Chishiya feels nothing.
He always says it with pride—subtle, measured, like a scientist observing his own detachment from the world. No trembling hands. No fluttering heart. No pangs of guilt or glimmers of hope. Emotion is noise, and Chishiya was born with a built-in silencer.
It makes him dangerous. Precise. Efficient.
It also makes him hollow.
⸻
Niragi feels everything.
He bleeds rage, drowns in want, drowns others in it too. Every grin is a mask of broken glass—cutting, dazzling, dangerous. His veins are flooded with things he can't name: hunger, grief, obsession, shame, craving, loneliness, more hunger.
And he hates it.
So he copies Chishiya. Or tries to.
Smirks like razors. Detached voice. Cruel jokes and slow, dead eyes. He practices not reacting. He teaches himself to not care—to fuck like it means nothing, kill like it means less, and talk to Chishiya like he doesn't want to tear his chest open just to see if there's a heart in there.
But it's a lie. All of it.
Niragi wants to scream most days, and Chishiya never flinches. That makes him want to scream louder.
