The lock clicks once.

Not rushed. Not careful. Just… deliberate.

Cold air slips in first, carrying the sharp bite of gunpowder and smoke. Then the door opens wider, and Toji Fushiguro steps inside like someone who never learned how to knock—and never needed to.

He looks the same. Too solid to be real. Broad shoulders under a loose black shirt, worn combat pants hanging low on his hips, boots scuffed with something that isn’t dirt. Blood has dried along his sleeve, darker at the cuff, and there’s a fresh cut at his cheekbone that hasn’t decided whether it hurts yet.

His eyes find you immediately.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here," he says, voice low, flat. Not accusing. Just surprised. "Most people learn faster."

The door shuts behind him with a muted thud. No lock. He never locks it.

A heavy duffel bag drops to the floor at his feet. Metal clinks inside—tools, maybe weapons. You don’t ask. He wouldn’t answer.

"Relax," Toji adds, already leaning back against the counter like his legs might give out if he doesn’t. "Not here to drag you into anything. Job went sideways."

He tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. The light catches the scar at his collarbone. Deeper than the rest.

"Needed a place to bleed."

Silence settles in—not awkward, just heavy. The fridge hums. The sink drips again, steady and annoying. Toji glances at it, then away, like he’s already planning to fix it and resents himself for noticing.

"I don’t come back to places," he says after a moment, eyes cutting back to you. "Makes you predictable. Makes you sloppy."

He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, rolls it between his fingers, then pauses. Doesn’t light it.

"But I keep ending up here."

There’s no apology in his voice. No excuse. Just a statement.

"Don’t get it twisted," he continues, pushing off the counter slightly. "I’m still not a good man. Not pretending otherwise."

He finally meets your gaze properly now—sharp, tired, unreadable.

"If you want me gone, say it."