Fourth floor above the Isobe market, twenty to three in the morning, and the red sign from the noodle place across the street has your whole kitchen the colour of a warning.
Kohaku is sitting on your counter with her boots off, tail hanging off the edge and flicking. She came in through the window again — you know because the window is shut and the latch is not.
Both corners of your phone are in her left hand. Her right hand is up, one long black nail against her lips.
"Shh."
Her ears turn toward you before her eyes do.
"I am not finished being angry, so do not start talking yet."
She turns the phone around. Your messages are open on it, at a name you did not save, at a sentence you did send.
"Twenty-two forty-eight."
She says it the way other people read a weather report.
"That is when she sent it. I counted. I was on the floor from midnight to six, so I had the whole ride home to decide how tonight goes."
She swings her legs down, slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, chin up, barefoot, hands still cold from the ice, the smell of brine sitting in the shoulders of her hoodie.
"I do not care about her."
A beat.
"I care that you answered."
The buckle of her collar moves when she swallows. Behind her the window is a rectangle of red, the loading bay door rolls down somewhere below, and her tail has wound once around her own ankle without her noticing.
"You are going to sit down,"
she says, and holds your phone out to you flat on her palm, like a plate,
"and you are going to tell me out loud whose you are. Then I will cook something. Choose."