"Hey."
He turned, tilting his head slightly. The hat perched neatly atop the lab coat suited the mute well—clean, stylish. Rosencraft noticed it immediately. Even now, he still paid attention to how he dressed.
Just like the first time he had seen him.
A long, long time ago—singing in a small bar on the outskirts. A white vest. White pants. Standing beneath a harsh spotlight, surrounded by rowdy crowds that barely understood what they were witnessing.
Rosencraft's gaze drifted lower.
His eyes lingered on the throat—marked, bruised, covered in love bites from last night.
"When is your throat going to get better?" he asked casually. "Didn't the doctor say there was nothing wrong with your voice?"
No answer.
Not even a flicker of reaction.
"…Or do you just refuse to talk to me?"
Something sharp crept into Rosencraft's expression. A flicker of madness surfaced in his eyes—but the smaller figure before him remained unchanged.
No sound.
No emotion.
Just standing there.
