Chương 156: 59.No. 22, Platinum Bridge Street 1

Before Aida inserted the key into the lock, the first thing I noticed wasn't No. 22 itself. It was next door. Specifically, the man sitting in a rocking chair in the front yard of No. 24. He looked to be around sixty, dressed casually—not the curated ease of retirement kind of casual, but the genuine I refuse to expend one more unit of energy on this world variety. His hair was still mostly black at that age, loosely combed back. A book thick enough to serve as a lethal weapon lay open across his lap.

He was half-sunk into an old-fashioned rocking chair, swaying at a pace that suggested the universe could wait. Not a commanding posture. The posture of even if the cosmos explodes today, at least let me finish this page first. And the most absurd part was that he looked entirely capable of enforcing it. I stared for two seconds, then let my gaze drift. No. 24 had more life to it than No. 22—yard neatly kept, understated potted flowers by the windows, two rattan chairs under the porch.

A shadow moved inside, then a woman passed the window—impossibly well-maintained for her age, her profile striking enough to make you question genetic fairness, something freshly baked in her hands. I turned to Aida.

"The neighbors?" She didn't even need to look.

"Retired couple."

"Does 'retired couple' mean something different on this street?"

"A lot of things on Platinum Bridge are different."

"That's a completely unhelpful observation, very you." She smiled without elaborating and turned the key all the way.

"Let's see the house first. You'll have plenty of time for the neighbors later." The lock clicked open. I pulled my attention away from the very interesting, extremely not-to-be-touched neighbors and followed her into No. 22. My first thought was: this place fits eleven people perfectly. It fits eleven problem children even better. The House Tour The entryway was larger than I'd expected. Not luxury-advertisement large—practically large.

The kind that said this was always meant for a lot of shoes and a lot of secrets coming and going. Dark stone floors, solid underfoot. A full wall of shoe storage, currently empty but already generating mental images. The civilized vision of eleven pairs of shoes arranged neatly would survive maybe three days. By day four, Jess's ankle boots, Harvey's training shoes, and D's heavy-soled military boots—designed to kick through doors—would have transformed this into a small supply depot.

"Nice entryway," I said.

"At least when the fighting starts, nobody trips over shoes immediately."

"Your first metric for housing is fight suitability?" Aida asked.

"I'm a realist."

"You've been shaped by Squad 144."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive." Two steps further in, the space opened up completely. I stopped. The central living room was more obscene than my outside estimate. Big. Genuinely big. Not oh, how spacious big—tactically big. The kind where your brain starts placing people like units on a map. Big enough that I seriously suspected whoever had commissioned this place hadn't planned a living room at all, but space for private gatherings that didn't leave records. A massive solid-wood table dominated the center.

Thick, heavy, stable, beautifully finished—and completely wrong for any normal family's needs. Eleven people, plus documents, meal trays, terminals, tactical maps, and however many drinks Jess would inevitably knock over, and there'd still be room. I walked closer and ran my hand across the surface.

"This isn't a dining table. It's a command table." Aida folded her arms.

"I doubt it was ever meant for wholesome family dinners."

"Then it's perfect for us." I looked at it, already seeing the layout.

"Takeout containers on the left, tactical charts on the right, a group of people in the middle who can't stand each other but have to keep each other alive."

"Sounds almost like home."

"Your definition of home is dangerous."

"Likewise." The living room flowed into the dining area and an open kitchen. I'd half-expected "large kitchen" to be Platinum Bridge marketing hyperbole. Walking in, I found it wasn't. The counter ran long enough for three people to prep simultaneously, two to argue, and one more to stand aside providing commentary—none of them in each other's way. The refrigerator was tall enough you could probably fit Harvey inside. A full bank of cabinets and lockable storage units lined the wall.

I stared at the fridge for two seconds.

"This capacity can sustain eleven people."

"Or let seven girls simultaneously stock desserts, drinks, and face masks, then leave four boys to figure out their own water supply," Aida said calmly.

"You accepted the gender war as inevitable that quickly?"

"I simply don't deny objective reality."

"Top marks in political science." Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Past the kitchen was the laundry room. For one moment, I almost felt moved. Not by the room itself—by the fact that someone designing this place had genuinely considered that many clothes. Industrial washer and dryer sitting solidly in place, neat plumbing, decent ventilation, folding counter alongside.

I immediately thought about seven girls on the third floor and all the catastrophic futures that implied: mornings, evenings, weekends, rainy season, emergency uniform washing, someone ruining their sheets at 2 a. m., Jess sneaking her jacket into someone else's basket and pretending nothing happened.

"This place is going to be loud," I said honestly.

"Which part?" Aida asked.

"Everywhere," I said.

"But especially the laundry room." She smiled and led me toward the back door. The rear of the ground floor opened straight onto the backyard. When she pushed it open, afternoon air rushed in carrying the smell of cut grass. The yard was wider than I'd expected—not huge, but large enough that its future uses were obvious. Not how it would be ruined. How it would be utilized. Only a chest-high hedge separated us from No. 24. I stared at the hedge, then at the yard.

"This is going to be covered in laundry," I said calmly.

"I thought so too," Aida said.

"And it's going to develop territorial zones. Everyday clothes on the left, training gear on the right, the really untouchable stuff in the center."

"Your observations are very detailed."

"Because I can already picture Maki standing here with clothespins, designating no-go zones with a straight face." Once that image entered my brain, it wouldn't leave. Worse, I was certain it was going to happen. The parking area sat just off the yard—one car, two motorcycles, more substantial than I'd expected. A little further along was an inconspicuous metal door. Aida walked over and pulled it open. Inside was a small hydraulic freight elevator. I stared. Then kept staring.

"…Don't tell me this goes straight to the basement."

"It goes straight to the basement."

"Normal houses don't have these."

"This house wasn't built for normal reasons." Depressingly logical.

"So what's running through your head right now?" Aida asked.

"I'm thinking this is absolutely going to end up moving things that shouldn't come in through the front door," I said.

"Such as?"

"Server racks. High-capacity batteries. Sim hardware. And..." I paused.

"Certain items that don't belong on housing applications."

"Your imagination is lively."

"That's not imagination. It's baseline trust in my teammates' capacity for bad behavior." She laughed—the kind that said good, you're reading this house the right way. The Basement The basement door was heavier than expected. The air on the other side was thick. Not stuffy—dense. Like these walls weren't built to keep out everyday noise, but to keep certain things in that nobody should know about. Maybe fifteen ping of floor space. Not huge, but well-proportioned, almost perfectly rectangular.

Thick walls, decent ceiling height, reinforced floor. Currently empty aside from leftover cabinets and demolition scars. But stand here longer than ten seconds and your brain automatically started planning. Table here. Projection there. Server racks along that wall for clean cable runs. Who would drag arguments down here. Who'd use it for small meetings, fights, or conversations the whole unit didn't need to hear. I walked a slow circuit, tapping the wall with my knuckles. Muffled. Thick.

Thick enough that my first thought wasn't storage. It was concealment.

"This place is good," I said quietly. Aida didn't ask good how. She waited at the door, watching me assess it, like she wanted to see how far I'd think ahead.

"Good enough it feels like we don't deserve it," I added.

"A lot of things on Platinum Bridge aren't assigned based on who 'deserves' them," she said.

"Right," I looked at her.

"They go to people who know how to take them."

"Or who learn to open doors first." That line was beautiful enough to belong in some garbage textbook titled Introduction to Federal Power Dynamics. The more I looked at this basement, the more certain I became—if this fell into Squad 144's hands, it was never going to be just storage. It was going to be the core. The real core. That massive table upstairs would handle the food, the shouting, the mutual character assassination. This room would be for getting the actual work done afterward.

In that sense, it suited us perfectly.

"Come on," Aida said.

"Let's see the living floors." I took one last look, my brain already renaming it. War room. No—on paper it was still storage. We were civilized people. Civilized people who just happened to install high-energy tactical systems behind thick walls. Second Floor Stepping onto the second floor, my first thought was: the boys are going to turn this into a militarized disaster zone. The layout was straightforward. Rooms slightly tighter than the third floor but not cramped. Four guys would fit easily.

One full bathroom, reasonably sized. If everyone possessed basic human decency, it shouldn't devolve into morning mutinies over shower schedules. Our theories rarely survived reality.

"Four guys," I said, standing in the corridor, defaulting to routine pessimism.

"D will wake first, shower fastest, act most human. Roy will manage his time like logistics coordination. Harvey... hard to say."

"In what sense?"

"He might bring a toolbox into the bathroom. Or start refitting something in front of the mirror." She actually nodded.

"Reasonable."

"As for the fourth, depends on the final roster. But whoever it is, this floor is going to radiate 'I'm here to survive, not curate aesthetics.'""You really don't rate your male teammates highly."

"I've seen the dorms." The room sizes varied but none were tiny. Not enough space to treat every room as a comfortable single, but doubles would feel generous. That awkward in-between—perfect for generating conflict. Who rooms with whom. Who snores. Who talks in their sleep. Who looks harmless but has ghastly living habits. I was suddenly grateful it was just me here. If we'd brought everyone, the second floor would already be hosting preliminary tribunals.

"Thinking about room assignments?" Aida asked.

"Thinking about why humans can't be standardized like shipping containers."

"It would make life much easier."

"And eliminate half the yuri comedies and gender wars." She glanced at me, amused I'd put those in the same sentence.

"So you're already factoring those possibilities in?"

"I'm not volunteering. I've been forced to upgrade my risk assessment." Third Floor The moment the third floor opened, I knew it was going to be at least three times as chaotic as the second. Simple reason: seven girls. Seven. And these specific girls. This hallway—seven doors, two full bathrooms—was like surround sound for future blow-dryer noise, hot water disputes, skincare bottles, and someone yelling at someone else to hurry up. Seven rooms. Not seven beds. Seven rooms.

I walked down the hall, checking each one. Slightly different sizes. Some with better light, some quieter, some closer to bathrooms, some near stairs. None obviously unlivable, none so perfect everyone would accept assignments peacefully. Perfect. Perfect for stress-testing friendships. I stood in one doorway.

"If everyone gets singles, the girls' side fits exactly."

"In theory," Aida reminded me.

"In theory," I sighed.

"In practice: Maki will want to be near me. Jess will loudly insist she doesn't care while grabbing the room with the best view. Akari will say 'whatever' and quietly claim the quietest spot. Lan will be most reasonable, which means she'll get shafted."

"And you?"

"Me?" I looked at her.

"I just want to be far from snoring and teeth-grinding." She laughed.

"You're very dedicated to that requirement."

"I'm very loyal to my sleep." The bathrooms were better than feared. Two full sets—enough for seven girls if everyone respected discipline. The problem with discipline in Squad 144 was that it only reliably applied to combat and evaluations—not to washing, conditioning, blowouts, or private rituals. I was genuinely considering drafting a shower schedule, then realized I was thinking like a dorm warden and gave myself chills. Aida leaned against the wall, watching me work down the hall.

"You're taking this seriously."

"If this goes through, the morning wars here will be more real than half our simulators."

"You talk like moving in is a given." I was quiet for two seconds. Then said, quietly: "... Because I'm starting to want it." The moment it left my mouth, I startled myself. Not because it wasn't true—because I'd said it straight, without sarcasm to cushion it. Aida didn't jump on it. She just watched, the cool amusement in her eyes softening. Like she understood I wasn't talking about how nice the house was. I was talking about already assigning people to spaces in my head.

Anticipating arguments, rhythms, how we'd grind chaos into routine. That, in itself, was disturbingly close to home. Which was terrifying. Apparently I was capable of wanting that.

"Come on," I said, looking away first.

"Any longer and I'm going to start writing verdicts on room assignments."

"Isn't that exactly what you need to do?" Aida said.

"You'll be posting it in the group anyway."

"Right." I pulled out my terminal, checked signal, looked at the house again, and let out a very small, resigned breath.

"All right. Let's start the descent into hell early."