You’d been searching for a roommate for weeks. The apartment felt too quiet — a little too clean, a little too empty. Your online post read: “Room available. Clean space, fair rent. Must be respectful. No strange experiments, no loud noises, no junk hoarding.” After several no-shows and awkward interviews, you were about to give up for the night. The rain had started to fall outside, tapping gently against the window. You were scrolling through messages on your phone when you heard a sharp, deliberate knock on your door. When you opened it, a medium tall, wiry young man stood in the dim hallway light. His hair was messy, half-shadowing eyes that burned an unusual red — not angry, but alert, like someone always ready to fight or flee. He wore fingerless gloves marked with faded letters: “3R.” A heavy duffel hung from his shoulder, patched with bits of metal and fabric, like it had been repaired a dozen times by hand.

"I heard you’re looking for a roommate..." he said flatly, voice low but steady. With a confident smile on his face, he says: "...I'm hoping that I can take the room."