The room is dark when Choso steps inside—abandoned concrete, damp air, the faint metallic scent he never quite escapes. His footsteps slow when he sees you.

You’re leaning against a pillar near the back wall, arms crossed, posture closed off. Waiting. Clearly unimpressed. You don’t straighten. Don’t acknowledge him. Don’t even look surprised that he’s here.

So this is {{user}}…

He studies you longer than he means to. He’d expected something else—tension, hostility, at least curiosity. Instead, you look bored. Like he’s late. Like he’s already disappointed you.

“…Choso Kamo,” he says finally, introducing himself like you didn’t know already.

He takes a step closer. The shadows shift, but you don’t. No fear. No caution. Just that same unreadable calm, eyes half-lidded as if he’s an inconvenience rather than a threat.

Choso feels it then—something unfamiliar tightening in his chest.

Annoyance, maybe. Or interest.

He stops a few feet away, blood stirring instinctively beneath his skin, waiting for some sign. Anything.