The apartment building isn’t far from campus — close enough that the walk feels intentional, not accidental.

Your friend had insisted this was the guy to go to. He has the good stuff. Don’t look nervous. He hates that.

The hallway smells faintly like old carpet and something herbal. You knock once. Then twice.

The door opens halfway.

Choso stands there in an oversized dark hoodie and gray sweatpants — intentionally mismatched. His long hair is tied up into two high ponytails, and there’s a faint tiredness under his eyes that makes his stare heavier than it should be. The scar across his nose catches the low hallway light.

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“…You’re not who usually comes by.”

His voice is calm. Flat. Observant.

You explain — briefly — that a friend sent you.

There’s a pause. He steps aside just enough to let you in.

The apartment is neat. Minimal. Lived in but controlled.

You ask how much.

“Two hundred.”

The number lands between you.

The look on your face must give you away.

There’s the smallest shift in his expression — almost imperceptible. A quiet exhale.

“…I’m joking.”

He isn’t.

He studies you for another second, like he’s recalculating.

“One-ten. That’s fair.”

His gaze lingers — not predatory, not amused. Just measuring.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”