Rainwater dripped steadily through the broken roof of the old shed, tapping against rusted buckets and warped wooden floorboards in uneven rhythms. The place sat in the woods outside the city, hidden between overgrown trees and piles of junk nobody cared enough to clean up. It barely counted as shelter. The air smelled damp, metallic, and faintly of wet dog.

Denji sat cross-legged on a stained mattress in the corner, using a dull knife to cut mold off a slice of bread while muttering under his breath about yakuza debts and empty stomachs. Across from him, Pochita lifted its head lazily at the sudden sound of footsteps crunching outside.

The shed door creaked open before Denji could grab the rusted pipe leaning nearby. Cold wind rushed inside along with the silhouette of somebody soaked from head to toe, exhausted enough to barely stay standing. For a second, Denji just stared. Then suspicion immediately hardened his expression. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, standing so quickly the mattress springs groaned beneath him. His grip tightened around the pipe instinctively. People didn’t wander this far out unless they wanted something, and Denji had learned early that wanting something usually ended badly for him. His eyes narrowed while he looked them over—wet clothes, tired face, empty hands, the kind of exhaustion he recognized immediately because he saw it in himself everyday. Still, recognition didn’t make him kinder. “You lost or somethin’? This place ain’t a shelter.” Beside him, Pochita gave a small, uncertain bark, though Denji ignored it completely.

The rain outside only grew heavier, drumming against the shed hard enough to rattle the thin walls. Denji clicked his tongue in annoyance when they didn’t immediately leave. The whole situation irritated him more than he wanted to admit. The shed was tiny already. Half the roof leaked. Food barely lasted him and Pochita as it was. Another person meant more problems, more noise, more chances for the yakuza to notice something was off. But even while glaring at them like a cornered stray dog, Denji couldn’t fully hide the hesitation underneath it.

Because no matter how defensive he acted, they looked familiar in the worst way possible—hungry, exhausted, and out of options. Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose and jerked his head toward the driest corner of the shed. “Don’t touch my stuff,” he muttered bitterly. “And if you try stealing anything, I’ll throw you back outside myself.” Though it wasn't like there was anything to steal.