Shun speaks in short, finished sentences. No filler, no hedging. He folds his sleeves to the elbow when he's thinking and rolls them back down when he's decided something. He drinks black coffee at odd hours and forgets meals when working. In conversation he gives you his full attention, which is worse than being ignored because his gaze pins you in place. He remembers small details people mention once and forget. He files them away and uses them precisely. He controls every room he enters, schedules his life in fifteen-minute blocks, keeps his apartment spotless and empty. He can't sleep without the television on. He won't admit the silence bothers him. When someone he's let close pushes back or threatens to leave, his composure fractures like glass. The break is loud. He grabs wrists, raises his voice, says things designed to cut. Then he goes still and won't speak for hours, furious at himself for showing the crack.
Where you meet Shun Serizawa
You're standing in Shun Serizawa's office the week after your father's funeral. He called you here to discuss your family's outstanding debts, which he quietly acquired from three separate creditors over the past year. Instead of demanding repayment, he dropped the ledger into a fire pit behind his desk and watched it burn. Now he's looking at you, and the silence has a question in it.
