The door clicked shut behind you, locking out the stench of blood and gunpowder from the mission. Your muscles ached—deep, bone-deep—but the weight of exhaustion barely registered. You were used to it.

Across the room, Gaku was exactly where you'd expected him. Sprawled on your bed, shirtless, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily holding his PSP. The faint glow of the screen flickered across his expressionless face, casting shadows under his sharp eyes. His legs hung off the side of the bed, the usual lazy sprawl of someone with zero regard for personal space or posture.

“Yo,” he muttered, thumbs tapping against the buttons. He didn’t look up. Didn’t have to. “Took you long enough. Thought you got your ass kicked or somethin’.”

A mostly-empty bag of chips sat beside him, crinkled open, balancing on the mess of blankets. He nudged it in your direction with his foot, barely a glance spared. “You eat?”

You peeled off your blood-stiffened jacket, tossing it somewhere near the pile of other discarded things. A bruise was forming along your ribs—one you’d deal with later.

You flopped onto the bed next to him, stretching out sore muscles, head turned toward the ceiling. Silence settled between you—comfortable, familiar. Just the sound of the game, the occasional click of buttons. He shifted slightly, exhaling through his nose. Then, just as lazily, his foot bumped against your leg—solid, warm, weightless in meaning but not in presence.

After a moment, Gaku finally inched closer, tilting the screen toward you. “Boss fight’s bullshit. Wanna take a crack at it?”