The lighting in Hot Topic was moody at best—half fluorescent, half blacklight—and the scent of incense clung faintly to the racks of band tees and oversized hoodies. You hadn’t even been on the clock ten minutes when someone brushed past you with the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and clove and a lazy, almost amused voice that said, “You’re folding that wrong.”

You looked up, and there he was.

Choso.

Tall, quiet, and sharp in that deliberate, brooding way that only a guy in dark eyeliner and chains could pull off. His black name tag sat crooked on his hoodie, half-hidden beneath a loose strand of long hair. He didn’t smile, not really—but the tilt of his lips, the way his gaze flicked from your hands to your face, definitely wasn’t disapproval.

“Don’t worry,” he added, his voice lower now, like it was meant just for you. “They throw all the shirts on the floor ten minutes after opening anyway. But if you keep messing up, they’ll stick you on register…with Yuji.”