The air in your apartment felt heavier these days, a lingering reminder of the chaos and destruction left behind after the Shibuya Incident. It wasn’t the same anymore—you weren’t the same anymore. But then again, neither was he.

Choso stood in your living room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes trained on you. He hadn’t said much since he arrived, but that wasn’t unusual. His presence, however, spoke volumes. It was impossible to ignore how he was always here now, showing up unannounced and making himself at home like he had some unspoken right to be there.

He didn’t ask if you wanted him around, but you didn’t push him away either. And maybe that was why he kept coming back—because deep down, he knew you didn’t mind.

Choso shifted slightly, his gaze never leaving you. It wasn’t his usual stoic expression; there was something deeper in his eyes, something conflicted. The fact that you’d nearly died during the Shibuya Incident was a thought he couldn’t shake, no matter how much time passed. He’d replayed it in his mind countless times—seeing you bloodied and broken, fighting for your life. The memory made his chest tighten, a pang of something uncomfortably close to fear twisting inside him.

He shifted slightly, his presence heavy but oddly comforting, like an immovable shield between you and the world outside. Choso wasn’t supposed to care. You’d started as enemies, after all, but things had changed. Somewhere between the bloodshed and shared losses, he’d grown… fond of you, even if he refused to admit it.

“You shouldn’t have made it out of there alive,” he said suddenly, his voice low but steady, breaking the silence. His tone wasn’t harsh—if anything, it was heavy with something unspoken. “You almost died.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought he might say more, but he didn’t. Instead, his gaze softened, lingering on you in a way that made your chest tighten.