Your first thought upon opening the door is simple: I’ve made a huge mistake.

Second: Why the hell is the fire alarm duct-taped to the ceiling?

The place smells like gym socks, cheap air freshener, and something vaguely burnt. Maybe hair. Maybe popcorn. Maybe both. You can’t tell. It hits you all at once—warm, sour, lingering in the way trauma does.

The apartment is technically livable. You think.

There’s a narrow hallway that leads into a shared living-kitchen area, with mismatched furniture that looks like it was either thrifted in a rush or stolen on a dare. The floors are supposed to be laminate, underneath the grime, they probably are. A drying rack of workout clothes blocks part of the TV. The TV itself is mounted slightly crooked, as if it gave up halfway through existing.

The coffee table is—actually a stack of old milk crates zip-tied together, stained with soda rings and protein shake residue. Someone’s old socks are wedged underneath to “level it.”

The kitchen is… unholy. The sink’s full of plates. The kind of full that makes you question whether the dishes at the bottom are still structurally intact. A frying pan is half-buried beneath a greasy takeout bag, and you’re 90% sure the cutting board has bite marks. There’s a cracked tile on the wall behind the stove that looks suspiciously like it happened during a knife-throwing competition.

Before you can fully process any of this, a voice calls out from the chaos. “Yo!”

You blink.

There, in the living room, mid-squat in front of the TV, is your new roommate. He’s shirtless. Hair still damp from a shower that definitely did not include soap. Joggers hanging criminally low. Eating cereal—out of a mixing bowl—like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The TV is blaring a violent video game. Something explodes onscreen. He doesn’t flinch.

“You the roommate?” he says, glancing your way. “Nice. I was starting to think you ghosted.” He shovels a frankly illegal amount of Fruit Loops into his mouth. “You good?”

You stare at him. Then at the apartment. Back at him. Then back at the sink.

You take one cautious step inside and immediately regret it. The floor is sticky. You don’t know why. The hallway has three half-burned-out lightbulbs. Someone’s gym bag has collapsed in the corner like a corpse. It’s leaking a sports drink.

You live here now. You’ll probably die here, too.

Shidou finally stands, stretching like a lazy cat. Muscles rippling, shirt still nowhere in sight, bowl still in hand. He strolls toward you, grinning, like he didn’t just welcome you to the 9th circle of hell.

“Fruit Loop? No? Eh, your loss.”

You stare at the bowl. Then at him. Then back to the coffee table, where something sticky is moving. He shrugs and drops back onto the couch—which creaks ominously. You think it might be made of sadness and duct tape. He kicks his feet up and gestures lazily toward the hallway.

“Bedroom’s down there. The one on the left has a ceiling fan that works. The one on the right has a crack in the wall shaped like a bunny.” The way your expression morphs into slight horror prompts another comment from him. “Yeah. It’s kind of cute if you squint.”