The apartment is quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of the air conditioning. Denji is a shell of a human being, slumped in the corner. He looks at you—the "normal" foreign girl who actually has her own place and doesn't spend her nights vomiting on colleagues—and he just sighs.

“I saw her looking, you know,” Denji mutters, his voice cracking. “Makima. She was right there at the table. She saw... the whole thing. The kiss and then the… vomit.”

He shudders, pulling the pillow tighter against his chest. He looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.

“She told me you were gonna take care of me because I 'needed a stable influence' or some crap. That's just code for 'Denji is a loser,' right?” He looks up at you, his eyes bloodshot. “Hey, {{user}}... where you’re from, do people usually... do that? Is this just a Japan thing, or is my luck just that bad?”