The apartment is too quiet in a way that doesnât feel like peace. It feels like leftover noise that never fully left. Suguru Geto sits at the edge of his couch with a case file open across his lap. Paper spread in uneven layers across the coffee table. Kamo financial logs. Identity cross-references. The same damn patterns again, rewritten in different formats like theyâre trying to convince him theyâre something new.
His tie is gone. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Still looks like heâs on duty.
Heâs been staring at the same fucking line for seven minutes.
A soft knock hits the door.
Geto doesnât look up. The lock clicks anyway.
ââŠOf course,â he mutters.
The door opens without hesitation. âWow,â Gojo says, stepping inside like the apartment is an extension of his own space. âYou really do live like a depressed accountant. I was expecting at least one plant. Maybe a fucking personality.â
Geto exhales through his nose.
Gojo walks further in anyway, glancing at the scattered files. He leans over the table immediately.
Geto shifts one folder slightly out of reach.
Gojo tilts his head. âThat the case youâve been chewing on for like⊠what, weeks now? Youâre still on it?â
âItâs not a case,â Geto says flatly. âItâs a pattern.â Gojo makes a sound like heâs pretending to think about that.
âThat sounds like something someone says when they donât want to admit theyâre stuck.â
Gojo picks up a file anyway.
âDonâtââ âRelax,â Gojo cuts in, already scanning it. âIâm not one of your⊠what the hell do you call them again?â
Gojo smiles. âRight. Monkeys.â
The word lands heavier in the quiet room than it should. Gojo turns slightly, gesturing loosely at the files.
âSo which one of your monkeys is this?â he says. âThe rich one? The dead one? The imaginary one youâre emotionally attached to?â
Getoâs jaw tightens just slightly.
âTheyâre not individuals,â he says. Controlled. Flat. âTheyâre variations.â
âUh-huh.â Gojo leans back on the couch like it belongs to him again.
âYou say that like it makes them less fucking annoying.â
âIt makes them predictable.â Gojo looks over at him.
âEverythingâs predictable to you.â
Geto doesnât answer immediately. His gaze stays on the files.
âThey repeat themselves,â he says finally. âSame structure. Different faces. Same outcome.â
âThat sounds exhausting.â
A pause. Then Gojo leans forward slightly.
âBut you like it.â Getoâs eyes narrow just a fraction.
âI don't.â Gojo smiles wider.
âYou do. Thatâs why you keep going.â Silence settles again. The kind that isnât peaceful.
Just unresolved. Gojo leans back again, then glances at him.
âYouâre still on her?â he asks casually.
âIâm not âonâ anyone.â Gojo looks up slowly.
âThatâs what all the obsessed people say.â Geto doesnât respond.
Gojo leans back on the couch like it belongs to him.
âSo what is she this time? Criminal mastermind? Ghost? Your emotional support conspiracy theory?â
âSheâs inconsistent.âGojo nods immediately.
âAh. Women.â Then, a beat. âProof of structure.â
Gojo stares at him for a second. ââŠThatâs the most depressing sentence Iâve heard in my life and Iâve met monks.â Gojo reaches into his deep coat pocket, pulls out a plastic box from a high-end bakery, and aggressively pops the plastic safety tab right next to Getoâs left ear.
CRACK. Geto slams his pen flat onto the table, his forehead vein visibly throbbing. âSatoru. I am actively map-matching a localized security breach inside a closed corporate node, and you are bringing structural garbage noise into my apartment.â
âRelax, Suguru, itâs a strawberry tart. Look, it has a little glaze on it. Shiny.â Gojo forcefully shoves a massive, entirely oversized bite into his mouth, talking with zero consideration for manners. âYour brain is running on pure, unfiltered edge. Itâs actually tragic to watch. Here, see?â
Gojo balances a single glazed strawberry on the tip of his plastic fork, hovering it dangerously close to the Kamo clan registry documents. âI listened to your interrogation audio from Room 3 this morning. Honestly? Magnificent. Absolute peak cinema. The part where she looked right at you with those wide, harmless eyes and went, âWhat exactly are you trying to say, Detective?â Oh man. I almost clapped. She completely dismantled your whole big-brain cynical investigator routine just by acting like a worried student who got lost looking for the damn restroom.â
Geto looks up, his eyes narrowing into cold, clinical arrogance. âShe was lying. Obviously. Her composure is an artificial narrative. Like the rest of the mindless monkeys in this city, she thinks a simple story can obscure a structural failure in the data pool.â
âOh, she was absolutely playing you like a toy, Suguru! No fucking question!â Gojo cackles, throwing his long legs right over the armrest of the couch, completely knocking Getoâs neatly folded stack of laundry onto the floor. âBut the hilarious part is that you actually sat there trying to crush her with your scary logic blocks, and she just asked you if you were blaming her for a ticketing mistake. You got entirely outmaneuvered by a girl who reads old poetry, Suguru. How does it feel to be the smartest monkey in the cage?â
âDo not project your own low-level intellectual capacity onto my fieldwork,â Geto spits back, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register entirely stripped of professional courtesy. âI concluded the interview because the interaction was a dead end. I am choosing to let her think she won the exchange so she moves her next variable into the open.â
âSure, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, Detective Broody,â Gojo says, waving his fork dismissively. A tiny drop of custard flies off the prongs and lands directly onto the Kamo family routing nodes. âThat is exactly what a guy says when his ego gets pulverized in an interrogation cell. âI meant to let her outsmart me, Satoru, itâs all part of my grand geometric plan!â You went home and stared at the wall for seven hours because you couldnât find a neat little category for her.â
Geto looks at the tiny yellow drop of custard on his paperwork, his hand slowly sliding toward the heavy metal stapler on the edge of the desk. âIf you drop one more particle of sugar onto these active files, I am going to test the structural integrity of your skull with office equipment.â
âYou can try, but my reflexes are powered by glucose and pure genius. Youâre way too slow when youâre brooding,â Gojo brags, intentionally picking up the top document with his cream-stained fingers. âLetâs see what youâve got here. Ooh, arrows. Red ink. Wow, you really look like a crazy person who lives in a basement, Suguru. Your bangs are getting too heavy. Theyâre blocking the sunlight from reaching your critical thinking centers. Let me cut them. I found a pair of rusty wire-cutters in my trunk.â
âTouch a single strand of my hair,â Geto whispers, his voice vibrating with absolute, lethal malice, âand the local authorities will be dragging your dead ass out of the district harbor by sunrise. Keep your filthy hands off my evidence.â
Gojo just bursts into a loud, incredibly obnoxious, delighted cackle, completely unfazed by the threat, and casually licks the remaining cream off his thumb.
Silence lands again, but lighter this time â like Gojo refuses to let it turn into something heavy.
He shifts, stretches, and pushes himself off the couch like heâs weighing something.
Gojo grabs one last file from the table.
Geto notices immediately. âPut that back.â
Gojo freezes. Looks down at it.
ââŠIs this the girl?â
âYes.â Gojo squints at it.
âShe looks like sheâd gaslight a government agency for fun.â
âThatâs notââ Gojo already hands it back.
âI like her.â Geto pauses.
ââŠYou what.â Gojo grins. âI said I like her. She sounds annoying. Thatâs usually your type anyway.â
Getoâs expression tightens slightly.
âThatâs not my type.â Gojo shrugs.
âSure.â Instead of turning to leave, Gojo drops the file back onto the table, turns around completely, and plops himself flat onto his back right across the center of Getoâs small kitchen table, knocking over a box of tea packets.
Geto rubs his temples. âSatoru. What the fuck are you doing. Get off the furniture.â
âIâm staying,â Gojo says, staring directly at the ceiling fan with his hands behind his head. âIâve decided your apartment is my new field office. The energy here is incredibly depressing, which makes my bright presence feel even more miraculous. Plus, youâre definitely going to lose your mind if you keep staring at these numbers alone, and Iâm a great partner. Ask anyone.â
âI asked the captain,â Geto says, his voice flat. âHe called you a logistical nightmare.â
âThe captain is a monkey who doesnât appreciate visionaries,â Gojo scoffs, sliding his foot to tap the edge of Getoâs desk chair. âCome on, Suguru. Letâs talk more about Miss Poetry. If she didnât do it alone, whoâs the network? Give me a guess. Don't worry about the logic, just throw a name out. Iâll go poke them with a stick.â
Geto sighs, a long, heavy sound of pure administrative defeat, realizing Gojo isn't leaving anytime soon. He picks up his pen again, trying to ignore the grown man lying on his kitchen table.
âYou know whatâs funny?â Gojo adds, tilting his head slightly to look at him. âYou act like youâre analyzing her, but youâre really just trying to prove she fits somewhere inside your little system.â
Geto doesnât answer. Gojo continues, lighter now, almost amused.
âAnd the more she doesnât fit, the more you stare at it like itâs going to change shape if you look long enough.â Silence. Gojo balances a leftover strawberry on his chin.
âBad news, by the way. Thatâs not how people work.â Geto finally speaks, flat. âPeople like her donât operate alone.â Gojo tilts his head, the strawberry rolling onto his shirt.
âAnd people like you always assume no one ever operates alone.â That lands sharper than intended.
Gojo doesnât push it further. He just smiles faintly, staying right where he is, completely ruining the quiet geometric order of the room. He suddenly rolls over onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, looking over at Geto with a massive, shit-eating grin.
âSeriously though, Suguru,â Gojo says, his tone shifting into something aggressively casual. âYou need to get some fucking bitches.â Getoâs pen fractures. The plastic barrel snaps perfectly in half under his thumb. He doesn't look up, his voice dropping into a register that is entirely dangerous. âExcuse me?â
âIâm dead serious,â Gojo laughs, waving a dismissive hand. âLook at you. Youâre twenty-six, youâre sitting in a dark-ass apartment with no lights on, rolling up your sleeves to look at spreadsheet data of a closed corporate referral system. You have zero hobbies. You have zero game. Youâve been sulking over this one girlâs file for like a month because she wouldnât let you feel like the smartest guy in the room. Itâs pathetic. Go outside. Go talk to a girl who doesn't require a high-priority fraud warrant to sit across from you.â
âMy personal schedule is structurally optimized for operational efficiency,â Geto says through tightly gritted teeth, tossing the broken pieces of the pen into the trash can.
âYour personal schedule is optimized for dying alone with a bunch of labeled cardboard boxes, you absolute loser,â Gojo shoots back, kicking his legs back and forth like a child sitting on a counter. âLike, oh no, a girl bypassed a localized security grid without triggering an alert! Letâs throw our whole twenties in the garbage and brood about it until our bangs touch our chin! If you put half the energy into finding a date that you put into complaining about monkeys, you wouldn't be living like a divorced monk.â
Geto slowly rises from his chair, his tall frame cutting a sharp, lethal shadow against the kitchen wall. âSatoru. If you don't remove your body from my table in the next three seconds, I will make sure the next case file this division opens belongs to you.â
Gojo just grins wider, completely unbothered, staying right where he is, completely ruining the quiet geometric order of the room. Gojo rolls smoothly off the table, dropping onto his feet with effortless stability, completely unbothered. He slides directly into Getoâs peripheral vision, leaning against the edge of the desk with a sharp, mocking grin.
âYou're avoiding the core data set, Detective,â Gojo says, reaching out to methodically flick Geto's desk lamp on and off. Click. Click. Click. âYou're treating her like an equation because equations don't make you feel stupid. What happens when she doesn't follow your manual? What happens if her next move doesn't fit your little system grid? Your whole structure falls apart because you can't categorize a person who refuses to care about your rules.â
Geto's hand clamps down on the lamp base, stopping the clicking instantly. His voice is dangerously quiet. âShe isn't ignoring the rules. Sheâs mapping them. She stayed completely calm because she knew exactly where my investigation protocol would stop. Itâs a calculated positioning tactic.â
âYeah, keep telling yourself that while you're sitting alone in the dark,â Gojo laughs, tossing a stray pen in the air. âSheâs out there navigating the city without a care in the world, and youâre in here metrics-matching yourself into an early grave. Itâs a waste of a perfectly good partner, Suguru. Iâm incredibly fun at parties. You should try going to one.â
Geto doesn't move. He looks at the open folder, the layers of data remaining completely static under the harsh light. The sheer, relentless wall of Gojo's distraction is acting like a physical barrier against his train of thought. He can decipher corporate anomalies and track high-priority fugitives, but he cannot calculate a vector through pure, continuous irritation.
Slowly, Geto closes the case folder. The cardboard meets with a heavy, final snap. He grabs his leather coat from the back of the chair and shoves the file tightly into his inner pocket, locking it away.
âIâm going to the bar,â Geto says, his tone completely flat, entirely drained of professional patience.
âOh, hell yeah!â Gojo beams instantly, springing up like an overexcited golden retriever and grabbing his own jacket before Geto can even reach the door handle. âThe robot is finally touching grass! Iâm coming with you. No way in hell Iâm letting you go drink pond water alone while drafting red arrows on napkins.â
Geto stops at the threshold, his hand frozen on the deadbolt. He turns back to look at Gojo with an expression of pure, unadulterated hostility. âI am going out to clear my head, Satoru. Alone. If you follow me out into the street, I will write an official harassment complaint and file it directly under the captainâs door before sunrise.â
âFile whatever you want, Detective Broody, but you're not leaving me behind to look at your sad, empty living room,â Gojo grins, slinging a heavy arm over Getoâs shoulder with aggressive familiarity and physically guiding him out into the rain-damp hallway. âBesides, you don't even know how to order a drink that doesn't taste like charcoal. Let's go. My treatâwell, on your corporate expense account, obviously. Think of it as teamwork enrichment!â
Geto doesn't even have the energy to fight him off. He just pulls his collar up against the cold drizzle, his system entirely shattered by a menace with a sugar rush, stepping out into the neon-lit city with his worst nightmare walking right beside him.
[ STATUS: CONTINUED ANALYSIS ]
