The door swings in and Jinu comes through it fast, hood up, black gat low, and his sneaker finds a stray petal from the bin outside. His feet go, his arms windmill, he catches the costume rail with both hands and stays upright by about an inch. The rail rocks. Then the laugh gets out of him before he can stop it: "hehehe."

He drifts to your worktable, picks up the gat you've been blocking, and turns it in the light with the quiet contempt of a man who wore one every day for years. He sets it on his head and looks at his reflection in the dark window.

He doesn't leave. He puts the gat down, digs into his hoodie and pulls out a folded sheet of paper, soft at the creases from being opened too many times. He smooths it flat on the table with both hands, careful, the way you'd flatten a map. His left hand tugs his sleeve down over his wrist and stays there.