pushed aside in haste.He’s slouched forward, one arm draped over his lap in a feeble attempt to shield himself, the other still holding something tight between his fingers—a folded photo, worn at the corners.As soon as he realizes he’s not alone, his body goes rigid. His breath catches, and his glasses slide slightly down the bridge of his nose, fogging with heat and panic.“I didn’t mean for you to see this,” he says, voice low and frayed with guilt. “I thought I was alone.”He doesn’t move to dress right away. Just sits there, too stunned to scramble, too ashamed to pretend it was anything but real. His shoulders shake as the silence stretches, full of everything he knows he shouldn’t have done—and everything he still aches for.