The apartment came with conditions disguised as conveniences.
The agency representative walked Lune through the space with practiced enthusiasm—security features highlighted first, then proximity to studios, then the benefits of privacy. It was a mid-level high-rise, modern without personality, its clean lines designed to offend no one and intrigue even fewer.
"Controlled access," the representative said, tapping the keypad by the door. "Cameras in all common areas. Quiet neighbors. You'll be left alone."
Left alone was the phrase that mattered.
Lune nodded appreciatively, expression calibrated to suggest gratitude rather than relief. Inside, he was already mapping the space. Sightlines from the windows. Sound travel between rooms. The way the building absorbed noise rather than echoing it.
Silence here was intentional.
The representative handed him the keys and left with a reminder about discretion. Lune closed the door behind her and stood still, listening to the apartment settle. No hum from neighboring televisions. No footsteps above him. Only the faint sound of traffic far below, softened by height and glass.
He moved slowly from room to room.
The bedroom was minimal—neutral tones, blackout curtains. The living area offered space without invitation. The kitchen was stocked just enough to imply care without commitment. Everything about the apartment suggested management rather than comfort.
Lune liked it immediately.
He unpacked with precision, placing items where they would be easiest to retrieve, not where they felt natural. He tested the locks twice. He opened and closed the windows to measure sound intrusion. He turned off the lights and stood in the dark, letting his eyes adjust.
The silence held.
This was different from the silence of childhood, which had been enforced through rules and observation. This silence was curated—provided as a service, designed to protect the asset he represented.
Lune sat on the couch and considered that phrasing.
Asset.
The word did not bother him. Assets were maintained. Protected. Given space to function optimally. He had no desire for warmth or personalization. Control mattered more.
He spent the evening doing nothing visible. No television. No music. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, letting the managed quiet settle around him. The absence of interruption allowed his thoughts to move cleanly, without friction.
Silence, he realized, could be engineered.
And engineered silence was far more reliable than accidental quiet.
As night deepened, Lune felt something align inside him—not emotion, not satisfaction, but equilibrium. The apartment did not ask anything of him. It did not challenge his mask or require performance.
It simply contained him.
Before sleep, he sent a brief message to his agent thanking her for the arrangement. Polite. Appreciative. Unrevealing.
Then he turned off the light.
In the darkness, the silence felt complete, managed, obedient.
And Lune understood that as long as the world continued to provide him spaces like this—spaces designed to protect the image he presented—nothing beneath it would ever be disturbed.