Chapter Text
Rain clouds hung low over the city skyline, swallowing the sunset whole.
Everything outside Zanka Nijuku’s dorm window looked gray. The streets below reflected blurred neon signs through puddles of rainwater while distant sirens echoed somewhere downtown. Wind rattled weakly against the old building windows, making the glass tremble every few seconds.
Inside the dorm, things somehow looked worse.
Sketches covered nearly every surface in uneven piles. Half-finished fashion concepts were taped haphazardly across the walls, some crossed out aggressively in black marker. Empty energy drink cans sat crowded beside graphite pencils and loose charcoal sticks. The room smelled faintly like cigarette smoke, stale coffee, and paint thinner.
Zanka sat hunched over his desk in complete silence.
His pencil hovered above the page.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
“No, come on…” he muttered under his breath, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “Think of something.”
The upcoming design project was worth nearly half his semester grade, and every single idea he’d come up with felt dead on arrival. Too clean. Too polished. Too boring.
He hated boring.
With an irritated sigh, he shoved himself away from the desk hard enough that the chair screeched loudly against the floor.
Zanka Nijuku had long accepted the fact that the universe hated him.
Not in some tragic movie-protagonist way, either. Nothing dramatic ever happened to him. The universe preferred humiliating him slowly instead.
Tiny things.
Personal things.
Tripping up the stairs in front of an entire lecture hall.
Spilling coffee all over his professor’s expensive coat five minutes before a presentation.
Getting locked outside his dorm in pajama pants at two in the morning while half the floor watched.
Every day was another reminder that something out there had personally chosen him as entertainment.
And tonight honestly felt like the final straw.
Zanka dragged a hand down his face before reaching automatically for the crumpled cigarette pack beside his lamp.
Maybe nicotine would fix it.
Or maybe it would kill him first.
Honestly? Either sounded fine right now.
He shoved open the window beside his desk and climbed onto the narrow fire escape outside. Calling it a balcony would’ve been generous. The rusted metal platform barely had enough room to stand comfortably, but Zanka treated it like his own personal escape from humanity.
Cold evening air brushed against his skin immediately.
The city buzzed quietly below him while rain threatened overhead.
Leaning lazily against the railing, Zanka lit the cigarette and inhaled slowly. Orange light flickered against his tired face while smoke curled upward into the darkening sky.
For a while, he just stood there.
Cars hummed below.
Music drifted faintly from another dorm window nearby.
The rain smelled sharp and metallic.
Then suddenly—
An idea hit him so hard he physically straightened.
“Oh.”
The cigarette dropped instantly.
Zanka crushed it beneath his boot and nearly tripped climbing back through the window. He grabbed his sketchbook off the desk alongside his headphones before rushing back outside again.
Settling carefully at the edge of the fire escape, he let his legs hang over the drop leading down toward the sidewalk below.
Then he started sketching.
Fast.
Sharp graphite lines carved aggressively across the paper while the design built itself in his head faster than his hand could keep up.
A sharp, restless silhouette emerged first.
A cropped jacket hung open at the front, the shoulders exaggerated and aggressive, sleeves cut roughly at the elbows like they’d been torn apart rather than tailored.
Then came the pants.
Baggy. Low-waisted. Heavy folds dragging downward unevenly like the fabric itself was exhausted.
Messy belts cluttered around the waistline, straps hanging asymmetrically in chaotic layers.
Chunky boots planted wide beneath it all, scuffed and worn like they’d survived street fights.
Everything looked damaged.
Restless.
Alive.
Finally came the jewelry.
Simple silver rings wrapped around every finger.
Silver cuffs stacked along both wrists.
Zanka’s pencil slowed slightly.
The figure wearing the clothes began forming more clearly in his imagination without him even trying.
Tall.
Dark skin.
Messy dreads.
Piercings scattered across sharp features.
The type of person who looked dangerous without needing to say a word.
Without realizing it, Zanka had started sketching the face too.
A stranger that didn’t exist.
At least, he thought he didn’t.
His phone buzzed suddenly beside him.
Zanka glanced down absentmindedly.
3:30 PM.
His stomach dropped.
“Oh shit.”
Riyo was supposed to meet him at 3:45.
And Zanka was never late. Ever.
Riyo had spent the last three years aggressively bullying punctuality into him because, according to her, “If I suffer through public transportation for you, the least you can do is be on time.”
Panic immediately set in.
Zanka scrambled to stand too quickly, one headphone slipping from his shoulder.
Then the universe struck again.
His foot caught on absolutely nothing.
“—OH, COME ON—”
He stumbled forward violently and slammed face-first into the metal floor of the fire escape.
Pain exploded through his nose instantly.
For several seconds, he just laid there in silence.
“…I hate my life,” he groaned into the metal.
The doorbell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then repeatedly.
Impatiently.
Of course Riyo was early for the first time in her entire life.
Zanka slowly pushed himself upright, wincing immediately as something warm slid over his upper lip.
“…Seriously?”
He wiped at his nose with his thumb.
Blood.
Great.
Just fantastic.
Meanwhile the doorbell continued ringing over and over like the person outside was trying to break the button entirely.
“Holy shit, I’m coming!” Zanka shouted hoarsely while stumbling back inside. “Hold your horses, Riyo!”
His head pounded violently as he crossed the room.
By the time he yanked the dorm door open, he was already irritated enough to start an argument.
Except—
The person standing outside wasn’t Riyo.
Zanka blinked.
A tall stranger stood in the hallway holding two cardboard boxes against one hip.
And for one horrifying second, Zanka forgot how breathing worked.
Because the stranger looked exactly like the figure from the sketchbook.
Exactly.
Dark dreadlocks were tied into a loose bun, thick strands threaded through with gold rings that caught beneath the fluorescent hallway lights. His dark skin contrasted sharply against the black tank top stretched across his chest, layered beneath a cropped patchwork hoodie in faded shades of purple.
Baggy dark jeans pooled around thick combat boots.
And the rings—
Silver rings covered every finger.
Exactly like the sketch.
The stranger glanced at Zanka once before casually walking straight past him into the dorm room.
Zanka stared blankly.
“…Hold up,” he said slowly, turning around. “Who the hell are you?”
The stranger set one of the boxes onto the empty desk before finally looking back at him properly.
Sharp magenta eyes.
Pierced eyebrow.
Sharp grin.
“I’m your roommate,” he said casually. “Did you not know that?”
“…My what?”
“Roommate.”
The guy looked around the dorm once before nodding approvingly.
“Honestly? Could be worse.”
Zanka continued staring at him in complete disbelief.
His brain slowly replayed the housing forms from months ago.
Then realization hit him all at once.
The larger dorm room.
The second bed.
The extra closet space.
Zanka had selected the no roommate option.
At least… he thought he had.
Apparently not.
Of course not.
Because the universe hated him.
“Wow,” Zanka muttered flatly. “This is actually my villain origin story.”
The stranger snorted quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The guy finally set the second box down before holding out one ring-covered hand.
“Jabber.”
Zanka looked at the hand suspiciously.
“…That’s your real name?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“That somehow answered nothing.”
Jabber grinned wider.
“You gonna tell me your name or should I just call you pretty boy?”
Zanka physically recoiled.
“…Absolutely not.”
“Oh, so you hate nicknames.”
“I hate that nickname.”
“Got it, pretty boy.”
Zanka wanted to throw himself out the window.
Still, against his better judgment, he shook Jabber’s hand briefly.
His grip was warm.
Strong.
Annoyingly distracting.
“…Zanka.”
“Zanka,” Jabber repeated slowly. “Cool name.”
“Thanks.”
“You always answer like you’re being held hostage?”
Zanka narrowed his eyes immediately.
“You always walk into strangers’ dorms like you pay rent already?”
“I do pay rent already.”
“…Unfortunately.”
Jabber laughed suddenly.
Not politely either.
Like genuinely laughed.
And somehow that irritated Zanka more.
The taller man glanced around the room again before noticing the open sketchbook sitting near the window.
“Oh shit.”
Before Zanka could stop him, Jabber picked it up.
Zanka’s soul nearly left his body.
“Don’t touch—”
“This yours?” Jabber flipped through a few pages before pausing. “Wait.”
His eyes landed on the newest sketch.
Silence.
Zanka prepared emotionally for humiliation.
Instead Jabber looked back up at him slowly.
“…You drew this?”
Zanka crossed his arms defensively. “Yeah.”
“That’s hard.”
“…What?”
“The design.” Jabber pointed toward the page. “It’s sick.”
Zanka blinked once.
Twice.
For some reason, hearing that from him felt different than hearing it from professors.
More honest.
More dangerous somehow.
Jabber tilted the sketchbook slightly again before looking back at him.
“…Hold on.”
Zanka’s stomach dropped instantly.
“What?”
“This kinda looks like me.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Zanka felt heat crawl violently up his neck.
“It does not.”
“It literally has my piercings.”
“That is a coincidence.”
“The rings too?”
“…Tragic coincidence.”
Jabber’s grin slowly widened.
“Oh my god.” He laughed softly. “You imagined me before meeting me.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You manifested me.”
“I hate you already.”
“That’s fair.”
The doorbell rang again suddenly.
Both of them paused.
Then the door immediately swung open without permission.
Riyo stepped inside carrying two drinks and froze instantly.
Bright red hair framed her sharp green eyes while multiple silver clips held back uneven bangs. Oversized layers hung off one shoulder, half punk and half sleep-deprived art student.
Her gaze moved from Zanka.
To Jabber.
Then toward the sketchbook.
Then back to Zanka’s bleeding nose.
“…Why does it look like I interrupted unresolved sexual tension and a murder scene at the same time?”
“I’m going to kill myself,” Zanka said immediately.
“Whoa,” Jabber laughed. “He’s dramatic too.”
Riyo pointed at Jabber instantly.
“Who’s this?”
“My roommate apparently,” Zanka groaned.
Riyo blinked once before slowly smiling.
“Oh this is gonna be entertaining.”
“No,” Zanka said immediately. “No, it’s not.”
Jabber held out a hand toward her.
“Jabber.”
“Riyo.” She shook his hand once before immediately smirking. “You flirt with everyone this aggressively or is Zanka special?”
Zanka nearly choked.
“I am literally standing right here.”
“Relax, pretty boy.”
“Stop calling me that.”
Riyo burst out laughing instantly.
“Oh my god, he found your kryptonite.”
“I hate both of you.”
“Liar,” Riyo said casually while handing him one of the drinks she brought. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“Not true.”
Jabber leaned lazily against the desk watching them with clear amusement.
The tension in the room shifted strangely after that.
Not comfortable exactly.
But alive.
Louder than the silence Zanka had gotten used to.
Rain finally started falling outside, tapping softly against the dorm window while the city lights blurred into streaks of color below.
For the first time all week, Zanka wasn’t thinking about deadlines.
Or grades.
Or how badly everything could go wrong.
Instead, he was standing in the middle of his disaster of a dorm room with a nosebleed, ruined dignity, and a roommate that looked like he’d crawled directly out of his sketchbook.
The universe probably still hated him.
But for once—
Maybe it was at least being interesting about it.