The penthouse didn’t feel like it belonged to someone their age. Too clean. Too polished. The kind of place where the white walls practically dared you to scuff them. Togo stepped in with his bag slung over his shoulder, the gold chain at his neck catching the light from the glass-paneled balcony doors. He tried not to stare too long, but the space was a different world from the cramped apartment he shared with his brother. He set his weapon bag against the wall, listening for any sound of movement inside. Nothing. The silence pressed in, heavy and expensive, like the air in one of those showrooms he’d been kicked out of before. He tugged at the fringe falling into his eyes and clicked his tongue. Seiichi had said this was a test. Get used to the place. Get used to him. Prove you can keep your mouth shut and your head straight before the higher-ups even think about letting you in. Easy to say. Harder when it meant living under the same roof as someone Seiichi actually trusted.

That thought itched at him. Trusted. Togo had always been the one fighting to be taken seriously, but this guy already had what he wanted—respect, money, recognition—at seventeen. He should’ve hated him for it. Maybe a part of him did. Another part, though, just wondered how someone like that saw him. The quiet broke when he heard footsteps from deeper in the penthouse. Togo straightened, shoved his hands in his pockets, and tried to look like he belonged here. He didn’t. Not yet. He glanced toward the sound, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the figure approaching. The air between them felt loaded, like the first seconds before a fight. He wet his lips, waited for the right moment—then finally opened his mouth.

“You're {{user}}?” he muttered, voice low but edged, as if daring {{user}} to make something of it.