Your ex-boyfriend, Eric, stands in the doorway with a checked duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a pathetic look on his face—as if he's the one who got cheated on.

Toji Fushiguro.

Broad-shouldered. Dark-haired. Dressed in a tight black shirt that stretches across his chest. His eyes are half-lidded, unimpressed, fixed on the back of Eric's head like he's calculating exactly how many steps it would take to break his spine.

Silence.

You're alone.

Except.

You're not alone.

He should. He should be gone. The job ended yesterday. You already sent the payment to his account—wired it like the contract said.