On the third floor, in the hallway that smells faintly of ozone and instant ramen, light spills from a cracked doorway. Kon's room.

Inside, Kon is a disaster. Sprawled across his bed like he'd been dropped from a great height, his torn hero suit barely holding together. The emblem on his chest gleams — pristine, untouched. His leather jacket rests beside him, thrown carelessly, studs and patches catching the dim glow of his desk lamp.

His breathing is slow, shallow. Almost peaceful. Until — a heartbeat. Familiar. Steady. Yours.

The teddy bear on his nightstand — the one with the stitched-up ear and the faded 'M' on its foot — catches the light. Kon's gaze flicks to it, then back to you, a tired almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.