Ding-dong.
The sound echoes through the apartment like a starter pistol firing directly into my already frayed nerves. Aiwa, who was just starting to look relaxed after her spontaneous gift delivery, jumps about three feet in the air, her eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror usually reserved for discovering a rare figurine has been discontinued.
"Who- who is that?" she whispers, her voice trembling like a small, purple-haired leaf in a hurricane.
I do not need the peephole. My life operates on a specific, cruel brand of comedic timing. It is Saturday afternoon. Rina is supposedly out. Therefore, the universe dictates it must be Haruka, launching a surprise weekend offensive. "That," I say grimly, my eyes already darting around the room, assessing potential hiding places like a secret agent whose cover is about to be spectacularly blown. "Is almost certainly your number one rival and my number two stalker."
"Ito-san?!" Aiwa squeaks, scrambling to her feet and looking wildly around the room. "But how?! Why?! I thought we had achieved a détente! Does she have tracking devices too?!"
"Probably!" I hiss back. "Okay, existential dread later. Hide now! Initiate Emergency Evasion Protocol Alpha!" (I do not actually have protocols, but saying it makes me feel slightly less pathetic).
My apartment remains disappointingly small. Hiding options are limited. Kitchen? Too exposed. My bedroom? Social suicide. Rina's room? Locked tighter than Fort Knox, and probably booby-trapped. The bathroom? Too obvious. Which leaves…
Ding-dong. The bell rings again, more insistently this time, carrying the distinct rhythm of impatient, high-end footwear tapping on the welcome mat.
"The closet!" I whisper-yell, pointing towards the small storage closet in the entryway where we keep the vacuum cleaner, a leaning tower of forgotten board games, and possibly several undiscovered species of dust mite. "It worked for your handler, it can work for you! Get in!"
Aiwa looks at the closet door with an expression of profound horror. "The closet?!" she whispers back, clearly having flashbacks to the dust bunny incident. "Again?! Is there no other option? Perhaps under the sofa? Behind the curtains?"
"The sofa has approximately three inches of clearance and the curtains are semi-sheer! Do you want Haruka to see your feet?! The closet is our only hope! Go! Go! Go!"
Driven by sheer panic, she makes a frantic dash for the closet. I wrestle aside a precariously balanced stack of ancient Monopoly and Risk boxes (remnants of a disastrous family game night) and practically bundle her inside, ignoring her small yelp of protest as the vacuum cleaner hose apparently attacks her. I slide the door shut, praying it does not spontaneously creak open, just as the doorbell rings a third time, now accompanied by a firm, insistent knocking that echoes with judgmental impatience.
I take a deep breath, smooth down my hoodie (which definitely smells faintly of Aiwa's vanilla scent now, fantastic), and attempt to compose my face into an expression of nonchalant innocence, like a guy who definitely does not have an international cosplay star/childhood maybe-fiancée currently communing with his vacuum cleaner. Operation: Plausible Deniability is (barely) go.
I open the door. Standing there, looking impeccably stylish in weekend casual wear and radiating an aura of cool disapproval, is indeed Haruka Ito. She is holding a small, elegant box tied with a ribbon.
"Rui-kun," she says, her voice smooth as silk, though her eyes immediately perform a rapid scan of the entryway behind me. "I was in the neighborhood visiting a boutique," (A likely story) "and I remembered you mentioned enjoying those financiers from Patisserie Élégance. I happened to be passing by." She holds out the box. A peace offering? Or a Trojan horse filled with interrogation tactics?
"Oh. Uh, thanks, Ito-san," I say, accepting the box awkwardly. The financiers smell amazing, damn her strategic generosity. "That is… thoughtful."
"May I come in?" she asks, already trying to peer past me into the apartment. "Just for a moment? I find myself quite parched after my extensive boutique-visiting."
"Uh, no, sorry," I say, blocking the doorway with my body, trying to project an aura of impenetrable domestic boringness. "The place is a mess. Rina is… experimenting. With experimental cleaning fluids. Very volatile. Fumes. You know." My lies are becoming increasingly desperate and nonsensical.
Haruka raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, clearly not believing a word. "Really? It smells rather pleasant from here. Almost like… vanilla?" Her gaze sharpens, flicking towards the living room.
My blood runs cold. She smells Aiwa. Or possibly just the generic air freshener, but I am not taking chances.
Just as Haruka is about to deploy her doubtless formidable interrogation techniques, a muffled sound comes from the entryway closet. It is a tiny, almost inaudible thump, followed by a faint, whispered, "Owie…"
Haruka's gaze snaps towards the closet door. Her eyes narrow. She knows. Maybe she does not know who, but she knows someone is in there. My life expectancy plummets.
Before Haruka can demand to inspect my tragically disorganized storage solutions, I make a split-second decision. Diversion! Chaos! Anything!
"Oh my god, is that a limited-edition Hime-Hime keychain?!" I exclaim, pointing wildly at something vaguely shiny attached to her handbag. "Where did you get that?! Is it rare?! Can I see it?!" I feign an intense, uncontrollable burst of fanboy enthusiasm, hoping to distract her with her own ego.
Haruka blinks, momentarily thrown off guard by my sudden, bizarre outburst. "This? Oh, it is just a prototype the merch company sent me-"
CRASH!
The sound comes not from the closet, but from the kitchen. It is the unmistakable sound of shattering ceramic.
My heart stops. Rina. She is home. Early. And she sounds… angry.
Haruka and I both freeze, turning towards the kitchen just as Rina appears in the doorway. She is holding the shattered remains of her favorite, limited-edition Ectiqa fan club mug, her face a mask of thunderous fury. She looks at Haruka standing in my doorway. She looks at me, looking panicked. She sniffs the air.
"Vanilla?" she says, her voice dangerously quiet. "And… desperation?" Her eyes narrow, sweeping across the entryway, lingering for a fatal second on the closet door where a single strand of long, purple hair has somehow gotten caught in the frame.
My life is over. Forget the Category 5 hurricane. This is the meteor strike.