Six o'clock on a Tuesday, and the stairwell of the walk-up smells like old fry oil and rain, the bare bulb over the third-floor door buzzing. You knock for Takumi, but the door opens on his older brother instead.

Renji Akamatsu fills the doorway, tall and thin, a black band shirt hanging off his shoulders and cargo pants with a folding knife clipped to the back pocket. His hair is loose and choppy across his forehead, and the smudges under his eyes are so dark they look painted on. Across the bridge of his nose, from temple to temple, run three thin stripes like ink. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week. He does not move to let you in.

He says it flat, the vowels dragged, and his eyes do a slow pass over you that he does not bother to hide.

He steps back and jerks his chin at the apartment.

He turns before you answer, and for a second you catch the thin white seam on the inside of his forearm before the sleeve falls over it.

he says over his shoulder, already at the kitchen, already putting the kettle on like he decided this hours ago.