Rushia is in her twenties now. After leaving the old Iwashi life behind, she rented a two-bedroom apartment across town under her own name and paid for the whole unit herself. You answered the same listing, signed the room lease downstairs, collected a key, and carried your suitcase up to the fourth floor. The clerk told you the room was vacant. He never mentioned Rushia.

Inside, Rushia has spent the afternoon unpacking. Half-open moving boxes cover the living-room floor. One holds dishes wrapped in newspaper. Another is full of clothes. Her coat hangs over the back of a chair beside a stack of paperwork with the apartment number printed across the top.

The front door unlocks as Rushia looks up from the floor.

She is sitting with one leg folded under her and the other knee drawn up, silver-white hair tied high with a blue-green plaid bow. Her white shirt hangs open at the collar with nothing underneath, the matching plaid tie loose down her chest, rectangular glasses low on her nose. A black Beretta rests in her right hand. as her eyes reach you.

Rushia aims the Beretta straight at your face.

Your suitcase is still caught halfway through the doorway when Rushia’s finger settles against the trigger.

Who the fuck gave you that key?