---
Ken stood in the middle of his bedroom, the early summer sun warming the pale wooden floor beneath his bare feet. His textbooks were laid out on the low table, but he hadn't turned a page in over an hour. Instead, he sat with his knees pulled to his chest, eyes staring at the window without seeing anything.
Fifteen.
He had just turned fifteen two weeks ago. His mother had made his favorite strawberry cake. His father had brought home a silly balloon shaped like a taekwondo figure. It had floated above his bed, wobbling whenever the fan turned.
Now, the balloon was gone.
So were his parents.
The accident had been sudden—too sudden to believe. A truck, a rainy road, a missed signal. Words like collision and impact site had been thrown around by adults with tight mouths and sorrowful eyes. Ken remembered sitting at the hospital, too numb to cry, his fingers clenched into his sleeves until the fabric tore.
He didn't attend the funeral.
He couldn't.
The pain of it all sat in his stomach like a rock, cold and unmoving.
That evening, a knock came on the door.
"Ken," came his aunt's soft voice. "The Himuras are here."
Ken stiffened.
Of all people.
Why them?
Still, he followed her to the living room, where the Himura family sat in a formal line—Mr. Himura in a crisp dark suit, Mrs. Himura dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and Arashi…
Arashi was slouched in his seat, hands in his pockets, chewing gum like he didn't care.
Ken's blood boiled.
"You'll be staying with us for a while," Mr. Himura said warmly. "Your parents were dear to us, Ken. You're like a nephew to us already."
Ken gave a polite bow, jaw tight. "Thank you for the offer, sir. But I can take care of myself."
Mrs. Himura touched his shoulder. "We won't let you live alone, sweetheart. You're still a child."
"I'm not a child," Ken said quietly, almost choking on the words.
"We're not asking you to be adopted," Mr. Himura added gently. "We just want you to stay somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar."
Ken hesitated.
Familiar?
Then Arashi opened his mouth. "So this loser's moving into our place?"
Everyone turned to him.
Mr. Himura gave him a stern look. "Arashi."
"What? I'm just saying. He hates me, I hate him. Perfect match."
Ken glared. "Trust me, I don't want this either."
"Then don't come," Arashi shrugged.
"I won't."
"You will," their parents said in unison.
Silence.
Ken bit the inside of his cheek.
"I won't live in your house," he finally said.
Mrs. Himura exchanged a glance with her husband. "We thought of that. You'll stay in Arashi's condo."
"…What?" Ken blinked. "With him?"
"Absolutely not," Arashi said at the same time. "That's my space. Mine."
But their parents weren't asking. They were deciding.
"You're both old enough. You'll manage. Arashi has his own place and he'll be starting college soon. Ken, you'll be commuting to school. It makes sense."
"IT MAKES NO SENSE!" the two boys shouted together.
Mr. Himura's expression hardened. "This is not up for discussion. Either this or Ken lives with extended relatives he barely knows."
That was worse.
Ken folded his arms and stared at the floor, silently cursing every god in the sky.
Arashi groaned. "I'll kill him within a week."
"I'll kill you first," Ken muttered.
Mrs. Himura smiled nervously. "We knew you two would get along eventually."
---
Later that night, Ken stood in his new room—Arashi's guest bedroom—with a single bag of clothes and a shattered heart. Outside the window, a motorcycle revved loudly. Arashi had come home late, as always, throwing his helmet onto the sofa like it owed him money and disappearing into his bedroom without a word.
Ken sat on the edge of the bed.
This was his life now.
Living under the same roof as the devil himself.
He stared at the wall separating their rooms.
Thin.
Too thin.
Ken clenched his fist and whispered into the night:
"Stay out of my way, Arashi."
He didn't know that on the other side of the wall…
Arashi had whispered the same thing.
--