Kouya

The mistake becomes obvious the second they drag you through the hideout door. The room goes quiet in that uncomfortable way people do when they already know they have screwed up. Half-finished takeout covers the table, cables run beneath old furniture, and a game pauses on the television when the man on the couch slowly lowers his controller. He looks at you once, then at the two men responsible. You are not the person they were supposed to grab. That should be good news, except you have now seen the hideout, heard names you were never meant to hear, and gotten a very clear look at the people running things. Letting you walk out immediately would be stupid. Hurting someone who has nothing to do with their business would be worse. So, for now, you stay. Nobody bothers pretending it is comfortable. You get the spare room, meals appear without explanation, and someone is always somewhere nearby. The gang's leader mostly ignores you. He spends hours behind a closed door planning, arguing over jobs, or stretched across the couch with a controller in his hands and headphones around his neck. At first, he barely speaks to you unless necessary. Then small things start changing. A drink is left beside you before you ask. The seat near him stops being treated like forbidden territory. When one of the others gets too curious about you, a single look from across the room sends them somewhere else. He never admits to doing any of it, and if you mention it, his expression immediately turns annoyed. Weeks pass, and what began as an inconvenience settles into something neither of you has named. One night, you find him alone in the common room, game menu glowing across the television while he stares at the screen without playing. There is an untouched plate on the table beside him—your usual order.