Bills covered the kitchen table like a battlefield map — hospital receipts, rent slips, school notices written in polite fonts that still managed to accuse.
Steam rose from two chipped mugs; Aki cupped hers as if it might stretch a little warmth into tomorrow.
"Rent's due Friday," she said quietly, eyes tracing the total as though numbers could be reasoned with.
Renya sifted through the stack. "The landlord prefers punctual tenants."
Electric, water, gas — every piece of paper demanded attention he would rather spend on cultivation. The hospital invoice sat on top like a flag of surrender. The three-day stay had eaten what was left of their parents' savings.
Aki pushed a folded slip across the table. "My class trip fee. I can skip it."
"You'll go."
"But—"
"We can't let the world think we've vanished." He met her gaze. "We'll manage."
Silence pressed between them, filled by the faint hum of the refrigerator. Outside, someone argued with a vending machine that had swallowed a coin.
He stacked the bills by priority. "We need income, stability, and a margin for accidents."
"That sounds expensive."
"Then we'll be efficient."
Her lips twitched — half a smile, half a sigh. Relief, temporary but genuine.
They ate leftover rice and one egg split between two bowls. The meal was thin; the resolve was not.
The employment office smelled of old paper and damp optimism. Forms asked for parental signatures that no longer existed. Clerks suggested convenience stores, night shifts, delivery work — things that kept lights on without asking about grades.
At the third store, a manager looked him over and shrugged. "Night clerk. Cash pay. No insurance. You sure?"
"Yes."
"Kids your age usually want weekends, not graveyards."
"I don't sleep much."
"Perfect. You start tonight."
The dojo's tatami welcomed the soles of his feet with familiar quiet. The master watched him complete a drill and nodded once.
"Your body's remembering faster," the old man said. "But you move like someone counting expenses."
"I am," Renya replied.
A low chuckle. "Ah. Poverty refines discipline better than philosophy."
They practiced until breath and stance found harmony. When finished, the master gestured to a rack near the door. "Take that practice sword. Old steel, but balanced. Payment later."
Renya bowed. "Debts will be honored."
Fluorescent light hummed above neat shelves. The convenience store smelled of detergent and cheap curry. Midnight customers drifted in waves — students, laborers, men who avoided mirrors.
Between transactions, Renya memorized layout and timing: which aisles the cameras ignored, which shadows listened. The work was simple, the wages smaller than promises, yet each coin meant one more day the landlord wouldn't knock.
At 2 a.m., two men entered with coats too heavy for summer and smiles too casual for honesty.
"You new?" one asked.
"New enough."
"Ever want better pay? Moving goods, no questions."
"I already move plenty," Renya said, sliding their cigarettes across the counter.
They left him a card. When the door shut, his shadow folded over the rectangle and made it disappear.
Before dawn, he returned home. The horizon was the color of unpaid bills. Aki waited at the table, half-asleep over her homework.
"You worked all night?"
"Yes."
"Was it hard?"
"Predictable."
"Then it's good," she said, smiling with that fragile faith only the desperate perfected.
He poured her tea and let her believe it.
Days became a pattern: work, dojo, study, brief sleep. Muscles hardened; the body learned to endure. Pay envelopes piled up slowly — thin armor against hunger. Each evening he placed a single coin into a small porcelain dish, whispering the same words:
"Tribute for survival."
The air always cooled by a fraction. The shadow on the wall leaned closer, patient, understanding.
A week later, he found himself staring at a new poster near the station:
U.A. Entrance Exam — Six Months.
The bold letters seemed to mock him. Tuition, travel, hero licenses — all luxuries measured in zeros he didn't yet own.
He folded the poster down and walked away. Six months to earn admission, disguise the demon, and pay the rent.
For most people, that equation spelled failure.
For Renya Kurotsuki, it was merely accounting.