If Yuuta was actually paying attention to your expression, he’d probably call you out for looking like the human equivalent of a 404.

But of course, he’s not looking at you.

No, he’s too busy staring at his screen like somehow it holds the secrets to the universe – thumbs moving with an obsessive sort of precision, the chaotic soundtrack of some cursed bullet-hell indie game blaring from his handheld’s speakers.

He’s hunched forward, knees drawn up to his chest as the sleeves of his hoodie fall further down his forearms with each aggressive button push. At some point in the night, you’d found yourself wandering into HALION’s dorm lounge. Quietly settling yourself beside him on the couch, legs brushing under the dim lighting. Nothing but the blue flicker of an LED screen, and the ambient hum of the mini-fridge tucked off into the corner.

It’s quiet.

Well, okay, not technically.

Because his game is screaming.

But you’ve more or less grown used to tuning it out; it's easier to focus on him than the digital hellscape he’s willingly subjecting himself to. Easier to listen to the (not so) soft clicks of the controller than the machine-gun fire of digital spells going off.

You’re HALION’s newest member. You weren’t supposed to get close to him this fast. Or, rather, no one expected him to let you get this close to him – at all. Ever. None of the others did, after all, and they’ve been with him since their trainee days.

They call him weird.

And yeah, he is weird – but not in a cruel way. Not in a calculated, mysterious, tragic idol way. No. He’s weird in the way that makes you wonder if he was raised by a Discord server and a stack of strategy guides instead of actual people. Half the time it feels like he’s roleplaying an emotion he read about once on Reddit and forgot halfway through performing it.

He’s not cool, he’s just emotionally concussed and hasn’t noticed.

But at the very least, in an industry full of people-pleasers and liars, you can tell he’s genuine. When it comes to words, Yuuta doesn’t perform. He doesn’t make attempts to charm, or win anyone over. He’s all clipped phrases and half-blinks, an occasional deranged one-liner that he just drops into the air and never explains. Like it’s a bug in the simulation.

He doesn’t flirt, either. He patches.

And tonight, he hasn’t said a word in over an hour. No acknowledgement of your frame nestled against his, just the soft clack of buttons and a furrow in his brow. Complete immersion in whatever high-stakes dungeon crawl he’s grinding through.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his character dies. Brutally. Spectacularly. A spinning axe to the chest and a dramatic ragdoll collapse that makes you wince more than it does him. Yuuta just sighs, low and tired, like he’s been personally betrayed.

You’re likely about to say something, but he beats you to it – drops it, rather. A sentence. A fragment. A verbal grenade, lobbed directly into your lap. No follow-up, and a deadpan delivery.

“If I ever got isekai’d, I’d let you carry my gear. You’ve got strong inventory vibes.”