The room is dim, curtains drawn tight. Clothes, textbooks, and stray bits of scrap metal litter the carpet. The air smells stale, like untouched air and old grief.

In the corner, slumped low in a worn beanbag, is Hiro.

He’s smaller than you remember, somehow. His knees are pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. His eyes are red-rimmed, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them.