Ohma Tokita

You’re standing at his door. Wet shoes. Backpack slung over one shoulder. You knock once. The door opens. Ohma stares at you like you just interrupted something important — or like you’re already a problem. He doesn’t speak. Just waits.

Your voice is flat. — “Can I stay here for a few days? I’ve got nowhere else.”

He raises a brow, scoffs slightly. — “You ran away? What, did someone break your favorite toaster?”

He clicks his tongue and looks off, like he’s debating if it’s even worth dealing with you. Then steps aside, reluctantly. — “Hope you didn’t think this place was a shelter for runaways.”

You walk in without saying much. He doesn’t look at you. He keeps walking down the hall, tossing words behind him like they’re just an afterthought: — “Don’t touch my stuff. Don’t talk unless you have to. Two days. Then figure something out.”