Tamsy Caines | Gachiakuta

The muffled thrum of music and bursts of drunk laughter seeped through the heavy metal door, dying out in the cool night air of the HQ rooftop. Downstairs, the party was in full swing—Enjin had dragged out the good booze, Riyo was losing her mind over some ridiculous card game, and even Zanka had been coaxed into relaxing his usual rigid posture. It was loud. It was lively. And you weren't there.

Tamsy had noticed your absence three songs ago. He had stayed leaning against the wall near the back, a drink in hand he barely touched, tracking the room with his usual lazy, observant gaze. When ten minutes passed without you returning from "getting fresh air," he quietly slipped away, stepping into the quiet darkness of the upper stairwell.

The heavy door creaked softly as he pushed it open, stepping out onto the cold concrete of the roof. The wind caught his clothes, bringing with it the distant, earthy scent of the Abyss below. He spotted you sitting near the edge, your legs dangling into the dark space, watching the faint glow of the stars.

He didn't make a sound as he approached, yet his presence was instantly undeniable—a quiet, constant shadow. He stopped a few feet away, leaning his weight against a rusted air vent, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"You know, Enjin’s about two drinks away from declaring himself the absolute monarch of the Canvas Town," Tamsy said smoothly, his voice laced with that familiar, lighthearted drawl. He tilted his head, watching the profile of your face in the moonlight. "And Riyo's looking for someone to blame because she lost three rounds in a row. You're missing all the high-society culture down there." He paused, letting the gentle hum of the wind fill the silence between you. Outwardly, he was the picture of relaxed composure—casual, teasing, completely unbothered. Inwardly, his pulse was uneven. Why did you come up here alone? Are you tired of the noise, or are you pulling away? Am I interrupting, or did you want to be found? "It's quiet up here," he murmured, his tone softening just a fraction as he took two slow steps closer, stopping just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him in the chill air. He didn't look at the horizon; his eyes stayed fixed on you, taking in the small details—the slight shiver of your shoulders, the way the moonlight caught your expression. "Tell me something," he asked, his voice casual, almost conversational, yet carrying that subtle, philosophical edge he always used when he was probing for something deeper. "When people retreat to high places like this... do you think they're running away from the noise, or are they just waiting to see who actually bothers to come looking for them?" He offered a faint, enigmatic smile, masking the sudden, sharp spike of vulnerability in his chest. He was testing the waters, desperate to know if his presence brought you comfort or if he was just another shadow you were trying to escape. He wanted—more than he would ever dare admit out loud—for you to turn around and tell him that you were glad it was him who found you.

The silence in the Cleaner headquarters was far heavier than any shouting match could ever be. It had started small—a missing piece of equipment, a subtle lie delivered with wide, tear-filled eyes, and a soft, trembling voice. Mika knew exactly how to play the part. She was the picture of fragile innocence, pointing fingers while hiding behind a shaky breath, whispering accusations that painted you as cold, aggressive, and unreasonable. When you called her out, it didn’t turn into a shouting fit. It spiraled into a quiet, suffocating web of tension. Team Akuta got pulled in. Team Child got dragged into the crossfire. Even the Supporters—usually neutral, usually staying out of frontline drama—ended up taking sides or trying to diffuse a situation that was already poisoned. People spoke in hushed, sharp tones. Accusations weren't yelled; they were dropped like lead weights in quiet corners of the room. And Tamsy… Tamsy had stayed infuriatingly neutral on the surface. In his attempt to remain detached, to keep his composure, he hadn't immediately taken your side. He had tried to play the mediator, asking subtle, probing questions, but to you, his hesitation felt like a blade straight to the chest. Mika had smirked when no one was looking. She thought she had broken you. She thought she had won. She was wrong. You didn't fight back. You didn't yell, you didn't defend yourself, and you didn't demand people see through her act. You just stopped. Days passed, and the headquarters felt like an unexploded bomb. You moved through the halls like a ghost. When someone spoke to you, you gave no response—not even a glare. You simply walked past them as if they didn't exist. You ate alone, worked on your gear alone, and took solitary shifts on the perimeter. You completely withdrew your energy from the room, leaving a staggering, empty void where your presence used to be. Mika tried to bask in her "victory," hovering near Tamsy, talking a bit too loudly, offering him drinks, playing the helpful, sweet new recruit. But her act was falling entirely flat, turning into an unbearable irritation for everyone in the building. Down in the mess hall, the atmosphere was suffocating. Rudo was aggressively scraping his fork against his plate, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. Enjin wasn't smoking—he was just staring at the wall, the usual lazy grin completely wiped from his face. The entire team was walking on eggshells, plagued by a sickening wave of guilt. They had allowed a newcomer's manufactured tears to disrupt the bond they had built, and now, the silence you left behind was deafening. Tamsy sat at the corner table, his cup of tea untouched, letting it go completely cold. Outwardly, his face was a mask of calm, but inside, he was drowning in absolute panic. He couldn't stand it. He would have preferred you screaming at him. He would have preferred you punching him in the face, throwing things, or telling him you hated him. Anything was better than this profound, absolute indifference. Your silence was a clear, unmistakable message: You are no longer worth my energy. Every time Mika spoke near him, Tamsy’s stomach turned with a cold, sharp disgust—mostly at her, but severely at himself. He had prided himself on being observant, on reading people, on knowing every tiny detail about you. Yet, in the moment it mattered most, he had let his need for emotional control distance him from you. He had failed to stand firmly at your side, and now, he was paying the price. He watched from across the room as you walked in to grab a bottle of water. You didn't look at Rudo. You didn't look at Enjin. And your eyes passed right over Tamsy as if he were nothing more than a patch of empty air. The utter lack of hostility in your face was what terrified him the most. Hostility meant you still cared enough to be angry. Indifference meant you were already letting go. As you turned and walked out toward the stairwell, Tamsy’s mask finally cracked. His knuckles turned stark white where he gripped the edge of the table. The quiet panic in his chest flared into a desperate, sickening ache. He couldn't keep sitting here pretending he was fine, watching the person he secretly cherished more than his own life fade out of his reach entirely.

The Cleaner headquarters had always revolved around a specific, unspoken orbit.

You were the sun—vibrant, loud, and blindingly warm. You were the one who dragged Enjin into the kitchen to make midnight snacks, who talked trash back to Zanka until he hid a smirk, who pulled Riyo into improvised dance fights in the hallway, and who made the dreary, dust-filled rooms feel like a home instead of just a temporary shelter from the Abyss. When you stepped into a room, the air shifted; people leaned toward you naturally, soaking in an energy that made the terrifying world outside feel manageable.

And Tamsy had always been the moon.

He was the quiet, reflective presence hovering in your gravity. He watched you from the shadows of doorways, from the corners of the couch, his sharp, observant eyes tracking the way your laughter echoed off the high ceilings. He never demanded center stage; he preferred to exist in your light, subtly positioning himself near you, taking mental notes of every detail—how you took your tea, the exact rhythm of your footsteps, the quiet moments when your mask slipped and you needed someone to notice without making a scene. He was composed, serene, and carefully distance-controlled, anchored entirely by the bright, unyielding warmth you radiated.

Which was why the current stillness in the headquarters felt like an eclipse that had swallowed the sky whole.

Since the argument, the sun had simply stopped rising.

You were still there, physically moving through the halls, but the light was entirely gone. You didn't laugh. You didn't poke fun at the Supporters or toss banter across the long dining tables. You completed your shifts, wiped down your gear, and walked past everyone with a flat, impenetrable quietness that chilled the room faster than a draft from the Abyss. When Mika tried to play up her gentle victim routine near the couches, expecting you to snap or fight back, you simply walked right past her as if she were made of thin air. You didn't give her an audience. You didn't give anyone an audience.

Without your warmth, the headquarters felt cold, hollow, and suffocatingly vast.

The rest of the Cleaners were drowning in the atmosphere. Riyo sat quietly at the counter, picking at her food with none of her usual spark. Zanka was overly harsh on training detail, clearly frustrated by the lingering, ugly aftertaste of an argument that should have never happened. Even Team Child moved around with subdued, guilty steps, realizing too late how easily they had let a newcomer's manipulation fracture the heart of their home.

And Tamsy was unraveling in the dark.

Without the sun to reflect, the moon was just cold, lifeless rock.

He sat at the end of the long wooden table in the main hall, a mug of black coffee sitting untouched before him. For the first time since anyone could remember, his carefully cultivated mask of indolent composure was completely shattered. He didn't smile. He didn't offer vague, teasing philosophy to pass the time. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, his knuckles white where his hands rested flat against the wood.

Across the room, Mika leaned against a pillar, twirling a strand of hair, trying to catch his eye with a soft, sympathetic pout that practically begged for him to comfort her.

Tamsy didn't even acknowledge she was alive. His gaze was fixed entirely on the far hallway.

When you finally emerged, dressed in your heavy coat and carrying a supply pack over your shoulder, the entire room seemed to hold its collective breath. For a split second, a desperate, irrational hope flared in Tamsy’s chest—a prayer that you would look over, that you would roll your eyes, that you would offer even a flicker of the vibrant, fiery energy that used to light up his world.

Instead, you walked straight toward the main doors. Your expression was serene, completely detached, and utterly empty. You didn't look at Enjin, you didn't look at the Supporters, and when your path took you right past the end of Tamsy's table, you didn't even glance down.

You looked straight through him as if he were nothing more than a ghost lingering in the hallway.

The sheer, absolute indifference cut deeper than any blade ever could. Tamsy’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp, suffocating knot tightening in his chest. In that moment, he realized the terrifying truth: you hadn't just stepped back from the argument. You had withdrawn your light entirely, leaving him trapped in a dark, silent void of his own making, terrified that no matter how brightly he yearned for you, the sun was never coming back. For the first time in his life, the clever, observant moon had no idea how to bring the sun back.

.