The Quiet Between Us

"Will. Will. WILLIAM. Get your ass up!"

A shoe hit William square in the ribs.

He groaned, face buried in a blanket on the floor. "If this isn't a house fire, I'm gonna kill you."

"It is a house fire," Lucas said, already dragging him halfway off the futon. "Digital. Global. Sketchbook-shaped."

William peeled his eyes open. The bedroom was glowing blue. Lucas was already at his desk, lit by the glow of three monitors, fingers flying across the keyboard like he was disarming a bomb.

"Ryunosuke," Lucas muttered, "what the hell did you just do…"

William sat up groggily. "Did he post a new sketch or something?"

Lucas turned to him, eyes wide. "He posted EVERYTHING."

William stumbled over, rubbing his eyes, and squinted at the screen. A forum was open—one of those messy, dark-threaded sites full of whistleblower leaks and conspiracy theories. But this wasn't nonsense. This was him.

Sketches.

Photos.

Video.

Dozens of images—Ryunosuke's precise pencil strokes, labeling everything like evidence. A bathroom mirror smeared with a message. A bracelet. A scorched room. Even a grainy photo of Victor Navarro, standing beside someone who looked disturbingly like Senator Kanda.

William blinked. "Is this real?"

Lucas nodded, breath shallow. "It's Ryunosuke's handwriting. Look at the lines—he drew this. All of it."

William leaned in. "Why would he post this? Where is he?"

Before Lucas could answer, the screen stuttered. A blinking icon appeared in the corner:

POST REMOVED – PAGE NOT FOUND

The thread vanished.

All of it. Gone.

Lucas refreshed. Nothing.

"No, no, no—"

He hit back. Tried a cached link. Nothing.

"Are you serious?" William whispered. "We were watching it in real time…"

Lucas leaned back, staring at the black screen.

William's voice was low now. "Did we just watch him commit cyber-suicide… or actual suicide?"

Lucas didn't answer right away.

He opened his screenshot folder.

"I saved some," he said quietly. "Before it disappeared."

William looked over at him.

"What now?"

Lucas stared at the frozen images—the iris, the serpent, the sketch of a door no one should've seen.

"We find someone who knows what the hell this means," Lucas said. "Because Ryunosuke didn't post this to go viral…"

He clicked on one of the images.

A single line beneath the drawing of a shattered wall.

They won't tell our story. So make it yours.

"…he posted it to be remembered."

Emily was still in her pajamas when they arrived.

She opened the apartment door with a toothbrush in her mouth, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

Lucas didn't wait for an invitation—he brushed past her, laptop under one arm and urgency written all over his face.

William offered a quick, sheepish "Good morning" as he followed.

Emily stared after them, pulled the toothbrush out, and mumbled, "Okay. Sure. Come in. Use all the oxygen."

Inside, the smell of toast lingered faintly from the kitchen. Cartoons played on low volume from the living room TV. A half-finished bowl of cereal sat on the coffee table.

Lucas slammed his laptop down and opened the lid.

"I need you to see something," he said.

Emily raised a brow. "You're aware it's not even eight—?"

He pulled up the screenshots.

She saw Ryunosuke's sketches before she saw his name. At first, her mouth opened to say something—probably sarcastic—but then the words caught in her throat.

She stepped closer.

One image showed a hallway scorched and cracked.

Another—a bracelet, child-sized, broken.

A third: the phrase written on a fogged bathroom mirror.

Her face changed.

"Is this… him?"

Lucas nodded. "He posted it. All of it. Last night. We saw it live. Then it got pulled—scrubbed. Gone like it never existed."

Emily leaned over the screen, scrolling through the files. She touched one of the sketches lightly with her fingertip.

"Where is he?"

"We don't know," William said. "We think… Tokyo."

"Maybe Kyoto," Lucas added. "He's not just investigating anymore. He's—he's blowing whistles, leaving trails, starting something."

Emily sat down slowly.

She didn't speak for a long moment.

Finally, she said, "That's his linework. His style."

Lucas nodded. "It's him. No AI filter. No spoof. Just… Ryunosuke."

Emily's eyes didn't leave the screen.

"He didn't just post a message," she whispered. "He lit a fuse."

Lucas leaned back on the couch. "Yeah. And whatever he found… people are going to come looking."

William glanced toward the hallway.

"Think we should tell your aunt?"

Emily stood without answering.

Then she muttered, "She already knows."

The door to Amelia's bedroom was cracked open.

Lucas and William stood back as Emily pushed it gently wider. The living room beyond was dim, lit only by thin gray daylight filtering through the blinds. The TV was on, tuned to a news station—but the screen was static. No picture. No sound.

Amelia sat in her armchair, still in her house robe, a half-empty glass of wine in one hand.

She wasn't crying.

She wasn't moving.

She was just staring—at nothing in particular. Out the window, maybe. Or into some place farther away.

"Auntie?" Emily said, softly.

Amelia didn't respond.

Lucas stepped forward but hesitated. The tension in the air felt brittle, like one word could shatter something that had been carefully holding itself together.

Emily crossed the room and knelt beside her mother.

"Did you see it?" she asked.

Amelia blinked once. Slowly.

Then nodded.

Lucas opened his mouth, then closed it again. William gave him a look that said don't.

"We have some of it saved," Emily said. "We're trying to figure out what he was—what he meant. There's stuff about Navarro. And Senator Kanda. And—"

"I know," Amelia said. Her voice was quiet. Raw.

Emily sat back slightly. "Then say something."

Amelia's fingers tightened around the glass.

Lucas stepped forward, cautious. "We want to help him. We're not gonna let him go through this alone."

Amelia's lips parted like she might speak.

But then she just closed her eyes.

The wine glass trembled, just once.

And then stilled.

William stepped back, uneasy.

Emily reached out and gently took her mother's free hand.

But Amelia didn't squeeze back.

Didn't speak.

Didn't cry.

Just sat there, the hum of static washing through the room like distant thunder.

It wasn't resignation.

It was something deeper.

Something like waiting—for the next blow.

The kitchen felt colder than it should have.

Lucas leaned against the fridge with his arms crossed, tapping his foot. William sat at the table, chewing on a piece of toast he didn't remember making. Emily stood at the sink, staring out the window but not really looking at anything.

No one said much at first.

Then Emily broke the silence. "He told me once… that drawing helped him see patterns. Like when the world was too loud."

Lucas nodded. "Yeah, and now he's sketching crime scenes. That's not a hobby anymore. That's a war journal."

William cleared his throat. "We need to figure out what led to this. I mean, he didn't just stumble into this Navarro thing. Someone led him there."

Emily turned around, arms folded. "Lilith."

Lucas looked up. "The weird girl with the card?"

Emily nodded. "She's not just some mysterious stranger. She knew things. About Ryunosuke. About his dad. And now… she's gone, and Ryunosuke's halfway across the world exposing government secrets."

William tapped his phone. "Still no reply from him. No check-ins. No Instagram, no art blog, nothing. He's blacked himself out."

"Or someone blacked him out," Lucas said.

The three of them sat in silence for a beat.

Then Emily said, "We retrace it. Every weird moment. Every time she showed up. The gallery, the rooftop, the sketch, the card."

William leaned forward. "You really think she's the key?"

"She has to be," Emily said. "She shows up, Ryunosuke starts digging, then disappears. If anyone knows what the hell is really going on…"

Lucas finished the sentence: "It's her."

Emily grabbed her tablet and opened a shared doc.

"Let's map it all out. Everything we remember. Places. Times. What she said. What she didn't say."

William added, "And how she vanished like a ghost every single time."

Lucas glanced down the hallway, toward the living room, then back at the screen.

"Let's find the girl with the violet eyes."

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a faint amber glow through the gauzy curtains. Amelia hadn't moved in hours.

The wine glass was nearly empty now, her fingers still curled gently around the stem. A second glass—untouched—sat on the coffee table beside her. It had been poured for someone who never came.

Or maybe someone who had already arrived.

The room was still.

Then, with a subtle shift in the air, Lilith appeared.

Not through the door. Not from the hallway.

Just… there.

Standing near the far window, as if the light had folded around her and forgotten to let her go.

She wore black slacks and a gray blouse, hair down, her eyes calm and unreadable. She didn't speak right away.

Neither did Amelia.

Their eyes met.

The seconds stretched thin.

Lilith took one quiet step forward.

"I didn't come to fight," she said, voice soft.

Amelia took a long sip of wine. Then set the glass down with care.

"Too late."

Lilith remained still. "I never wanted him involved in this."

Amelia's hand trembled as she reached for the bottle and refilled her glass—just a little.

"You gave him the card."

Lilith's jaw tightened. "I gave him a choice."

Amelia stood. Not rushed. Not angry—until she was.

"You followed him. You whispered in his ear. You pulled him into something ancient and ugly, and you called it a gift." Her voice cracked. "You signed my son's death warrant."

Lilith blinked once, slowly.

"I didn't sign it. He walked into it on his own."

Amelia stepped closer, fury rising now like heat.

"You call that strength? Making a boy believe he can fight shadows bigger than history? That's not a gift. That's cruelty."

Silence.

Lilith didn't respond.

Didn't defend herself.

Didn't move when Amelia's hand struck her face—hard.

The slap echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Lilith's head turned slightly from the impact, a pale line blooming on her cheek.

She didn't flinch.

Didn't raise a hand.

Just whispered, "You're right."

Amelia's breath shook in her chest.

"I lost his father to this cruel world," she said, barely above a whisper. "I'm not losing him too."

Lilith's eyes didn't waver.

"Then listen," she said. "Because what's coming will take more than silence and grief to survive."

Amelia dropped into the armchair without a word.

Lilith remained standing, one hand gently brushing her sleeve where Amelia had struck her. She didn't touch her cheek. She didn't react. Her voice, when it came, was steady. Almost… tired.

"I'm not from here," she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Amelia didn't look at her. Just swirled the wine in her glass.

"There's another world. One layered behind yours—woven, not adjacent. And it's dying."

Amelia's eyes flicked up at that.

Lilith took a breath, sat down across from her. The lines under her eyes were more visible now, her voice stripped of its mystique.

"They don't use bombs. Or armies. The power tearing my world apart is older than empires. It's foreign—even to us. It doesn't conquer. It… harvests. Artifacts. Echoes. Energy passed between places like yours and mine."

She clasped her hands in her lap.

"Your husband found one. He didn't know what it was—not fully—but it recognized him. And Victor Navarro was watching."

Amelia's grip tightened around the glass. "Why him?"

"Because he was quiet. Because he listened. Because the artifact chose him before Navarro could."

Lilith paused.

"The artifact in Victor's hands now—it's not dormant anymore. And it doesn't belong in this world."

Amelia laughed once, bitter. "And what, Ryunosuke's supposed to fix that? He's a kid."

"No," Lilith said. "He's a mirror."

That gave Amelia pause.

Lilith continued, her voice gentler now. "Your son sees the world in patterns. Emotions. Memories others walk past. That's not just art. It's something older. Something the artifact responded to. He's not chosen, Amelia. He's compatible."

Amelia looked down at her wineglass like it had betrayed her.

Lilith leaned forward, eyes darker now.

"He's the only one left who can see the full shape of what Victor is building. If we lose him, we don't just lose him."

Amelia looked up.

"We lose both of our worlds."

Lilith stood slowly, smoothing out her blouse as if the weight of the conversation had wrinkled the fabric. She walked toward the window, pausing in the last of the late afternoon light.

"I should go."

Amelia didn't respond.

Lilith turned, her posture straight, hands at her sides.

"I didn't come to ask forgiveness," she said. "Only to promise one thing."

She took a step toward the door.

That's when Amelia moved.

Swift, practiced—like a reflex burned into muscle. She reached beneath the cushion of the armchair and pulled out a worn Makarov pistol, compact and matte black.

She raised it, both hands steady, the muzzle aimed squarely at Lilith's back.

Lilith stopped mid-stride.

Silence fell, thick and immediate.

Amelia's breath was steady. Her arms didn't shake. Her eyes locked on the woman before her, every inch of her body screaming that she wanted—needed—to protect her son.

Lilith turned slowly.

She didn't look surprised.

She didn't flinch.

She stepped forward, calm as ever, until the barrel was pressed gently against her chest, right above her heart.

"If you're going to shoot," she said softly, "make it count."

Amelia said nothing.

Lilith's voice lowered, barely audible. "Because I swear to you—on what's left of my name, on what's left of my world—I will do everything in my power to keep him alive."

Her eyes didn't flicker.

"Because he's the only one now who can stop Victor. And I will not let him die."

The silence that followed was thick with weight and heat and grief.

Then Amelia's arm slowly dropped.

The gun hung limp at her side.

She looked away, jaw clenched, throat too tight for words.

Lilith exhaled gently—not relief, just release.

She turned toward the back of the apartment, where the hallway dipped into shadow.

And without another word, she stepped into the dimness—

—and was gone.

No sound.

No light.

No parting flourish.

Just absence.

Amelia stood in the golden quiet that remained, hand still curled around the pistol, chest rising with a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Somewhere in the house, the TV changed channels.

A children's program played softly—colors flickering on mute.

And Amelia, for the first time in hours, closed her eyes.