Elliot barely made it three steps out of the school gate before he heard it:
"Oi, manager!"
He stopped walking. Eyes closed. Took a breath.
Didn't turn around.
"Manager!" she called again, voice bright and slicing clean through the chatter of the students around them.
He turned, slowly. Ami Yuzuki was already jogging up to him, schoolbag swinging wildly at her side, her red-tipped hair catching the late afternoon light like fire. She stopped in front of him with the casual smugness of someone who knew exactly how annoying she was and had made peace with it years ago.
"What do you want now?" he asked.
Ami smiled. "I'm walking you home."
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am."
"Why."
"Because I need to know where my manager lives." She said it like it was obvious. "What if I have a last-minute wardrobe malfunction and need emergency assistance?"
"Then you call a real adult."
"But you're my adult." She tilted her head. "Well, more like my emotionally stunted, grumpy teenage servant. But still. Same thing."
Elliot stared at her. He briefly considered sprinting, but he wasn't sure she wouldn't follow him anyway.
"Fine," he muttered, turning back toward the road. "Do whatever you want."
"I already do."
⸻
The walk home was longer than usual. Not because the distance changed, but because every street, every vending machine, every stray cat somehow prompted a question from Ami.
"Do you always take this route?"
"Is that your childhood trauma face, or your 'I hate humidity' face?"
"Do you think it's weird Japan doesn't have proper cheddar cheese?"
"Why are you so pale? Like emotionally pale?"
Elliot answered none of them.
By the time they reached the apartment building, he was exhausted. He stopped outside the door, hoping she'd get the message.
She didn't.
Instead, she looked up at the dull grey building and nodded to herself. "Hmm. Vaguely depressing. Kind of like you."
"Thanks."
"Let's go in. I'm starving."
"You're not invited."
"But I'm already here." She stepped past him like she belonged there. "And besides, don't you want your idol to meet your dear mother?"
Elliot didn't reply. He opened the door and let it swing wide.
"Don't touch anything," he muttered.
Ami entered with a dramatic gasp. "What a lovely minimalist aesthetic! So… empty. So emotionally distant. I love it."
⸻
His mum was in the kitchen, still in her office clothes, apron tied around her waist and hair pinned back. She looked up as they entered and blinked in mild surprise.
"Oh," she said. "You brought someone home."
"I didn't," Elliot said.
"Hi!" Ami beamed, stepping forward and giving a perfect, practiced bow. "I'm Yuzuki Ami. I'm in Elliot's class. We're working on… a project together."
His mother smiled. "A project?"
Elliot rolled his eyes.
"It's cultural," Ami added. "Lots of collaboration."
"I see," his mum said, visibly amused. "Well, you're welcome to stay for dinner. We're just having curry tonight."
Ami clasped her hands together like she'd just won a game show. "Curry! I love curry. British or Japanese?"
"Japanese," his mum laughed. "Though he complains either way."
Elliot sat at the table and put his head down.
⸻
Dinner was… weirdly normal.
Ami talked. A lot. But she was careful, choosing her words like she was performing on a show where points were deducted for revealing personal secrets. She asked polite questions about London, about Elliot's childhood, and nodded thoughtfully like she was building a psychological profile in real-time.
Elliot mostly stayed silent, eating slowly, glaring whenever Ami came close to saying something stupid.
Halfway through the meal, she leaned in slightly and slid a folded napkin across the table.
He glanced at it. Written in loopy pink pen was her phone number. Under it:
"You're on-call now. Emergency idol support hotline. Don't ghost me."
He sighed. Crumpled the napkin. Put it in his pocket anyway.
⸻
After dinner, Ami wandered the small living room like a museum exhibit, scanning the shelves. She picked up a book of poems, flipped through a few pages, and held it up.
"This explains everything," she said.
Elliot didn't look up. "Put it down."
"'I am not built for softness / only for surviving.'" She quoted, then whistled. "Dramatic. Were you always this emo?"
"I said put it down."
She did. Slowly.
His mum stepped in with tea. "Ami-chan, do your parents know where you are?"
"Oh, I told them I was staying late for practice. It's fine."
She paused. "They're not… very involved."
Elliot caught that shift in her tone — just for a second, it cracked. Not enough to spill. Just enough to make him pay attention.
⸻
When she stood to leave, the sky outside had turned violet.
"Thanks for dinner," she said brightly at the door. "And for letting me inspect your lair, Elliot. You should consider posters. Or furniture that isn't from a prison."
"Glad you enjoyed yourself," he muttered.
She handed him her phone. "Add yourself. So I can message you when things come up."
He did, begrudgingly.
Then she winked. "Friday night. Might be a gig. I'll confirm soon."
"What kind of gig?"
"The fun kind."
Then she whispered, low and close:
"Not… entirely legal."
Elliot stared.
She laughed and slipped out the door, waving.
He shut it behind her and leaned his forehead against the wood.
From the kitchen, his mum called, "She's sweet."
"No," he said. "She's chaos in human form."
His phone buzzed.
📲 Ami: "Tell your mum her curry slapped. Also bring extra batteries Friday."
He sighed. Deeply. Then typed:
Elliot: "If I get arrested, I'm blaming you."
📲 Ami: "If we get arrested, you're telling the cops I'm your cousin. 👍💖"
Elliot dropped his phone onto the bed and lay down, arms folded behind his head.
Above him, the ceiling hadn't changed. Still cracked. Still quiet.
But for the first time since arriving, it didn't feel quite so empty.