Chapter Text
The key turned stiffly in the lock, the sound of the deadbolt clicking open louder than K intended. He winced, hoping it hadn’t woken Taki. The apartment smelled like instant noodles and exhaustion.
Inside, the only light came from the laptop screen still open on the floor. Taki was slumped over his math notebook, one arm curled under his head like a pillow, the other dangling off the edge of the couch. A pencil rolled from his limp fingers onto the carpet.
K crouched beside him, careful not to jostle the couch. Taki’s eyebrows were pinched even in sleep—the same look he got when he was trying to solve a problem he didn’t want to admit was too hard. The notebook was covered in half-finished equations, some smudged where his cheek had pressed against the page.
He thought about waking him, but Taki had school in five hours. Instead, K gently slid the notebook out from under his brother’s arm and set it on the coffee table. The laptop screen showed a paused lecture video, some university-level physics tutorial Taki had no business watching at sixteen. K closed it without saving.
The fridge hummed in the kitchen, its contents sparse: a carton of eggs, two energy drinks, and a container of leftovers from Euijoo’s last visit. K’s stomach growled, but he ignored it.
K peeled off his grease-stained convenience store apron and tossed it onto the chair by the door. The motion sent a crumpled bill fluttering to the floor—the one he kept meaning to pay, the one with the red stamp that said FINAL NOTICE. He left it there.
Five years ago, their parents had been arguing about money in the car. That was the last thing K remembered clearly—his father’s raised voice, his mother’s quiet "not in front of the kids." Then headlights coming too fast from the wrong direction. The hospital social worker had handed him a folder with Taki’s custody papers like it was a takeout menu.
K stretched his back against the wall, feeling the pop of his spine. The graveyard shift at the gas station paid better, but his knees ached from standing eight hours straight. He could still smell the fake butter from the microwave popcorn he’d stocked all night.
K didn't bother with the futon. He'd wake Taki dragging it out from the closet, and the floor would have to do. He grabbed the spare blanket—the one with the stitching coming loose at the corner—and folded his jacket into a makeshift pillow. The carpet smelled faintly of ramen broth and old sneakers.
When K woke, it wasn't to his phone alarm. It was the sound of Taki hissing swear words in the kitchenette, followed by the clatter of a pan hitting the stove. K's eyelids peeled open like wet paper. Dawn light filtered through the curtains—too early for Taki to be up.
"Shit," Taki muttered again, quieter this time. K rolled onto his side in time to see his brother frantically dabbing at his school uniform with a dish towel. The front of his white shirt was streaked yellow. Scrambled eggs, probably.
K sat up too fast. The room tilted. "You're cooking?" His voice came out graveled with sleep.
Taki froze, then shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "Thought you'd want breakfast."
The pan on the stove held two sad-looking eggs, one flipped halfway onto its back. K's chest tightened. Taki couldn't even boil water without supervision.
"You're gonna be late," K said instead of thanking him.
Taki scowled, but it lacked heat. "So are you."
K checked his phone. 6:47 AM. His shift at the copy shop started at 7:30. He had thirteen minutes to catch the bus.
"Eat mine," he said, nodding at the eggs. "I'll grab something on the way."
Taki's mouth opened, then closed. They both knew K wouldn't.
K pocketed his phone as he clocked in. The copier behind him whirred to life, spitting out a stream of black-and-white handouts. Across the street, through the shop's grimy window, a silver sports car pulled up to the curb. The driver's side door opened, and a man in a tailored wool coat stepped out.
K's stomach dropped. He knew that car. Everyone in the neighborhood did.
Fuma tilted his head, spotting K through the glass. He raised one hand in a wave, crisp and practiced, like they were old friends instead of strangers.
The copier jammed with a sound like tearing paper.
The copier's shrill alarm cut through the shop's stale air. K didn't move. Fuma's polished Oxfords clicked against the pavement as he crossed the street, each step measured like he was walking onto a stage. The coat swung around his knees—cashmere, probably, the kind that cost more than K made in a month.
"Interesting machine," Fuma said by way of greeting, nodding at the smoking copier. His voice was smoother than K expected, with a lilt that made it sound like he was sharing a private joke. Up close, his cologne smelled like cedar and something citrusy, absurdly expensive against the reek of toner and cheap coffee.
K jammed his fist into the copier's guts. "It's a piece of shit." A strip of mangled paper came away in his hand.
Fuma chuckled, leaning one elbow on the counter. His watch glinted under the fluorescent lights—a slender silver thing with complications K couldn't name. "Euijoo said you were direct."
That got K's attention. His fingers stilled on the paper tray. "You know Euijoo?"
"Prep school," Fuma said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. Euijoo had mentioned some rich friend who'd gone to Switzerland or whatever, the kind of person who had "summer homes" plural. K hadn't realized he meant *this* kind of rich.
Fuma tapped a business card against the counter. Cream stock, embossed lettering. "I need someone discreet."
K wiped his inky hands on his jeans. The card said *Murata Holdings* with a downtown address. "For copying?"
"to keep house."
K stared at the business card like it might bite him. "Keep house?" he repeated, voice flat.
Fuma's smile didn't waver. He plucked a stray paperclip from the counter and twirled it between his fingers. "More like house-sitting with benefits. I travel often. The place needs someone to..." He gestured vaguely, the paperclip catching the light. "Keep the plants alive. Forward the mail. Maybe cook if you're inclined."
The copier let out a dying wheeze. K could feel his manager's eyes boring into his back from the break room. "I've got three jobs already."
Fuma flicked the paperclip onto the counter with a quiet *ping*. "You wouldn't even need to quit your other jobs," he said, tilting his head toward the still-smoking copier. "Just sleep there instead of—" His eyes flicked past K to the cracked linoleum floor, the flickering fluorescent light, the half-peeled "Employees Must Wash Hands" sign by the break room. He didn't finish the sentence.
K's jaw tightened. "Sleep where, exactly?"
"Penthouse. Four bedrooms." Fuma said it like listing the weather. "Though one's been converted into a recording studio. Nico's idea." He waved a hand before K could ask who Nico was. "Irrelevant. You'd have the main guest suite. Walk-in shower. King bed."
The copier chose that moment to eject a crumpled ball of paper like a mechanical cough. K resisted the urge to kick it. "What's the catch?"
"No catch." Fuma straightened his cuffs—an automatic gesture, K realized, not a nervous tell. The fabric whispered against itself. "I'm rarely home. When I am, I don't require...entertaining." His mouth quirked at whatever expression crossed K's face. "I mean I won't demand three-course meals at midnight. Order takeout. Charge it to the account."
K snorted. "And you're offering this why?"
Fuma's gaze drifted to the window where a delivery bike wobbled past. "Euijoo mentioned your brother."
K's fingers curled into fists. "Taki's none of your—"
"Smart kid. Top of his class despite the..." Fuma paused, his watch glinting. "Circumstances. My building's two blocks from his school." He paused. "There's a heated pool."
The words hung between them. K could see the trap—too clean, too easy. Rich people didn't hand out penthouses out of charity. Yet the image formed anyway: Taki coming home to an actual kitchen, doing homework at a table that wasn't foldable. No more listening for the landlord's footsteps at the end of the month.
"You'd have your own key," Fuma added, as if reading his thoughts. "No schedules. No curfews. Just water the monstera when it looks sad." He reached into his coat pocket and produced a keycard with a sleek black fob. "Week trial. No contract."
K stared at the keycard. It looked like something from a hotel, all matte finish and rounded edges. The kind of thing that probably opened gyms with towel service and elevators that didn't smell like urine. "You're serious."
"Deadly." Fuma laid the card atop his business card, aligning them precisely. "The monstera's name is Gerald, by the way. He's dramatic when thirsty."
Behind them, the copier gave a final shudder and went still. K's manager cleared his throat pointedly from the break room doorway.
Fuma didn't seem to notice. He checked his watch—a quick, practiced glance—then slid the cards toward K. "Think about it. Or don't. The offer expires in"—he snapped his fingers—"ten seconds." A beat. "Kidding. Take your time."
The bell above the door jingled as Fuma left. K didn't realize he'd picked up the keycard until he felt its weight in his palm—cool and solid, like the first real thing he'd touched in years.