Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet, as it always was when his squad was out. Peaceful, almost, if not for the wet, meaty churn of Arima’s hand digging through his abdomen. Elbow-deep, fishing around for his spleen.

“For someone known for precision, you make a lousy surgeon,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

As if to prove me right, something sharp grazed another organ. A hot stab of pain tore through me, and I groaned, biting down hard on the pillow.

“My targets tend to be bigger than this,” Arima replied, voice flat, clipped. To anyone else, he’d sound unfeeling. But I caught the hesitation in his rhythm, the way his hand stilled for just a beat too long. He cared in his own, quiet way.

“How many samples does this make now? Twenty?”

“Thirty-two,” Arima corrected without missing a beat. “If you count the lab draws.”

I hissed through my teeth, not sure if it was from the sting in my gut or his answer. “Thirty-two. Lovely. And remind me again why the CCG needs my insides specifically?”

“You’re the only natural half ghoul they’ve encountered willing to work with them.”

“I thought you were one too?”

“No. Lab-grown and raised. Hence the white hair, Haise. I’m not that old.”

A slightly rough tug, and Arima’s hand came flying out of my midsection, bloody organ in hand. The momentum splashed some of the residual blood onto my sheets and the carpet beneath me. Great.

“Ouch. Would it have killed you to not paint my room in blood? It’s gonna be a pain to clean that up after you leave.”

Arima ignored me, already focused on sealing the wound. “Thank you for your cooperation, Haise. Your squad will benefit… greatly.”

The door clicked open.

Four horrified pairs of eyes stared from the hallway. A beat of silence stretched thin, then panic flashed between them like static. Without a word, the Quinx scattered into the living room, pretending they hadn’t seen—or heard—anything.

Arima stepped out, expression unreadable. “I see you’ve all returned from your mission. Do leave your squad leader alone; he needs the rest.”

“R-Right! We’ll, uh, make sure he gets plenty of sleep!”

The door shut behind him.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. Then Saiko whispered, “...Did anyone else hear that?”

Urie’s jaw tightened. “We’re not talking about this.”

“Not talking about what?” Mutsuki asked softly. “The fact that Haise-san sounded-”

“Stop.” Urie’s tone was sharp, but his hand trembled against the table. “We don’t know what we heard.”

“But Arima said-‘Your squad will benefit,’” Shirazu muttered, pacing. “What the hell does that even mean? Benefit from what?”

A tense silence followed. None of them wanted to say what they were all thinking. The idea hung in the air, heavy and vile. Finally, Mutsuki whispered, “If… if he’s doing something to Haise-san, we have to stop it.”

Nobody disagreed.

The next morning, Haise shuffled into the kitchen looking a little stiff, favoring his left side. Not enough to seem hurt, at least, not to anyone who didn’t know him. To the Quinx, though, it was proof enough. They froze mid-breakfast, eyes darting between one another as he poured himself coffee like nothing was wrong.

“Morning, kids,” he said, yawning.

Four simultaneous “morning”s chorused back, far too cheerful, far too loud.

Haise blinked, spoon halfway to his mouth. “...You guys didn’t break anything, did you?”

Silence.

He sighed. “Whatever it is, fix it before I find out.”

The second he was out of earshot, Urie hissed, “We need a plan.”

“Maybe we just… keep him busy,” Saiko said nervously. “Like, don’t let him be alone with Arima?”

Shirazu nodded. “Yeah. Or if Arima comes by, we don’t leave the apartment. No more ‘extra missions.’”

Mutsuki’s voice trembled. “Do you think he knows? That we know?”

Urie’s gaze flicked to Haise’s closed door. “No,” he said, too quickly. “And we’re going to keep it that way.”

Chapter Text

The lab always smelled the same—antiseptic and recycled air. Too clean, too white. Even the hum of the fluorescent lights felt measured, like it belonged to the data recorders instead of the people beneath them.

Arima set the sealed case on the steel table. Inside, glass specimen jars clinked softly, each filled with preservative fluid and labeled in the CCG’s neat black print. One jar in particular sat square and heavy in its foam cradle, the tag reading S.S. — spleen in small, clinical letters.

“Thirty-two samples logged,” the technician said without looking up from her clipboard.

“Thirty-three,” Arima corrected. He placed the last jar into the rack with the same precise motion he used for everything. It caught the light like a dull, contained ember.

The woman hesitated. “You’re sure the subject remains compliant?”

Arima’s expression didn’t flicker. “Haise Sasaki knows the value of cooperation.”

She nodded, jotting a note. “The Director will be pleased. We may begin comparative synthesis once we receive the Quinx readings.”

That earned the faintest crease between his brows. “The Quinx readings?”

“Yes. The Bureau intends to align their RC-cell patterns with Subject S’s. If the data holds, we could reduce instability in future half-ghoul prototypes.”

So that was the real project. Not Haise, not him—just another formula to be perfected. He said nothing, only offered a small nod before turning away.

The refrigerator door sealed with a hiss. Thirty-three neat labels winked in sterile light.

For a moment, Arima stayed still. Listening. The hum of the refrigeration unit was identical to the one in his own quarters, the one that stored his serum. Same pitch, same pulse, same quiet reminder that life could be manufactured, rationed, and stored behind glass.

His reflection in the polished steel caught his eye. Colorless, precise, and faintly blurred at the edges. There were days he could almost imagine the outline flickering, like a faulty projection.

He exhaled, and the ghost in the metal did the same.

The technician cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “Sir, your scheduled maintenance, if you please.”

He turned to her. “Already?”

“Whenever you’re able. Your stock of placeholder serums is nearly depleted. The lab recommends full replenishment before your next prolonged mission.”

Arima’s pale eyes flicked to the sealed case he’d brought in. The pre-made injections he carried allowed him to operate outside the lab for weeks at a time, though each dose was a pale echo of the efficacy achieved under controlled conditions. Enough to keep moving, enough to survive. Not enough to undo the inevitable.

“…I see,” he said, voice clipped. Enough to function. Enough to complete the work.

He followed her through a secondary corridor, where the hum of machinery deepened to a steady thrum. The “maintenance” room looked no different from the others: polished steel, frosted glass, soft blue light.

He sat on the edge of the table, methodical as ever, while they prepared the injector lines. A soft click. Cold metal against the crook of his arm.

“Batch 7B,” one scientist murmured. “High-density serum, synthetic plasma with RC stabilizers. It should mitigate cellular breakdown.”

Mitigate. Never fix.

The needle slid in, and Arima’s breath hitched—not in pain, but in something close to relief. The serum burned, tracing a path of life through deadened veins. For a brief moment, his vision cleared, sharper, brighter. He felt his heartbeat steady.

“Levels stabilizing,” another technician said. “We’ll need to monitor degradation over the next seventy-two hours. The Director requests an additional sample after your next mission.”

Arima nodded, silent. He’d heard it all before. Always the same pattern: patch, stabilize, repeat. A life measured in injections and laboratory reports.

He rose when dismissed. The collar of his coat brushed faintly against his jaw as he turned back toward the sterile hallways.

The hum of the lab followed him, steady and indifferent, like time itself ticking against a man who was meant to be perfect—and failing all the same.