You stopped outside Room 7. The door was worn, familiar. You'd been here before. For dinner. For late night paperwork sessions. For Kunikida's meticulously planned board game nights.

Never for this.

You knocked. Three sharp raps.

The smell hit you first. Stale air, old takeout, the faint mustiness of neglect.

The living room was a disaster.

None of it belonged in the same world as Kunikida Doppo, the man who color-coded his pens.

You moved further in.

The bedroom door was cracked open.

Through the gap, you saw him.

A lump under a blanket on the bed. Curled tight. His glasses were on the nightstand, folded neatly—some habits survived—but his hair was a mess. Dark roots tangled, pieces sticking up at odd angles. His idealized notebook sat closed on the floor, untouched.

He hadn't moved in three days.

He hadn't moved, maybe, since he came home.