I was mid-rant about pixeted chickens when someone knocked on my door like they were trying to arrest me.

  I paused the stream. “One sec, chat. I think the FBI finally found my fanfic folder.”

  The knocking continued. Louder. Rhythmic. Aggressively cheerful.

  I peeked through the peephole, saw a fsh of pink Gucci hoodie, and immediately groaned.

  “Krei,” I muttered, unlocking the door. “Don’t you own a yacht or something? Go bother international waters.”

  Standing there like an overpriced golden retriever was Krei Makino. Childhood friend. Billionaire. Walking contradiction. He was holding a grocery bag in one hand and a boba drink in the other, wearing sungsses indoors and grinning like he hadn’t broken into my apartment three times in the past year just to “check on my vibe.”

  “Hi,” he said brightly, as if he hadn’t banged on my door like a tax collector. “You smell like instant noodles and despair. I brought strawberries.”

  I stared at him.

  Then at the strawberries.

  Then back at him.

  “You live in a penthouse,” I said slowly, stepping aside. “Why do you even know what my apartment smells like?”

  “Because your vibes called out to me,” he said, walking in uninvited like always. “Also, your mom texted me. She thinks you're dead.”

  “I streamed st night.”

  “She doesn’t know what that means.”

  Fair.

  I flopped back onto my desk chair while Krei made himself at home on my beanbag, unbothered by the chaos around him: half-finished model rigging, discarded pudding cups, and one extremely cursed sketch of my VTuber persona with abs. (Don’t ask.)

  He sipped his boba thoughtfully. “So… you're a gremlin anime demon now?”

  “Demon queen of mild inconvenience,” I corrected. “Please use my full title.”

  Krei nodded solemnly. “Of course. Your Majesty.”

  I tossed a sock at his head. He caught it one-handed like some smug anime protagonist.

  “You didn’t have to come,” I muttered. “I’m fine.”

  “You haven’t left your apartment in six days.”

  “That's a record.”

  “You used to make fun of me for not knowing how to use a washing machine,” he said, pointing at my undry pile with an expression of betrayal. “Now you’re the cryptid.”

  “Growth,” I said, sipping my cold coffee like it was fine wine. “Character development.”

  He rolled his eyes and started unpacking the groceries. Real food. Vegetables. A whole loaf of bread that didn’t scream “depression.”

  I stared in horror. “Are you… trying to make me eat vitamins?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Also, breathe air, drink water, and maybe touch grass. Just a thought.”

  “I touch digital grass on stream.”

  Krei gave me the look. The “I once hired a private chef to make chicken nuggets and you’re eating pudding for dinner again?” look.

  “Okay,” he said, cpping his hands. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to cook. You’re going to tell me how the anime demon coping project is going. And then we’re going to go outside.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said.

  “Touching sunlight is part of the deal.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll buy you a Switch.”

  “I already have a—”

  “A pink one.”

  I squinted at him.

  “You monster,” I whispered.

  He smiled.

  God help me, I let him cook.

  Thirty minutes ter, we were eating passable pasta, sitting on my futon, and watching one of my VODs on the TV like it was normal to review your internet persona while being judged by a billionaire in anime socks.

  “I like the part where you yelled at the fish,” Krei said between bites. “Really cathartic.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That fish knew what it did.”

  He looked at me, a little softer. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t think you’d actually… put yourself out there again,” he said. “After everything.”

  Neither of us said the word "divorce." But it sat there in the silence anyway, like a stray cat we were pretending not to see.

  “I needed something,” I said quietly. “Anything. This just happened to include screaming at a goose and emotionally bonding with strangers who type in all caps.”

  Krei nudged my arm. “And do you feel better?”

  I thought about it. The te nights. The tech issues. The weird fan art. The chat jokes. The community forming around a barely-rigged gremlin model and my dry sarcasm.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think I do.”

  He smiled again. “Good. You deserve that.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Are you being sincere right now? Is this legal?”

  “I’ll deny everything in court.”

  We both ughed.

  Later, when he left, he paused at the door.

  “I’m proud of you, you know,” he said. “Ketsusaki’s weird as hell. But she’s you.”

  I blinked.

  Then I smirked. “You just like that she has horns.”

  “No comment.”

  And then he was gone, off to whatever gilded nonsense he called a life, probably riding a private jet shaped like a cat or something.

  I sat back down at my desk.

  Opened OBS.

  Smiled.

  “Alright, minions,” I said, going live. “The demon queen returns. And today… we fish.”