At midnight, everything seems quiet. Hank is trying to sleep… trying. There is a single, repetitive, really subtle sound that could be considered completely inaudible. It's nothing but slight taps against the wall, but it's disturbing Hank's sleep.
He sits up, his eyes narrowing as he tries to locate the source of the noise. With a quiet growl, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabs his knife, and creeps through the dim hideout toward the sound.
Following the noise, Hank eventually arrives at the small, cluttered corner where Loid has set up his workspace. Loid, entirely oblivious to Hank's frustration, is trying to sleep while tapping the wall with his fingers. He's looking to the ceiling fixedly.
Hank stands there for a moment, glaring at the kid lying on his makeshift bed, tapping away as if lost in some distant thought. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Kid, do you have any idea what time it is?"
Loid glances over at Hank, his face blank and unbothered. "Yeah… midnight. Why?"
Hank's eye twitches. "Because you're making that damn tapping noise. I was two seconds away from coming over here to silence you myself."
Loid blinks, seemingly surprised. "Oh, I didn't realize it was bothering you." He shrugs, putting his hand down. "Just… habit, I guess."
"Habit?" Hank raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "You got a habit of keeping people awake, or are you just trying to mess with me?"
Loid looks back at the ceiling, avoiding Hank's gaze. "Nah. It's just… it's kinda comforting to do this."
Hank studies Loid for a moment, his irritation simmering down slightly as he notices the kid's faraway look.
"Comforting, huh?" Hank mutters, his tone a mix of curiosity and impatience. "You mind explaining how tapping on the wall helps?"
Loid sighs, rolling onto his side and facing Hank. "It's… hard to explain. But doing some standardized actions makes me calm down and relax. Tapping the wall, counting the prime numbers, singing… this kind of stuff."
Hank rubbed the bridge of his nose, his frustration beginning to dissipate as he listened to Loid's explanation. "Counting prime numbers? Seriously? Sounds like a lot of work for some peace and quiet."
Loid nodded. "It helps me focus. If I don't have something to occupy my mind, it just starts racing. The tapping is rhythmic. It's a distraction, but it's also… grounding."
Hank sat on the edge of Loid's makeshift bed, curiosity piqued despite himself. "Grounding, huh? Didn't think you were the type to need that kind of thing."
Loid sighs. "Everyone needs, Hank. From what I've noticed, you kill because you lost all your humanity and actually enjoy it, so it keeps your head on; Deimos smokes, so that's self-explanatory. He needs a distraction from this reality; I didn't see enough of Sanford to be sure, but I'd say he likes to show off and pose because of that pout of his."
Hank raised an eyebrow, taken aback by Loid's unexpected insight. "You've been observing me that closely, huh? Didn't think you had it in you."
Loid shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the ceiling. "It's just what I do…" He looks back at Hank. "Do you even consider Deimos and Sanford as friends? Actually, do you have any friends at all?"
Hank frowned, taken aback by the abruptness of Loid's question. He opened his mouth to respond but paused, unsure of how to articulate his thoughts. "Friends?" He echoed, his voice low and gravelly. "I've got associates. People I work with. But friends? That's a bit of a stretch."
Loid looks at him and nods. "Got it…" He looks back at the ceiling. "You're miserable."
Hank's eyes narrow as he stares at Loid, the kid's blunt words hitting a nerve he didn't know he had. He's used to the constant grind, the violence, the killing—it's all he's ever known. But having some kid, barely out of his teens, call him miserable ? It stings in a way he's not ready to admit.
"I'm what ?" Hank's voice drops, low and dangerous, but Loid doesn't flinch.
"Miserable." Loid repeats, his tone calm and unwavering, as if stating a simple fact. "You fit three of the five definitions of miserable: Provokes contempt and indignation for killing people; Characterized by cruelty or evil for enjoying it; And worthy of pity for only having that as entertainment."
Hank's jaw tightens, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his knife. There's an itch in his gut telling him to snap back, to defend himself, but Loid's words sink in deeper than he wants to admit.
"Worthy of pity, huh?" Hank's voice is cold, but his gaze has softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something akin to introspection beneath his scowl. "Funny, coming from a kid who finds comfort in counting primes and tapping walls to keep himself together."
Loid shifts uncomfortably under Hank's gaze, but there's no sign of fear or hesitation in his demeanor. "I guess we all have our own ways of coping with the mess we make of ourselves." Loid replies, his voice almost too casual. "I'm not the one causing death and chaos, though."
Hank's grip on the knife tightens slightly, but his eyes flicker with something more complicated than anger. He leans back, pressing his palms to his knees as he considers Loid's words. The silence between them stretches, thick with unspoken tension.
"I didn't ask for a therapist, kid." Hank mutters, his voice rough, more to himself than to Loid. He watches as Loid stares at the ceiling, clearly lost in thought again, his fingers twitching slightly as if itching to resume the tapping.
Loid's fingers hover just above the wall, his mind clearly torn between the urge to tap and the realization that he's still under Hank's watchful eye. The silence stretches on, neither of them willing to break it first. Loid finally sighs, his fingers lowering.
"You're right about one thing. You didn't ask for a therapist. And I didn't ask to be… well, here. With you." He glances at Hank, his gaze steady but unafraid. "Actually, it was you who dragged me here, so it's only fair if you endure my words."
Hank shifts uncomfortably on the edge of Loid's makeshift bed, grappling with the truth in the kid's words. The silence hangs heavy between them, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the hideout settling.
"Fine, you want to psychoanalyze me?" Hank growls. "Go ahead. What's next? You gonna tell me how I should feel about the crap I've done?" He forces a laugh, but it sounds hollow even to him.
Loid turns to face Hank, his expression serious. "You know, I'm not the type to say what you should feel." His voice remains calm, cutting through the tension. "I just don't care enough to say so. But at least understand yourself. You're facing all your shits alone, and that makes you even more miserable."
Hank scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Alone? I'm not alone. I've got Deimos and Sanford. They're… well, they're something." He waves a hand dismissively, but the slightest crack in his armor is evident.
"Associates, not friends." Loid corrects gently. "You say you're not miserable, yet here you are, sitting with a kid you barely know, talking about your feelings at midnight." He raises an eyebrow, challenging Hank's facade.
The older man stiffens at the implication but can't deny the truth behind it. A strange sensation grips his chest, something he hasn't felt in years. "You think you know me, kid? You don't know a damn thing." His voice is low, almost a growl, but there's an edge of uncertainty in it.
"Agreed. I don't know shit about you, but I know about people's behavior." Loid replies, undeterred. "I see the way you handle yourself. The way you fight. You're good at it, but it drains your humanity. And you know what comes with humanity? Feelings. And you know what a feeling is? Happiness." He pauses, gauging Hank's reaction. "The momentary pleasure you feel killing people is far away from being happy."
Hank's expression darkens, a storm brewing behind his eyes. "Happiness? You think I care about that?" He lets out a humorless chuckle, a harsh bark that echoes in the dimly lit room. "You think I can just turn off everything I've done and pretend it doesn't weigh on me? That I can waltz into a happy ending after all this?"
"Hank, it's a matter of logic. There are six common feelings in several cultures: happiness, sadness, fear, anger, disgust and surprise. Only one of them is necessarily good, happiness. Without happiness, there are only bad feelings left, and a life with only bad feelings is basically depression." He looks straight to Hank. "In other words, you're a depressive, miserable psycho."
Hank stares at Loid for a second before punching Loid in his face. Loid falls back from the punch. He looks at Hank with the same calm expression, not a sign of anger on his face.
He just takes the hem of his shirt and cleans the blood from his face. "... you could just have said 'stop' and I would have stopped, although I'm just stating the truth, not judging you…" He sighs. "Anyways, I hope this has brought you some pleasure."
He lays on the makeshift bed and covers himself. "Goodnight, Mr. Hank. I'll try to stop tapping the wall. Sorry for annoying you earlier."
Hank stands there for a moment, his fist still clenched, the adrenaline from the punch slowly wearing off. His gaze remains locked on Loid, the kid lying there with that infuriating calmness. He didn't expect Loid to take the punch like that, he didn't expect anything at all, really.
He feels a mixture of anger, confusion, and... something else. Something he can't quite place. "... You asshole." And he leaves the place.
Hank walks away, his steps heavy and filled with frustration. His mind races, the sharp sting of Loid's words still echoing in his ears. He grips his knife a little tighter, needing something to focus on, something to ground him. But the more he tries to push the conversation from his mind, the more it nags at him.
He rounds the corner, heading for his own room, but he stops short as a thought surfaces. "A depressive, miserable psycho..." Loid's words stick to him like a brand, and for a moment, Hank just stands there in the dark, breathing in the silence.
The anger is still there, simmering under the surface, but it's mixed with a deeper, unfamiliar discomfort. Hank isn't used to feeling exposed, vulnerable. He's always been the one on top, the one in control. But tonight... Loid, that kid, somehow got under his skin. He doesn't want to admit it, but the truth lingers: maybe Loid's right. Maybe he's been running from himself for too long, burying all the parts of him that still crave something more.
Hank grips the doorframe, his knuckles white, his breathing uneven. He could go back and punch Loid again, make him regret those words, but... would it even help? Or would it just make him feel worse?
With a quiet curse, Hank takes a step back. His mind is a storm, and he can't calm it. Not now. Not yet.
But one thing is certain: the next time he looks at Loid, things won't be the same. They can't be.
He turns away, the weight of the night pressing down on him as he retreats into his room. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the silence to settle once more.
But even as Hank lies down, trying to ignore the restless thoughts swirling in his head, he knows the truth. He's not the same as he was before. And whatever happens next, things are going to change.
In the stillness, Loid's words continue to haunt him. "You're miserable."
Hank clenches his fists again, but this time, there's no punch coming. Just a bitter, tired sigh as he tries to force sleep to come.
[TO BE CONTINUED]