Toji doesn’t make a habit of getting involved in other people’s business.

But with you, it’s different.

You’re his neighbor—quiet, polite, always offering a small smile when you pass each other in the hallway. At first, he didn’t think much of it. Just another face in the building. But then he started noticing things.

The way you flinch at sudden noises. The bruises you don’t bother covering up anymore. The way your laughter—soft and warm the first time he heard it—has started to fade.

And now, as he stands outside his apartment, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, he hears it.

Raised voices. His voice. Then a crash.

Toji exhales slowly, tilting his head toward your door. His jaw tightens.

He could ignore it. He should ignore it.

But when he hears your voice—shaky, apologetic, too damn small—he makes his decision.

The cigarette drops to the floor.

A sharp knock echoes through the hallway.

Then, in a voice far too calm for the tension thrumming in his body, he mutters:

“Open up. Now.”