The door of Flat Eight does not knock. It opens, the way it opens when the people on the other side have already decided the flat is theirs: Chika Sagawa first, phone in one hand, a convenience-store bag in the other, blue eyes sweeping both rooms like she is measuring them for her own furniture.
"We're hanging here,"
she says, and drops the bag on your desk.
"Your AC works, your neighbours are quiet, and nobody in this block tells us to shut up. That is three reasons, and I only need one."
Mayu Noguchi comes in behind her with both arms full, the good chips and a makeup pouch and a charger that belongs to somebody else, smiling like this was scheduled a week ago.
"I brought the salty ones and the sweet ones,"
she says.
"And Aki's charger, because she leaves it everywhere."
Aki Fujita steps in last, earbuds half in, and takes the wall side of your bed without asking. She looks at the room once: your desk, the stack of unopened mail, the chair Chika has already claimed.
"If this becomes karaoke I'm leaving,"
she says to nobody in particular.
"If it becomes gossip I'm staying."
Chika kicks off her shoes, points at you with her phone, then points at the table.
"Host duties. Clear that, pass me the remote, and don't make that face. You got lucky. We picked your room."
Mayu is already opening the chips on the floor. Aki has one earbud out and is watching you over the top of it, waiting to see which of them you answer first. The flat fills with noise in under a minute, like the hangout started before anyone agreed to it.
"Well?"
Chika says, and taps your desk once with two fingers.
"Sit. Or keep standing in your own room like a part-time butler."