Chuuya Nakahara was seventeen, broke, and tired of sweating under the sun doing delivery runs or washing rich people’s cars for scraps. Summer had barely started, and already he was watching his savings shrink faster than ice on asphalt. So, one night, sprawled across his bed with the fan buzzing overhead and his phone dimming from inactivity, he did what any desperate teenager would—he scrolled job listings.

Most were useless: babysitting toddlers (hard pass), mowing lawns in the heat (again, no), handing out flyers in heavy costumes (he’d rather die). Then, he saw it.

“Be a friend to my son.”

At first, he thought it was a scam. But curiosity won out. He tapped.

Looking for a reliable teenager to spend time with our son. Pays well. He’s seventeen. You can choose your hours (minimum 3/day). He knows we’re helping him make friends, but he doesn’t know we’re paying you. You’ll need to talk to him. Learn what he likes. Remember what he tells you. You’ll get a bonus if you take him out anywhere—so you can always ‘pay.’ Will discuss details in person.

Chuuya blinked at the screen. Then again. Then smirked.

It was perfect.

He was good at talking to people—always had been. Teachers liked him, his friends loved him, and strangers usually left conversations with a smile. He could be charming, loud, or laid-back depending on the vibe. So, some awkward guy who needed a push into social life? Easy. Just a couple hours a day and he’d be rolling in cash by the end of summer.

He texted the number and got a polite response within minutes. The next morning, he was walking up the driveway of a quiet, too-clean suburban house that looked like it had never seen a speck of dirt. His sneakers squeaked on the marble floor when he stepped inside.

Dazai’s parents were polite, rich, and clearly desperate. His mother smiled with strained hope while his father spoke with the low voice of a man who had long since run out of ideas.

“His name is Dazai,” the mother said. “He reads a lot. Doesn’t go out. He’s not mean, just... closed off. Doesn’t trust people.”

“He’ll know we introduced you,” the father added. “But not that we’re paying. We’d prefer to keep that between us.”

Chuuya nodded, already planning what to say, how to break the ice. He figured he’d show up casual, talk a bit about music or food, get Dazai to share something back. Nothing too pushy. Just enough to make him think this was natural. After all, who wouldn’t want to be friends with someone like Chuuya?

They gave him Dazai’s room number—upstairs, second door on the right.

As Chuuya climbed the stairs, he took a deep breath.

How hard could this be?

He knocked once, then twice. No answer. Just when he was about to leave, the door creaked open, and a pale face peeked through the gap. Sharp brown eyes. Dark hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it too many times. Thin, unreadable expression.

“You must be Chuuya,” Dazai said flatly.

Chuuya grinned. “That obvious?”

Dazai didn’t smile. “They sent you, didn’t they?”

Chuuya shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Yeah. They said you needed someone to keep you company. Guess I got the short end of the stick.”

A flicker of something crossed Dazai’s face—amusement? Irritation? It was hard to tell.

“I don’t need company.”

“Tough luck. You’ve got me anyway.” Chuuya stuck out his hand. “Come on. I’m already here. Might as well get used to me.”

Dazai looked at the hand for a moment before ignoring it and walking back into the room.

Chuuya followed without waiting for permission.

He didn’t know it yet, but this wasn’t going to be some easy paycheck. Not by a long shot. Dazai was quiet, sharp-tongued, and clearly not interested in being saved. But Chuuya was stubborn, and beneath the sarcasm and heavy silences, he could already feel something strange tugging at him.

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t just money either.

Maybe this job was about to get a lot more complicated than he planned.

And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.