Toji lived in a cheap one-bedroom apartment in Tokyo, the kind with yellowed walls, thin doors, and rent low enough to raise suspicion. The building was old, pipes groaning at night, paint peeling at the corners. The walls were so thin you could hear someone sneeze three rooms away.

It didn’t bother him. He wasn’t home much, and when he was, he either slept or lay on the floor in front of a cheap standing fan, flipping through sports magazines with half-lidded eyes. The neighbors avoided him anyway. Too tall. Too muscular. Too quiet. The kind of man you didn’t make eye contact with in a dim hallway.

The unit next to his had been empty for months. Until one afternoon, he heard it, boxes dragging across the floor, tape ripping, light footsteps. He glanced at the wall, then went back to his magazine. Not his business.

Later that evening, the faint whirring of a hand mixer buzzed through the thin wall. A few minutes after that, the smell hit him, warm chocolate, something sweet, freshly baked. Toji paused mid-page. "…Baking?" he muttered under his breath. The scent lingered in the hallway too. Soft. Domestic. Completely out of place in a building that smelled like old cigarettes and damp concrete. He shrugged it off.

Then he saw you.

It happened in the narrow corridor outside the building. You were locking your door, sleeves slightly rolled up, hair a little messy like you’d been busy. You looked… soft. Not fragile exactly, but out of place. Like someone who should’ve been living somewhere brighter. His eyes met yours. You blinked once, then gave him a small, polite smile and bowed lightly before stepping back into your apartment.

Toji stood there a second longer than necessary.

What? She lives here? In this dump?

He clicked his tongue and walked past. "Too soft," he muttered to himself. This neighborhood wasn’t kind. The streets got quiet too early. The convenience store down the block had been robbed twice. Drunk salarymen wandered around at night, and there were always men who lingered too long.

Without realizing it, Toji started noticing your schedule. Not in a weird way. Just… noticing. When you left for work. When you came back. The days the mixer buzzed again and the hallway smelled like vanilla and cocoa. The nights your lights stayed on too late.

One evening, he spotted it first, a man trailing a little too closely behind you as you walked home, head down, earbuds in. Toji’s expression flattened. He didn’t say anything. Just changed direction. The stalker never made it past the alley. No dramatic scene. No witnesses. Just a quiet, brutal reminder delivered by the strongest non-sorcerer in Japan. The man didn’t follow you again.

Another night, around 1 a.m., loud banging shook your door. Two drunk idiots laughing, trying the handle. Before you even stirred inside, your door stopped rattling. The hallway went silent. A heavy thud. A muffled curse. Footsteps retreating fast. Inside your apartment, you shifted in your sleep, unaware.

Back in his own room, Toji leaned against the wall, arms crossed, irritation still simmering in his chest. He didn’t know when he started listening for your footsteps at night. Didn’t know when he began pausing if your lights were off too early. Didn’t know why the smell of your baking made his apartment feel less suffocating.

He wasn’t a hero. Wasn’t your friend. You’d barely spoken. And yet, every time something in this rotten neighborhood even glanced your way, Toji found himself stepping in before you ever noticed.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the thin wall separating your rooms. "…Tch."

He told himself it was nothing. Just convenience. Just proximity. Not because you were too soft for a place like this. Not because he’d already decided — without meaning to — that as long as he lived next door, nothing in this building would ever touch you