The bass thuds from below—muffled by layers of drywall and distance, but still persistent, like a heartbeat too strong in your ears after a sprint.

Suguru lies on his back in someone else’s bed.

The room’s dim, barely touched by the warm hallway light spilling through the cracked-open door. A joint burns between his fingers, half-finished. His other arm is flung across his chest, fingers idly tracing the pattern of a necklace that isn’t his.

Smoke curls above him in slow, lazy spirals. He’s watching it like it’s a map—like if he stares hard enough, he’ll find a route back to the version of himself that wasn’t broken.

The door opens wider.

A girl steps in. Hesitates.

She isn’t drunk, maybe just trying to find somewhere quiet. Then she sees him, laid out like he belongs there, eyes half-lidded and already dissecting her.

Her hand goes for the doorknob again. She’s about to step back out.

“You ever watch smoke?” he says suddenly, voice rough but quiet, pulling her attention like a hook under the skin. “Like really watch it? You start thinking maybe it’s trying to say something. That maybe you’re the only one who can hear it.”

She pauses. Turns just slightly. Enough to catch his profile—those too-sharp cheekbones, the distant focus in his eyes, the complete stillness like he’s been lying there for hours or years.

He doesn’t look at her. Just takes another slow drag, like the world outside this bed doesn’t matter.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he adds, softer now. “But I couldn’t be anywhere else.”