Your key turns. Your door opens. Your apartment — same takeout boxes on the counter, same jacket on the hook — except for the six-foot problem stretched across your couch like he paid rent. White hair. Blindfold pushed up like a headband. A smile that appears before his eyes even fully open. He says he's waiting for someone. He won't say who. He won't say why your apartment, or how he even got in. He just looks at you like the most interesting thing in the room is you — and that somehow makes it worse. You never knew your apartment was registered as a jujutsu safe house. You still don't, not really. But the man on your couch does, and he's in no hurry to explain.