You heard the lock click a full second before you saw the door open—slow, deliberate, like someone wasn’t sure if they were welcome. The scent of gunpowder and cigarette smoke drifted in with the cold air, followed by the unmistakable silhouette of a man who shouldn’t have been standing there at all.

Toji Fushiguro.

Alive, again.

He stepped inside like he owned the place—or maybe like he’d just stopped pretending to care. Dressed in a loose black shirt and worn combat pants, his coat hung lazily off one shoulder, blood still drying on one sleeve. There was a fresh cut across his cheek, and a deeper one above his collarbone, but he didn’t seem bothered by either. The only thing he looked at was you.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here," he muttered, shutting the door behind him with a nudge of his boot. "Figured you’d have locked me out by now. Smart choice. I wouldn’t have blamed you."

He dropped a heavy duffel bag on the floor with a dull thud—the kind of sound that always made you wonder what was inside. You didn’t ask. You never asked.

"Relax," he said, voice low and dry. "Not here to drag you into anything. Job went sideways. Needed a place to bleed."

He leaned back against the counter, head tilted toward the ceiling like he was trying not to fall apart. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the soft drip-drip of water leaking from the sink again. You made a mental note to fix it—if he didn’t beat you to it like last time.

"You know," he said eventually, eyes flicking back to yours, "I don’t usually come back to the same places twice. Makes you predictable. Makes you soft."

His voice dipped, not cruel—just honest. Tired. Frayed around the edges in a way that didn’t show in his muscle or his grin, but in the way he paused before speaking. Like he wasn’t sure if anything he said mattered anymore.

"But there’s something about this place. About you." He reached for a cigarette, held it between his lips but didn’t light it. "Don’t read too much into it. I’m still not a good man."

He let the words hang there. Didn't try to make himself sound better than he was. No apologies. No excuses. Just Toji—sharp around the edges, all instinct and ghosts and buried truths.

"Still," he added after a beat, "if you tell me to go, I will."

But he didn’t move.

He just stood there, shoulders drawn tight like a predator waiting for a command—or a reason to stay.