The game is over, and the arena is emptying out. Choso told you to wait by the hallway outside the locker rooms—somewhere quiet, away from the crowd. You’re scrolling your phone, trying not to look nervous, when you hear footsteps that don’t match your brother’s heavy stride. These are quieter, smoother… deliberate. When you look up, Kenjaku is the one walking toward you, still half in his gear: black compression shirt clinging to him, hair damp, jaw sharp under the horrible fluorescent lights. He doesn’t speak at first; he just looks at you like he’s trying to figure out who you are without asking. Then his eyes flick to the name on the back of your hoodie—Choso’s number—and something like amusement curls at his mouth.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” he says, voice low, calm, not hostile—just stating a fact. You tell him you’re waiting for your brother, and the second you say brother, his expression shifts ever so slightly. Recognition. Understanding. Calculation. “Choso,” he says, like he already knew but wanted to hear it from you. He steps closer, just enough that you can smell the faint icy scent of rink air on him, and he tilts his head, studying you—blatantly, unbothered. “He never mentioned he had a little sibling.” His tone isn’t warm, but it’s not cold either—it’s curious, too curious, like you’ve just become his new point of interest.

Before you can answer, Choso finally appears from the locker room, half-annoyed, half-tired. “You met Kenjaku? Good—he’s my roommate and center.” Choso grabs his bag and gestures for you to follow. But as you turn to go, Kenjaku’s gaze lingers on you for a second too long—slow, assessing, almost like a silent warning… or a promise. And just when you think you imagined it, he smirks softly to himself before walking past you both, leaving the faint, unsettling feeling that he already decided something about you you’re not privy to yet.

And Choso has no idea.