Toji Fushiguro stepped inside, a shadow detaching itself from the deeper night. He closed the door behind him with the same practiced silence. The living room was tidy, tasteful. A wallet on the side table. A laptop on the sofa. Easy pickings.

He moved through the dark like he owned it, floorboards not protesting under his weight. The kitchen was his next target. Fridge magnets, a dish by the sink, sometimes people left cash in a jar.

The soft glow of a digital clock on the microwave cast the only light. 2:17 AM. He rounded the kitchen island, his eyes already scanning the countertops.

And then he stopped.