Chapter 6: New Home
The whiskey left a dull thrum behind her eyes, a fuzzy blanket over the sharp edges of her fear. Romi lay on the pull-out couch, the thin mattress lumpy and unfamiliar, and stared at the water stain on the ceiling above Shouma’s bed. It looked like a distorted map of a country she’d never visit.
Her phone was on the floor beside her, screen down. Every muscle in her body was tensed, waiting for it to vibrate, for that unknown number to summon her to the clinic. Three glasses of whiskey on an empty stomach. She’d be over the legal limit for hours. The thought of trying to suture a wound, her fingers clumsy and vision slightly blurred, made her stomach twist.
She could hear the slow, even sound of Shouma’s breathing from the bed. He was awake. She knew he was awake. He’d been lying in the same position for an hour, a statue under a single sheet.
“You’re going to have a hell of a hangover,” his voice cut through the dark, low and rough.
“I’ll manage.”
“You’d better. We might get a call.”
“I know.” She turned onto her side, facing the back of the couch, pulling the blanket over her head. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
“Why did you drink it?” he asked.
The question hung there. Why? Because the memory of his hands, gentle on her scraped knee, was suddenly more painful than the sight of his knuckles, raw and split. Because the image of him watching her father through a construction fence was a ghost she couldn’t exorcise. Because for a few minutes, the whiskey made the walls of his sterile, miserable apartment feel less like a prison.
She didn’t answer him.
After a while, she heard the soft creak of his bed as he turned over. The room fell back into a tense quiet, broken only by the distant siren that eventually faded into the night. Sleep, when it finally came, was a black and dreamless void.
The buzzing was an insect trapped in her skull. Romi fumbled for her phone, her mouth dry and cottony. The screen glowed: 7:14 AM. No calls. No messages. Just the alarm she’d set out of habit.
She sat up, a dull ache pulsing behind her temples. Shouma’s bed was empty, the sheets pulled tight. The smell of cheap coffee filled the small space. He was standing at the kitchenette, dressed in a fresh black t-shirt and jeans, pouring a second mug. He slid it across the counter toward her without a word.
She took it. The coffee was bitter and strong. She drank it black, wincing as it hit her raw stomach.
“You look like shit,” he remarked, his tone neutral.
“Feel like it.” She watched him as he moved around the tiny kitchen, his movements efficient and contained. The events of the previous night—the broken door, the whiskey bottle, his bloodied shoulder—felt like scenes from a bad movie. In the grey morning light, they were just two people sharing a cramped, ugly apartment.
He finished his coffee in two long gulps and placed the mug in the sink with a definitive clink. The silence between them was a physical thing, weighted with everything unsaid from the night before. Romi’s head pounded in time with her heartbeat.
“I can’t stay here,” she said, the words feeling too loud.
“No one’s asking you to.”
“I mean, I need a new place. My own place.” She took a steadying breath, the coffee churning in her gut. “Do you have any suggestions? For a safe apartment complex, I mean. I’ve got the day off. I was going to look around today.”
He went very still, his back to her. She watched the muscles in his shoulders tighten beneath the black cotton. He turned slowly, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. “You think you can just go apartment hunting?”
“I have to live somewhere.”
“You think the Gotō crew is just going to let you settle into a nice new building with a security intercom?” He shook his head, a short, dismissive motion. “They know your name. They know your face. Every rental office you walk into, you’re leaving a paper trail a mile wide.”
“So what, I just live on your couch forever?”
“It’s not safe, Romi.”
“Neither is being a target in a flimsy apartment with a broken door!” she shot back, her voice rising. The hangover made her temper thin, the fear from last night curdling into frustration. “I can’t just hide. I have to try.”
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze tracing the determined set of her jaw, the dark circles under her eyes. He let out a slow breath, the fight seeming to drain out of him, replaced by a weary practicality. “Fine.” He walked to the table and scribbled an address on a scrap of paper. “Not a complex. It’s a building. The landlord knows my family. He doesn’t ask questions.”
She took the paper. The writing was sharp and angular, like him.
“Don’t go alone,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll take you.”
The building was a concrete slab, grey and unremarkable, tucked between a pachinko parlor and a wholesaler for kitchen supplies. A man with a bored expression and ink-darkened fingertips met them at a side entrance, nodding once at Shouma before leading them inside. The air smelled of fresh paint and floor cleaner, a stark contrast to the alley stench clinging to Shouma’s jacket.
The apartment was on the third floor, at the end of a quiet hallway. It was a single room with a tiny bathroom annex, everything beige and functional. The windows were new, double-paned, and looked out onto a quiet interior courtyard. It was clean. It was anonymous. A blank space.
“It’s adequate,” Romi said, running a hand over the cool metal of the kitchenette counter. It was more than adequate; it was a sanctuary. She could picture her textbooks on the table, could imagine sleeping through the night without listening for the sound of breaking locks.
Shouma stood near the door, his arms crossed, his presence making the small room feel even smaller. He’d been silent during the entire tour, a brooding shadow. The landlord mumbled something about utilities and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence stretched. She looked from the clean, empty space back to him, to the perpetual tension in his shoulders. A question formed, one that had been nagging at her since she’d woken up on his stark pull-out couch.
“Why don’t you live in a place like this?” she asked. “It’s secure. It’s quiet.”
He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the blank wall. “It’s a cage with better windows.”
“It’s better than that… fortress you call an apartment.”
“That fortress is what I am.” He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. The flatness in them was more unsettling than any anger. “This place is for people who still believe they can have a normal life. I gave up on that a long time ago.”
The confession landed between them, heavy and absolute. He wasn’t just protecting her from the Gotō crew. He was protecting this illusion of normalcy, this chance for a life he believed was forever beyond his reach. He saw her as someone who could still slip back into that world, while he was forever anchored in the dark.
He pushed off the doorframe, the moment broken. “I’ll have your things moved from your old place. Don’t go back there.”
He turned to leave, his hand already on the doorknob of the bland, beige apartment. The finality in his voice, that flat warning, left a chill in the sterile air. Romi hugged her arms, the reality of being completely untethered starting to sink in.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, the vibration startling in the quiet room. She fumbled for it, expecting another unknown number, another demand. The screen showed the clinic’s main line. Her heart sank.
“Yeah?” she answered, her voice tight.
Shouma paused at the door, watching her, his body tensed for bad news.
“Kitsuhara?” It was the old administrator, his voice crackling down the line. “Tanaka’s back. His pneumonia cleared up. We’re reinstating the regular schedule.” He sounded almost cheerful. “You’re off tonight. We’ll have a proper rotation going forward.”
The words didn’t compute for a second. Off. A rotation. Days that were her own.
“Oh,” she managed, a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding finally escaping. “That’s… that’s great. Thank you.”
She ended the call, the plastic phone feeling suddenly light in her hand. She looked up at Shouma, who was still waiting, his expression unreadable. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, sharp and disbelieving.
“I’m off,” she said, the words feeling foreign and wonderful on her tongue. “Tanaka’s back. I don’t have to go in tonight.”
She actually cheered, a short, breathy sound that echoed in the empty space. It was the first purely good thing to happen in weeks. No blood, no envelopes of cash, no waiting for a call in the dark. Just a free evening.
A faint, almost imperceptible shift occurred in Shouma’s posture. The readiness for a fight eased from his shoulders. He gave a single, slow nod. “Good.”
He pulled the door open, the hallway light spilling in. “I’ll still have your things moved. Stay here until I get back.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, the sudden freedom making her bold.
“I have to report in.” He didn’t look back at her. “The discussion from last night. They’ll want details.”
The image of the blood soaking through his t-shirt flashed in her mind, vivid and unpleasant. The cheer she’d felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold dread. His world didn’t stop just because hers had granted a temporary pardon.
He stepped out into the hall, the door starting to swing shut behind him. Romi took a sudden step forward. “Shouma.”
He stopped, half-turned, his profile sharp in the fluorescent light. The scar on his eyebrow was a pale slash.
She had no idea what to say. Be careful was pointless. Thank you felt inadequate for the violence he’d committed on her behalf. The silence stretched, taut and awkward.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she finally said, the words coming out rougher than she intended.
A ghost of something—amusement, irony—flickered in his dark eyes. He didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the linoleum hallway until there was only silence. She was alone in her new, safe, anonymous cage, the taste of fleeting freedom already turning to ash.
She was alone in her new, safe, anonymous cage, the taste of fleeting freedom already turning to ash. The silence was a physical presence, thick and humming in the empty space. She walked to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass, and watched the quiet courtyard below where nothing moved.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, shattering the stillness. It was a text from Shouma.
Some of the guys are heading to your old place now. They’ll have your stuff here in an hour.
A cold dread, entirely separate from the threat of the Gotō crew, washed over her. Her mind flashed to her bedroom, to the drawers filled with intimate things. Her fingers flew across the screen, typing in a frantic, all-caps response.
DON’T LET THEM GO THROUGH MY PERSONAL BELONGINGS. JUST BOX EVERYTHING FROM THE DRESSER AND CLOSET. DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING.
She hit send, her face burning with a sudden, hot blush. The idea of those rough, unknown men handling her clothes, folding her lingerie, was a violation of a different kind. It was stupid, a trivial worry in the grand scheme, but it felt intensely personal.
Her phone buzzed again almost instantly. Shouma’s reply was typically blunt.
Relax. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before.
She stared at the words, a fresh wave of humiliation mixing with a spark of pure irritation. Of course he’d say that. Of course that was the level of sensitivity she could expect. She threw her phone onto the counter where it skittered to a stop, the screen darkening.
For the next forty-five minutes, she paced the beige perimeter of the room, her stomach in knots. Every sound from the hallway made her jump. When a firm, heavy knock finally came, she flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs. She peered through the peephole.
Two large men in tracksuits stood there, arms laden with cardboard boxes. She unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
“Where you want it?” the one in front grunted, not meeting her eyes.
“Just… just inside the door is fine,” she said, her voice tight.
They worked with a quiet, efficient economy, stacking box after box in a growing tower just inside the entrance. They didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at the boxes’ contents. Her small table, her lamp, her books. It was all there, a life condensed into a precarious pile. One of them placed a final, smaller box on top. Through the loose cardboard flap, she could see the lacy edge of a black bra.
Her cheeks flushed again. She looked away quickly.
“That’s it,” the man said, and they turned to leave without another word.
The door clicked shut, returning her to silence. She was surrounded by the sealed cardboard containers of her old existence. The only thing out of place was that one box, its contents spilling into view like a secret she’d failed to keep. She walked over and carefully, deliberately, folded the flap shut, tucking the evidence of her previous life back into darkness.
She stared at the wall of boxes, a monument to a life dismantled. The urge to unpack warred with a deeper exhaustion, the kind that seeped into bone. Instead, she dragged the box with her textbooks into the middle of the room, creating a solitary island of familiarity in the beige sea.
The sharp buzz of the intercom made her jump. She crossed the room, her socked feet silent on the bare floor. "Yes?"
"It's me." Shouma's voice was a staticky growl through the speaker.
She pressed the button to unlock the building's main door, her pulse doing that strange, anxious skip it reserved only for him. A few minutes later, a heavy knock landed on her apartment door. He stood there, holding two large plastic bags that smelled overwhelmingly of grease and soy sauce. He looked her up and down, then glanced past her at the fortress of unpacked boxes.
"Looks homey," he said, his tone dry.
"It's a work in progress." She stepped aside to let him in. "What's all that?"
He hefted the bags. "Takeout. Figured you'd be hungry." He set the bags on the kitchen counter, the only clear surface. He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on the single textbook lying open. "So this is how the other half lives. How's the redecorating going?"
"Can't you tell? I'm going for 'recently burgled' chic."
A faint snort escaped him. He started pulling containers from the bags—steamed rice, glistening gyoza, vibrant stir-fried vegetables. The rich, savory smells began to overpower the scent of new paint. He paused, holding a container of teriyaki chicken, and looked at her.
"You're celebrating your night off," he stated. "What do you want to drink?"
The question was so ordinary it felt disorienting. She thought of the whiskey, of the dull throb it had left behind. "Something that won't punish me tomorrow. Beer is fine."
He nodded, pulling two cold cans from the bottom of one bag. He popped the tab on one and handed it to her. The condensation was cold against her palm. He opened his own, took a long swallow, and then gestured with the can towards the boxes. "You need a hand with any of this?"
She looked at the mountain of her past life, then at the food, then at him, standing awkwardly in the middle of her new, empty space. The normalcy of the moment was a fragile, foreign object.
"Food first," she said, cracking a smile. "Decorating later."
They ate sitting on the floor, their backs against different boxes, using the lids of the containers as plates. The first cold sip of beer was a perfect, crisp relief. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the clink of chopsticks and the distant hum of the city through the double-paned glass.
He finished his food quickly, efficiently, and leaned his head back against a box labeled "Winter Clothes." He closed his eyes, the fluorescent light catching the pale line of his scar. The silence wasn't comfortable, but it was a truce.
Romi watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. The knuckles on his left hand, resting on his knee, were still scraped raw. The "discussion" he'd had. The one she didn't want to think about.
He opened his eyes and caught her staring. He didn't move, just held her gaze in the quiet, beige room. The momentum of the day, of their shared history, hung suspended between them in the smell of teriyaki and the chill of the beer can in her hand.
The silence stretched, thin and brittle. Romi took another sip of beer, the aluminum cool against her lip. She needed to break this, to do something with her hands before the weight of everything he wasn’t saying crushed her.
“I should start on these,” she said, nodding toward the tower of boxes. “Might as well make it look like someone lives here.”
Shouma just grunted, his eyes tracking her as she pushed herself up from the floor. She scanned the labels, her handwriting a frantic scrawl from a different life. ‘Books’, ‘Kitchen’, ‘Winter Clothes’. Her fingers brushed against a smaller, unlabeled box tucked behind the others. The cardboard was softer, older.
She pulled it out, the dust making her nose itch. This one wasn’t from the move. She must have grabbed it in her panic, a relic from the top shelf of her old closet. The flaps weren’t even sealed, just folded over each other.
A faint, familiar scent of cedar and dried flowers wafted out. Her breath caught. She knew what this was. She hadn’t seen it in years. Slowly, she lifted the flap.
Inside, nestled in yellowed tissue paper, was the faded notes and mementos she had exchanged with friends in her school days. The air in the apartment shifted, filling with the ghost of pencil shavings and old glue.
“What’s that?” Shouma asked, his voice pulling her from the memory. He had moved to sit on a nearby box, watching her.
“Just… junk from high school,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. She tried to close the flaps, to shove the past back into darkness.
“Let’s see.” He reached out, not for the box, but to gently tap the lid. “Open some. I want to see if I can remember any of the names.” A faint, challenging smile touched his lips. “Bet they’re all doctors and lawyers now.”
She hesitated, the paper fragile under her fingertips. Then, with a sigh that was part resignation, part curiosity, she carefully lifted out the first layer. A pressed cherry blossom fluttered to the floor. She picked up a small, folded square of notebook paper.
“‘Romi-chan,’” she read aloud, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “‘Can I copy your notes from history? I was totally asleep. You’re the best! — Aiko.’” She looked up at him. “Ring any bells? Aiko Tanaka?”
Shouma’s brow furrowed in concentration, a stark contrast to his usual expression of flat readiness. “Glasses? Braces? Cried when she didn’t get the top score on a math test?”
“That’s the one. She’s a pharmacist now.”
He snorted. “Of course she is.”
They laughed, a real, unforced sound that felt alien in the sterile room. She unfolded another, this one decorated with poorly drawn hearts. A confession from a boy named Kenji, who she’d barely remembered. They traded a few more, the names pulling forgotten faces from the depths of memory, building a fragile bridge back to a simpler time. The laughter was a temporary balm.
Then her fingers brushed a different paper. The fold was clumsy, the paper a cheap, blue-lined sheet torn from a notebook. Her own name was scrawled on the outside in a boy’s frantic handwriting. She knew that script. Her breath hitched.
She saw one between her and him.
The air went out of the room. The playful energy vanished, replaced by a thick, charged silence. She didn’t pick it up. She just stared at it, a fossil from a buried stratum of her life.
“What is it?” Shouma asked, his voice losing its light edge.
She didn’t answer. She slowly, carefully, picked up the blue note. It felt heavier than it should. She unfolded it. The message inside was short, just two lines, written in a rush.
Meet me at the lot after school. Important.
— Shouma
There was no date, but she didn’t need one. She remembered the weight of that note in her palm, the frantic beat of her sixteen-year-old heart. She remembered waiting for over an hour in the empty lot, the sinking feeling as the sun dipped below the houses. He never came. The next week, her family was gone.
She looked up from the paper and directly at him. The man on the box had gone very still, his face a carefully constructed blank. But his eyes were fixed on the note in her hand, and in their dark depths, she saw a flicker of the boy who had written it.
“You never came,” she said, the words barely a whisper.
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t offer an excuse. He just held her gaze, the distance between them no longer measured in feet, but in a decade of silence and a single, broken promise. The scar on his eyebrow seemed to stand out, pale and stark against his skin.
“My father found it,” he said, his voice low and rough, stripped bare. “He found it in my jacket. That was the day he sat me down. The day he explained everything.” He swallowed, the motion tight. “What our family was. What his family had done. What was expected of me.”
The confession landed not with a shout, but with the quiet finality of a stone dropping into deep water. The ‘important’ thing he’d needed to tell her was likely a desperate, boyish plan to run away, a secret rebellion that was crushed before it could even begin. His father’s lesson had started that afternoon, with the interception of a blue note.
He looked away, breaking the connection, his jaw tightening. “I couldn’t go.”
Romi stared at the faded ink, the two-line message that had unknowingly been the fork in the road for both of them. All the anger and confusion of the past weeks, the resentment over her father’s ruin, crystallized in this single, small artifact. It wasn’t just business. It was personal, deeply and terribly personal, stretching back to the beginning.
She carefully refolded the note, the creases sharp against her fingers. The fragile normalcy of the evening was gone, shattered by the truth. She placed it back in the box, on top of the yellowed tissue paper, and closed the lid.
Shouma remained seated on the box, his shoulders slumped, staring at a crack in the floor. The imposing yakuza was gone, replaced by a man haunted by the choices of a boy who never had a choice at all. The momentum of their shared history finally, irrevocably, tipped forward, leaving them both stranded in its wake.