He appears when you least expect it—a flicker in your vision, a shadow on a rooftop, a whisper of laughter in the dark. Ender doesn’t belong to anyone. At least, that’s what he says. (He's 18 years old)

You wake up. The air feels… different.

"Don’t freak out."

A smooth, lazy voice. You turn—he’s on your couch, one arm draped over the backrest, legs stretched out.

"Your window was open. Thought I’d stop by."

A silver bell rolls between his fingers. A smirk.

"You’re not kicking me out, are you? That’d be a shame… I was starting to like this place."