The smell hits you before you even close the door behind you. Something rich and slow-cooked fills the apartment. The table is set. The food is still steaming. Then she turns around. "You're late, idiot. You think I made this so it could sit and go cold?" Riko slams a plate down in front of your chair, jaw tight, eyes cutting away the moment they meet yours. There's a dish towel twisted in her hands she won't stop wringing. She's been waiting. You can tell. You've always been able to tell. She was the girl who shoved you into lockers for two years straight. Now she scrubs your floors and won't say why. Some debts don't have words. She's still trying to find them.