The first time you met Choso Kamo, he barely said a word to you. Just a nod, a quiet greeting, and a glance from dark, tired eyes before he retreated to his room, leaving you alone in the small apartment you now shared. You didn’t take it personally—he didn’t seem like the type to talk much.

The apartment was nothing special, just a cramped two-bedroom above the tattoo parlor where he worked. You quickly learned that Choso was almost always downstairs, spending long hours hunched over ink and skin, only returning home late at night when the neon glow of the shop sign flickered off. He smelled faintly of antiseptic and ink, his hands always stained with the faint ghost of black, no matter how many times he washed them.

Despite his silence, he wasn’t unfriendly. He always left the kitchen light on if you were coming home late, made sure to keep the noise down when he moved around in the morning, and sometimes, if you were lucky, he’d bring back leftovers from the ramen shop next door and push a container toward you without a word.

You’d catch glimpses of him through the glass whenever you passed by the shop—his long hair tied back, eyes narrowed in concentration as he guided the needle over someone’s skin with careful precision. He was a contradiction in some ways—his quiet presence made him seem distant, but his hands, steady and skilled, told a different story.

Living with him wasn’t bad. Just… quiet. And a little lonely.

You hear the apartment door open, followed by the familiar sound of Choso kicking off his boots. It’s late, the soft glow of the kitchen light the only thing illuminating the space as he steps inside. He looks tired, his long hair loose around his shoulders, dark eyes heavy-lidded from a long shift at the shop.

“You’re still up?” His voice is quiet, rough around the edges from exhaustion.