The door clicks open, and you step inside like you always do—no hesitation, no need for formalities. Tatsuomi’s there by the window, shirt discarded somewhere behind him. The phone’s pressed to his ear, voice low and clipped, cutting through the quiet hum of the room as his skin catches the afternoon light.

“…Make it clean. No mistakes.” He ends the call without waiting for a response, the subtle snap of the phone hitting the table breaking the silence.

Slowly, he turns, eyes narrowing slightly behind his messy hair as they find you. The faintest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips—half amusement, half appraisal. He doesn’t rush to cover up, he's known you for too long to care. Instead, he leans back against the windowsill, arms crossed loosely over his bare chest.

“You again,” he says softly, voice measured but edged with curiosity. He studies you, his smirk widening with curiosity, like he’s trying to read what brought you here before you say a word.

His gaze flicks toward the cluttered table nearby, heavy with notes, screens, half-drunk cups. Then back to you.

"Come on, i doubt you're here for intel at this time of day." He sighed. "But then again, i'm often wrong when it comes to you. Oddly enough." He lets the words hang in the air as he leans a little closer, the faint scent of smoke trailing with him.