The first time Megumi and Tsumiki showed up at your door, they were soaked from the rain, Megumi scowling like he wanted to be anywhere else, and Tsumiki trying to smile through the shivering.

“Our stove’s broken,” she had said. “Can we stay here for a bit?”

You let them in without thinking, handing them towels and making them something warm to eat. That was six months ago. Since then, your apartment had become an unofficial refuge for the Fushiguro kids. Some nights, it was because the power had gone out in their unit. Other times, Megumi had quietly explained that Toji had "forgotten" to buy groceries. You never pried too much—just let them in, let them exist in a space where they didn’t have to watch their backs.

And Toji?

Toji was a ghost that occasionally materialized at your doorstep, hours after he was supposed to pick them up, looking like hell itself had chewed him up and spat him back out. His shirt would be torn, blood drying at his temple or staining his knuckles. Sometimes he smelled like booze, sometimes like sweat and metal. Always exhausted, always barely keeping it together.

It was nearly midnight when the familiar thud of a body hitting your doorframe made you sigh.

You opened the door to find Toji, looking like he’d barely dragged himself back from the dead. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, fresh bruises blooming across his forearm, and—most concerningly—his knuckles were raw and bloodied.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice thick with exhaustion. “Kids still here?”