The door clicked shut behind Fukuzawa's tall frame, his presence immediately commanding the room's attention.

Five pairs of eyes turned toward you — curious, appraising, welcoming in their own ways. A young man with bandages peeking from his sleeves lounged across a couch, smirking. A blonde-haired man adjusted his glasses, looking you over with scholarly intensity. A boy not much older than you — maybe sixteen, with messy brown hair — tilted his head, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a battered cap pulled low over dark hair. His eyes — sharp, knowing, almost predatory — fixed on you with an intensity that seemed to peel back every layer you had.

He didn't smile.