Sunlight streamed in through the slats of the window blinds, drawing soft lines across the wooden floor and casting a warm glow over the quiet room. The late afternoon light caught in the dust motes drifting lazily in the air, and for a few long seconds, Sam didn't move.
The ceiling was familiar, but for a moment, he couldn't place it. His eyes tracked a faint water stain in the corner and the hairline crack that split one of the panels.
His brain felt like it was booting through fog.
Then it clicked.
Home.
The realization sank in slowly, accompanied by the dull, deep ache in his ribs and the heaviness weighing down his limbs. He hadn't dreamed it. The pain, the blood, the violence—it was real. All of it.
His body was swaddled in bandages—tight, fresh, and clean. He remained naked beneath the blanket, skin tacky with dried sweat. Beside the bed, a folded pair of gray sweatpants sat neatly next to a shallow basin of murky water and a damp towel, folded squarely. Someone had been tending to him.
The air was thick with antiseptic and the faint earthy scent of herbal salve. But underneath it all, carried gently on the stillness, was the unmistakable smell of miso soup—soft, savory, almost nostalgic.
He turned his head, slowly. The room had been cleaned. Surfaces wiped. Clutter moved. Even the window had been cracked open just enough to stir the air, the breeze too gentle to feel but enough to carry life back in.
And gods, he felt like shit.
Worse than last night, even.
His entire body throbbed now—deep, pulsing aches layered with sharp stabs of pain that flared up whenever he shifted even slightly. The adrenaline was gone. So was the numbness. And whatever strange surge of stability had kept him upright while dealing with the system's floating words and chaotic nonsense? Gone too.
He grimaced faintly, lips dry, head pounding.
Figures. The system—whatever the hell it really was—had probably pumped him full of some temporary boost just long enough to get through whatever it wanted from him. Just enough resilience to keep him conscious. Long enough to grab his attention and hand out rewards.
Get the ritual done, then let the pain catch up.
From the next room came the soft shuffle of feet. A faint clink. The sound of something being set down, something wooden or ceramic.
Tiche.
Even without seeing her, he knew it was her. That practiced stillness. That deliberate silence. She was probably organizing or preparing something, ghosting through the apartment the same way she did in battle—efficient, quiet, always watching.
Of course she hadn't left.
Sam exhaled, the breath hitching slightly from soreness as he tried to shift. A sharp spike of pain in his side told him everything he needed to know.
He wasn't going anywhere. Not yet.
So he let himself sink back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded, body still. The sounds of movement, the smell of soup, the filtered afternoon sun—all of it washed over him like a distant dream he wasn't ready to leave just yet.
He was alive.
Barely.
But alive.
The sound of soft footsteps crossed the threshold before he even had the strength to call out.
Tiche didn't knock.
She never did.
She moved like a ghost—silent, controlled, her presence like a shadow that slipped through the cracks of awareness. But this time, Sam noticed her just before she turned the corner and stepped into view, a small tray balanced in one hand.
Miso soup, still steaming. A folded cloth. A spoon.
She paused briefly at the doorway, her crimson eyes locking onto his, unreadable as ever.
"You're awake," she said, though there wasn't a hint of surprise in her voice. She'd known—probably since the moment he stirred. Maybe even before that.
Sam didn't answer right away. His throat was dry, and part of him just didn't feel like speaking. But his eyes followed her as she crossed the room, her sweatpants whispering softly with each step. She didn't carry herself like a nurse or caretaker—more like a sentry temporarily at ease.
She set the tray down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the mattress without asking, her movements practiced and efficient. The soup's aroma mingled with the sharper scent of antiseptic that still clung to the room.
For a while, they said nothing.
Tiche didn't reach for the spoon. Didn't urge him to eat. She simply sat, one leg crossed over the other, hands resting lightly on her knee as she watched him with calm, eerie patience.
The silence wasn't awkward. It wasn't comforting, either. It just was—the kind that settled when two people had already said the important things elsewhere, or didn't need to at all.
Eventually, Sam exhaled and closed his eyes again, letting his head fall back against the pillow. His body ached in places he couldn't name, and the scent of miso soup was starting to stir hunger under the pain.
"You should eat," she said at last.
He opened one eye.
"You gonna feed me?"
A blink. Then the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—so small it could've been imagined.
"If you can't lift a spoon, you'll lose more than blood."
Sam grunted, half amused, half exhausted. He didn't move. But he didn't say no, either.
She stayed seated beside him, waiting.
And then—
a knock at the door.
Firm. Measured. Loud enough to be deliberate.
It shattered the stillness between them like a stone through glass.
Tiche didn't move. But her eyes shifted—cold, alert, calculating in an instant. The warmth evaporated.
Sam's stomach clenched, but not from the soup.
Tiche moved silently through the apartment, her bare footsteps soft against the polished floor. She had changed since their arrival in this world—traded her spectral assassin's garb for simple modern clothes: a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, clean but loose, things Sam had insisted on buying her weeks ago. She hated the softness of them, but wore them anyway.
Another knock came—measured. Not forceful, not desperate. But deliberate.
She reached the front door. Unlocked it. Opened it.
Eight figures stood in the hallway.
Most were students—at least in appearance. Some wore the Kuoh Academy uniform, others bore the insignia of the Student Council. But beneath the normalcy, Tiche saw what they really were. Every movement trained, every gaze precise. Supernatural.
Rias. Akeno. Koneko. Kiba. Sona. Tsubaki. Momo. Tsubasa.
They didn't step forward.
But the moment the door opened, something shifted.
A faint current slipped past her—warm, subtle, atmospheric. Invisible but real.
Perfumer.
Though Sam lay unseen in the bedroom behind her, his presence lingered in the air. His scent clung faintly to the sheets, to the towel he'd been wiped down with, and—most of all—to Tiche herself. It wafted past her like a whisper.
The change was minor. But some of them noticed.
Akeno's lips parted slightly, a pause in her breath that wasn't normal.
Koneko blinked, her eyes narrowing as her nose twitched—just once.
Scent of Vice.
The synergy of Perfumer and Lethal Charm curled through the air like a warm, unspoken provocation. It wasn't overwhelming. But for those susceptible—those like Akeno and Koneko, who could feel its edge—it scratched faintly at the base of their instincts. Not desire. Not yet.
Just awareness.
"We came to check on him," Rias said carefully. "And... to ask him some questions."
Tiche's expression didn't change.
She stood in the doorway, still as stone, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make most people uncomfortable.
But these weren't most people.
Then—just barely—her mouth curved. Not warm. Not polite.
Amused.
Without a word, she stepped aside and gestured subtly down the narrow hall.
A single nod toward the closed bedroom door.
"He's awake," she said simply.
And then she turned her back on them, as if they weren't a threat worth facing.
The hallway was narrow enough that the eight of them had to shuffle in two by two, heels whispering across the hardwood floor as they made their way toward the closed bedroom door. Tiche had already disappeared into the kitchenette without a word.
Koneko reached the door first.
She glanced at it. Then at Akeno. Then back again.
Momo made a gesture like she was about to knock—only for the door to slowly swing open on its own, clearly unlatched from the inside.
The smell hit them immediately.
Perfumer, strengthened by the Lethal Charm synergy. But this was no gentle waft from a cracked door.
This was Scent of Vice, sharp and full-bodied—Sam's presence, steeped into the room from where he'd been resting, unbothered, healing, and very much... naked under his sheet.
The room was dim, the blinds still drawn, golden slats of light catching the edge of the bed.
And there he was—blanket tugged up carelessly over his lower half, one arm sprawled across his chest, clearly shirtless, broad-shouldered, and barely covered.
His other arm dangled slightly off the bed, bruises and bandages trailing along his frame like war medals. His hair was messy, eyes half-lidded, and he looked... honestly?
Too good for someone who was unconscious and bleeding out a day ago.
The group froze.
Tsubaki turned her head immediately, hiding her eyes behind her hand with a composed cough.
Momo blinked, her eyes wide. "Oh—oh wow. Okay."
Yura smirked and elbowed her. "What? You didn't knock."
Akeno, ever the composed one, smiled—but it was thinner than usual. Her cheeks were faintly pink, and she took in a slow, deliberate breath.
"Mmm. He smells... stronger today, doesn't he?"
Koneko's eyes darted between Sam's collarbone and the bedside table like she was trying to will her brain into rebooting.
Rias raised an eyebrow, her mouth parting just slightly, before she looked away with a faint, audible exhale.
"He's alive, then."
"Yes," Sam croaked from the bed, voice low and dry. "And kind of naked."
Tsubaki, still not looking at him, muttered, "We noticed."
Sona was quiet, arms folded, her expression unreadable. But one could just barely detect the tightening of her jaw as her eyes swept from the foot of the bed to the folded sweatpants still left untouched.
Tiche's voice drifted in calmly from the other room.
"You said you wanted to question him. There he is."
Kiba, gentleman that he was, looked up at the ceiling and refused to glance down again.
Sam sighed, dragging the blanket higher with effort.
"Do I at least get to put pants on before the interrogation?"
There was a long silence.
Then Momo, cheeks red but grinning, offered helpfully:
"You want us to step out, or just... turn around?"
Sam closed his eyes.
"Dealer's choice."