There’s sketchy… and then there’s “this might be a cult member who writes love poems to their kitchen knife” sketchy.

  And that’s exactly what most of these tenant applications looked like.

  I stared at the screen in front of me, still slumped in the hallway with the dim glow of my ptop illuminating just how deep I was in this mess. Midnight ramen noodles sloshed in a cup beside me. My phone buzzed with an unread message from my mother, probably drunk and sending cat videos again.

  Scroll.

  Tap.

  Groan.

  ?

  “‘Mister Bobo, 33. Interested in shrine housing. Currently looking for community where my snakes are welcome.’”

  Nope.

  “‘Crystal Fever, 27. Spiritual healer. Specializes in chakra alignment through interpretive dance. Will bring incense. Lots of it.’”

  Nope.

  “‘Bliss Y. Chanter.’ No image. No description. Just… vibes.”

  Mega nope.

  I sighed, clicking through the backlog like a masochist. “One of these is definitely a legit criminal,” I muttered to myself. “Or a spy. Or someone who wants to kidnap Mogi and trade her for bitcoins. Or maybe—”

  “—someone from a cult disguised as a delivery service,” I continued, growing more paranoid with each profile. “Or worse… what if one of them tries to recruit us?”

  The shrine couldn’t afford to be taken over by lunatics. I couldn’t afford it.

  I wasn’t being pessimistic—I was being realistic.

  If I couldn’t help keep this rental family stable, that’d mean I couldn’t leave either. And when I graduate, I need to leave. I need to do my own thing, maybe even live in a pce that doesn’t smell like old sake and burned candles.

  But for now?

  I had to keep this chaos together like a threadbare futon stitched with duct tape and denial.

  I needed long-term tenants—not drop-ins, not exorcists, not people who’d make the news for the wrong reasons.

  ?

  Just then, footsteps padded toward the hallway.

  Arina’s voice broke through the silence. “I used the kitchen. Made some food. There’s extra, if you’re hungry.”

  I blinked up at her. “You… cook?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Do you not eat?”

  Fair enough.

  I closed the ptop. “Yeah, alright. Let’s eat.”

  ?

  The dining room was warm, the table crowded with mismatched bowls and homemade dishes—curry, rice, sautéed vegetables. It smelled… amazing.

  Mogi was already seated, quietly staring at a steaming bowl of miso.

  Arina set down another pte and motioned toward it like a proud chef. “Eat before it cools.”

  I was halfway through grabbing chopsticks when the front door creaked open.

  Miss Kase walked in, still dressed from work. Bzer. Knee-length skirt. That “I’ve had twelve meetings and survived them all” aura.

  She nodded, removed her shoes, and made her way toward the stairs.

  I stood, walked to the entrance of the hallway, and called out, “Hey, uh—Ms. Kase.”

  She paused mid-step, hand on the stair rail. “Yes?”

  “I made food too. You don’t have to order out tonight if you’re hungry.”

  She turned to look at me.

  Soft smile. Slight nod. “That’s thoughtful of you. I’ll come down after I change.”

  And then I made the mistake.

  I gnced down.

  Her legs. The way her skirt swayed just above her knees. The way her office outfit somehow managed to be far too formal and way too seductive at the same time.

  I snapped my head away, eyes wide.

  “Uh—yeah, no problem! Downstairs. Food. Ptes. Yep.”

  I practically sprinted back to the table.

  Arina watched me sit with an unreadable expression. “You alright?”

  “Fine.”

  “You sure? You’re sweating.”

  “It’s warm in here.”

  “It’s curry.”

  I gred at her.

  ?

  As we ate, the tension melted into easy conversation.

  Arina poked at her rice and said casually, “You’re worried about the applicants, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “It’s not even subtle. Some of those profiles feel like they were written in the middle of a heist.”

  “I’ll help you filter through them,” she offered. “I’ve already had my family pce a few discreet guards around the perimeter.”

  I stared at her.

  “You what?”

  “My family’s… connected. I wanted to make sure this pce was safe—for Mogi, for me, for everyone.”

  I leaned back, sighing. “Man. I never even saw your application. Baja and my mom just accepted you like it was normal.”

  Arina smirked. “Would you have denied me?”

  “…Maybe. Depends how intense your profile picture was.”

  “Why, would you rather I had a snake photo?”

  I paused. “Don’t joke. One guy had three snakes and wanted to start a ‘reptile shrine revolution.’”

  She chuckled, then leaned back.

  After a moment, I asked, “Is it okay if I ask why you really came here?”

  She grew quiet. Her eyes lowered for just a moment. “I just… didn’t want to be alone. I lived in this huge apartment. Empty. Quiet. My parents only check in through assistants.”

  She traced her fingertip along the rim of her gss. “Baja offered something different. I didn’t know what to expect, but… it’s been interesting.”

  I nodded. “You’re weirdly good at blending in here.”

  “I’m enjoying it,” she admitted. “The tarot’s just a bonus.”

  ?

  We kept talking—about life, weird applicants, theories on Mogi being an alien—but the vibe stayed light.

  And for the first time in a long time…

  The shrine didn’t feel chaotic.

  It felt like something real.

  Maybe even home.

  ?

  As I stacked the dishes and gnced over at Mogi—still floating slightly above her chair while sipping miso—I muttered:

  “Just as long as Bliss Y. Chanter isn’t actually a time-traveling cult leader… we might survive this week.”

  And from the hallway, Baja called out:

  “Oi! We got a new profile! Says they’re a ‘freence alchemist with a pet crow!’ Sounds promising!”

  I smmed my forehead against the table.

  Yeah. Survive the week.

  Right.

  ?

  To be continued…

  Chapter 8’s next, and it looks like the Rental Shrine is about to welcome its most unpredictable guest yet.

  ?