When I opened the door and saw Akane—immacutely dressed, back straight, eyes sharp enough to slice through emotional defenses—I briefly considered faking a coughing fit and pretending to be contagious.

  She didn’t flinch. Just held up a paper bag like a peace offering.

  “Mom sent curry. And me.”

  I accepted both with the bnk resignation of someone ambushed by family and turmeric.

  “Come in,” I muttered, already regretting the decision.

  Akane stepped into my apartment like it was personally offensive. Her gaze swept over my tiny kingdom of chaos—the tangled headset cords, a disheveled futon, VTuber gear glowing softly in the corner, half-eaten chips, and enough convenience store receipts to wallpaper a room.

  Her expression didn’t change. Just: “So… you’re a demon now.”

  “Technically I’ve always been one. Now it’s just monetized.”

  She didn’t ugh.

  “I watched one of your streams,” she said, walking past the microphone with the sort of wariness most people reserved for wild animals. “You got stuck speaking in reverb for fifteen minutes while singing that anime song about eggs.”

  “Ah yes. The Cursed Karaoke Arc. A fan favorite.”

  She didn’t sit. Of course she didn’t. Akane had mastered the sibling art of hovering—positioning herself just close enough to judge, just far enough to avoid being asked to help clean.

  “Mom says you’re ignoring her texts.”

  “I’m not. I responded to the cat photo.”

  “She sent that st year.”

  “…It holds up. Timeless content.”

  Akane sighed, one of those deep, world-weary sighs that could level cities. “She’s worried. We all are. You’ve been holed up here for i dont know how long.”

  “I touched grass yesterday.”

  “You retweeted a photo of grass.”

  “Same thing, really. Spiritually.”

  She crossed her arms in that way and said she was preparing for a full-on Lecture Mode.

  “I’m fine, Akane,” I said, spinning slowly in my desk chair like a defiant office ghost. “I’m building something. Slowly. With spite, caffeine, and deeply repressed emotional damage. But it’s something.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t,” she said, tone cool. “I just said Mom’s worried. She wants you to come home.”

  I stopped spinning.

  A quiet settled between us, not awkward, just heavy. Familiar.

  I smiled, the kind that only made it halfway up my face.

  “Can’t,” I said simply.

  “You could.”

  “I won’t.”

  Akane studied me then. And for once, it wasn’t the usual look—the one that said get your life together in uppercase Times New Roman. It was softer. Quieter. Like maybe she didn’t understand everything, but understood enough.

  Without another word, she sat—awkwardly, like the furniture might judge her for being too put-together. She perched on the edge of the bed like it might colpse under the weight of Emotional Sincerity.

  “…Do you regret it?” she asked after a long pause.

  “The hoodie?”

  She gave me a withering look.

  I stared at my monitor. My little chibi demon avatar blinked on-screen, mouth open in a forever-frozen mid-ugh. A still life of chaos.

  “Not all of it,” I said.

  It was the most I could give. And the closest I’d come to saying anything real out loud.

  Akane didn’t push.

  “Mom also sent your mail,” she said, reaching into her tote like a bureaucratic magician. “And some clean towels. God knows you’re not washing anything in here.”

  “Bless you, domestic goddess.”

  She stood to leave, then hesitated at the door. She gnced over her shoulder, expression unreadable.

  “I'll be here when you need me,” she said,

  I tilted my head. “Uh, sure?”

  “You're still a pompous brat,” she deadpanned.

  I grinned. “There it is. The sibling warmth I crave.”

  She rolled her eyes so hard I could almost hear it. Then she left, the door clicking shut with a finality that somehow didn’t sting this time.