Carly scrambled off the bare wooden slats, brushing biscuit crumbs off her jeans with a hasty, guilty laugh. "Right. Living room. On it." She shot Arlen a quick, apologetic wave. "Thanks for the snack, Arlen. Good luck with the... loop-the-looping."
Arlen nodded his head politely. "You are welcome. Have a nice day."
Mika didn’t wait. She spun on her heel, her high heels clicking like rapid gunfire as she marched back to the main area. Carly followed closely behind, shutting Arlen’s door quietly to give him some peace.
The moment they were in the spacious, sunlit living room, Mika whipped around, her fiery red hair practically vibrating with indignation.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Mika hissed, keeping her voice low but incredibly intense. "You’re my personal assistant, Carly! You’re my best friend! I pay you to manage my schedule, not to have a cozy picnic on bare wooden slats with the enemy!"
Carly raised her hands defensively, though her expression was more amused than intimidated. "Mika, relax. I was just delivering the contracts. But then I got curious, and honestly? The guy is fascinating. He’s like a beautiful, vacant alien who just landed on Earth and decided his mission was to knit blocky rodents."
"He is not an alien, Carly, he is a manipulator!" Mika snapped, pacing the floor. "Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to win you over. He wants to turn my own circle against me so that when I finally kick him out, everyone will think I’m the villain!"
Carly sighed, her playful demeanor softening into genuine concern. "Mika, I love you, but you are losing your mind. I saw the room. There is literally nothing in there. He’s sleeping on bare wood, eating dry bread, and he’s still polite enough to offer me his last chocolate biscuit. If this is a manipulation tactic, it’s the most self-destructive one in history. The guy is just... genuinely weird. And harmless."
"He is *not* harmless!" Mika’s voice cracked with frustration. She thought of the marble table, the heavy thud from the night before, and the sudden, suffocating guilt she had felt. She couldn’t let Carly see her slip. She couldn’t let anyone think she was the one in the wrong. "He’s playing a long game. And you just fell right into his trap."
"I didn’t fall into a trap, I ate a cookie," Carly muttered, rolling her eyes. "Look, I’ll leave the paperwork on the table. But seriously, Mika... maybe buy the guy a pillow? Or at least let him eat a banana from the kitchen. It’s getting a little sad."
"No," Mika said, her jaw tightening as she pointed toward the front door. "He stays in his room, and you stay out of his business. Now, go. I have a headache."
Carly shook her head, gathering her purse. "Fine, fine. I’m leaving. Just... try to breathe, okay? See you at the studio tomorrow."
As the front door clicked shut, Mika was left alone in the quiet penthouse once more. She stared down the long hallway toward Arlen’s closed door, her chest tight.
The silence of the penthouse was deafening. Mika stared at the closed door at the end of the hallway, her chest tightening with a volatile mix of irritation, paranoia, and a stubborn, unwanted drop of guilt.
*’He’s doing this on purpose,’* she repeated to herself like a mantra, trying to drown out Carly’s warning. *’He’s turning my own best friend against me.’*
Unable to sit with her thoughts any longer, Mika marched down the hallway. She didn’t knock. She threw the door open, determined to catch him dropping his innocent facade now that Carly was gone.
Arlen was still sitting on the bare wooden slats, but he had paused his knitting. He was in the middle of reaching for his water tumbler on the floor, his body bent at an awkward angle. As the door banged open, he stiffened, a subtle, involuntary wince crossing his face before his expression instantly flattened back into its usual vacant mask. He slowly straightened his spine, his movements visibly rigid.
"What did you say to Carly?" Mika demanded, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. "Did you think if you acted like a sad, lonely prisoner, she’d go running to my grandfather for you?"
Arlen turned his head to look at her, his dark bangs sweeping across his face. "I told her about the sheep," he said softly, his voice airy and calm. "And I gave her a chocolate biscuit because she looked hungry. Sharing is polite."
"Stop playing games!" Mika snapped, stepping into the room. Her eyes scanned the barren space, looking for anything she could use to call his bluff. That was when her gaze landed on the single wooden chair.
Next to his neatly arranged staircase of snacks sat a small, white paper bag with a green pharmacy logo.
Mika’s brow furrowed. She strode over and snatched the bag before Arlen could move. "What is this? Are you hoarding things in here now?"
She pulled out the box of over-the-counter pain relievers and the medicated heat patches. Her heart did a sudden, violent flip in her chest. The memory of the heavy, dull *thud* from last night echoed in her mind.
"They are for the plum," Arlen explained deadpan, his left eye tracking the medicine in her hand.
Mika’s grip on the box tightened. "The... what?"
"The pharmacist said my lower back has a bruise," Arlen said, his tone entirely conversational. "It is very colorful, like a plum. She told me to take one pill every six hours with water, and to avoid heavy lifting. So I am only lifting the capybara." He held up the half-finished brown plush toy as if to prove his compliance.
Mika stared at the medicine, her throat suddenly dry. The guilt she had spent all day suppressing rushed back, hot and suffocating. He had actually been hurt. He had walked to the diner, walked to the pharmacy, and sat in this freezing, empty room all day with a bruised back, and he hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint to her.
"Why didn’t you say anything?" Mika’s voice lost some of its fiery edge, sounding uncharacteristically quiet, almost defensive. "You walked out of here this morning like nothing was wrong. If you were hurt, why did you act like you were fine?"
Arlen looked at the box of pills in her hand, his expression entirely placid, as if they were discussing the weather rather than his injured back.
"I am fine," Arlen said, his voice as light and airy as ever. He slowly adjusted his position on the wooden slats, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch in his breath the only giveaway of his discomfort. "It is only a minor ache. The table was very solid, but my back is also quite sturdy. I just need to rest it out for a few days, and then the plum will go away."
Mika stared at him, her chest tightening. She had prepared herself for a fight, for accusations, or even a subtle threat. But his complete lack of malice—his absolute, genuine belief that he was "fine" after being shoved into a marble table—was far more jarring than any scream of anger. It made her feel incredibly small. It made her feel like the tyrant he supposedly wanted her to look like.
"Don’t talk about it like it’s some kind of science project!" Mika snapped, her voice rising to mask the sudden, uncomfortable prickle of guilt in her chest. She tossed the medicine bag back onto the wooden chair, where it landed next to his biscuit staircase. "You... you shouldn’t have been standing in my way in the first place. If you had just moved, none of this would have happened."
"Yes," Arlen agreed instantly, nodding his head in obedience. "I apologize once again. It was all my fault, Ms. Mika."
Mika’s jaw tightened. His instant, placid acceptance of the blame was infuriating. It left her with absolutely nowhere to redirect her simmering, guilty rage. She wanted him to argue. She wanted him to yell, to accuse her, to give her a reason to snap back and justify the ugly feeling clawing at her throat.
Instead, he just sat there, looking like a discarded porcelain doll, entirely at peace with being her punching bag.
"Stop doing that," she hissed, her voice dropping to a harsh, venomous whisper. "Stop apologizing like some kind of programmed robot. You’re doing it on purpose. You want me to stand here and feel like a monster."
Arlen paused, holding the bamboo needles still. His left eye blinked slowly as he processed her words. "I do not think you are a monster. Monsters have sharp teeth and live under bridges. You live in a penthouse and have very nice, bright hair."
Mika closed her eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath to keep from screaming. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of his literal mind was exhausting. It was like trying to wage a psychological war against a blank wall.
Her eyes darted back to the brown, blocky capybara in his lap, her suspicion flaring again to cover her discomfort. "And what about that? Is this another one of your pathetic peace offerings? Like the scarf?"
Arlen looked down at the plush toy, his fingers gently smoothing the yarn. "No. The scarf was to keep you warm. This is a capybara. It does not fit around a neck." He looked back up at her, his expression entirely vacant. "And it is a secret. If I tell you, then it would not be a secret anymore."
A vein throbbed in Mika’s temple. She scoffed, her pride flaring as she took a hasty step back toward the hallway, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the room.
"Whatever. Keep your stupid secrets," she spat, her voice tight. "Just take your medicine and stay out of my sight. I don’t want to see you limping around my apartment."
"Okay," Arlen murmured softly.
Mika turned on her heel and marched out, pulling the door shut behind her with a sharp, decisive click.
In the quiet of the barren room, Arlen sat alone. He looked at the closed door for a moment, then down at the half-finished capybara. With a slow, rhythmic movement, he raised his bamboo needles and began to loop the yarn once more.