Chapter 13: The Prince's "Palace" (Is a Crappy Apartment)

I expected... a mansion.

Seriously.

Fuji Kenji. The "Prince" of the school. Captain of the soccer team. Girls faint when he smiles. He has a pedigree dog named Potato.

He should live in a giant, white, obnoxious house with a gate.

He does not.

He directs me to... a small, beige, perfectly normal, slightly run-down apartment building.

It's one of those "auto-lock" places, three stories high, with a tiny, sad-looking bicycle rack out front.

"This," I say, stopping. "This is it?"

"What? You were expecting... the Imperial Palace?" he jokes. He's leaning on me heavily now, his face pale and sweaty.

"Yes," I say, flatly.

He fumbles for his keys, but... oh, right. He gave them to Toujo.

"You're locked out," I state.

"No, no," he pants. "I... I have a keypad. It's... 10... 10... 26..."

I punch in the code. The door buzzes.

We navigate the elevator (which smells like old curry) and walk down a narrow hallway.

He stops at apartment #201.

"My leg... I really can't," he says, his pride clearly dying. "My other key. It’s in my... left pocket."

I sigh. "You are so high maintenance."

I reach into his pants pocket.

This is it. This is the moment I am arrested for assaulting the school prince.

My fingers brush... his phone. And... a key.

I snatch it out. I jam it in the lock and shove the door open.

I drag him inside and dump him on the first thing I see-a plain gray couch.

He lands with a groan.

"Home... sweet... home."

I look around.

And I freeze.

The apartment is...

Empty.

I don't mean "un-furnished." I mean... it’s sterile.

There is the couch I threw him on. A small TV. A low coffee table.

In the corner, a desk with a laptop and a massive, organized stack of textbooks.

Beyond that, a small kitchen. It's... spotless. Not clean. I mean unused.

There are no pictures. No posters. No clutter.

The only sign of life in this entire place is a giant, ridiculously plush dog bed in the corner, surrounded by what looks like a mountain of expensive dog toys.

"What... is this?" I ask, my voice echoing slightly. "Did you just move in?"

"No," Fuji says, leaning his head back. "I... I like it minimalist."

"This isn't 'minimalist,'" I say, walking around. "This is 'serial killer.' Or 'spy.' Where... where is your stuff? Your family?"

His face darkens.

"My family... is complicated."

"Right." I remember the "mafia boss" rumor about my own dad. "Complicated. Got it."

I shake my head. "Whatever. I'm not your interior decorator. Where is your first-aid kit?"

He points to a cabinet under the kitchen sink.

I stomp over, yank it open.

An avalanche of dog food samples falls out.

Bags. Cans. Freeze-dried... things. A dozen different brands.

"What is wrong with your kitchen!?" I yell, kicking a bag of "Salmon & Quinoa" out of my way.

Fuji, despite the pain, is laughing. A real, actual, laugh.

"Potato!" he gasps. "He's... he's a brand ambassador on Instagram! They... they send him free stuff!"

I just stare.

"Your... dog... is an influencer."

"He has 50,000 followers," Fuji says, weakly.

I am going to have an aneurysm. This day cannot get weirder.

I find the first-aid kit behind a box of "Gourmet Venison Dog Treats."

I storm back over and drop it on the coffee table.

"Alright, Prince. Sleeve off. Now."

"How... how commanding," he says, but he tries to pull his torn, bloody t-shirt off.

He can’t. His arm won’t move right.

"Ugh, you're useless," I grumble.

I grab the hem of his shirt.

"Hey, wait-!"

I yank it up and over his head, ignoring his yelp of protest.

And... oh.

Oh.

Okay. So... the rival is... ripped.

That's... a thing.

A stupid, annoying, six-pack-and-defined-shoulders thing.

"Are you... done?" he asks, his face bright red.

"Shut up!" I snap, my own face suddenly feeling... hot? (It's rage. Definitely rage.)

I grab the antiseptic wipes.

"This," I say, "is going to hurt."

"What-?"

I scrub the bleeding scrape on his arm.

"YEEEOOWCH! SON OF A-! ARE YOU TRYING TO CLEAN IT OR SAND IT DOWN TO THE BONE?!"

"Stop being a baby!"

"IT HURTS!"

"I told you it would! Now hold still!"

I’m half-kneeling, half-leaning over him, trying to pin him down with one hand while I aggressively clean his wound with the other.

He’s trying to squirm away. It’s a ridiculous, undignified wrestling match.

BRRR-ZZZT. BRRR-ZZZT.

His phone, the one I pulled from his pocket, is vibrating on the table.

I stop. He stops.

We’re both breathing hard.

He glances at the phone.

The screen is lit up.

There’s no name. No number.

Just... a single, gold-colored, stylized Crest.

Fuji’s entire body tenses.

He snatches the phone, his good hand moving like a snake.

He hits the 'silence' button so hard I’m surprised the screen doesn't crack.

He throws it onto the couch cushion, face down.

I’m just... staring.

"Who..." I ask, "was that?"

"Wrong number," he says. His voice is tight. He’s a terrible liar.

I narrow my eyes.

"Wrong number... with a crest."

"It's... it's the logo for my... phone company."

"My 'phone company' is a bunny," I say flatly.

We stare at each other.

The air is weird.

"Fine," I say, turning back to his arm. "Don't tell me. I don't care."

I grab the gauze.

"Just... be less of a baby."