Chương 157: 59.No. 22, Platinum Bridge Street 2

The Group Chat Explosion By the time we came back down to the main floor, I could see Squad 144 filling the place completely. That giant table buried under stuff. Someone always in the kitchen. The yard full of laundry. The basement full of hardware nobody would give straight provenance for. The second floor radiating male chaos. The third floor carrying a quiet, brutal turf war under civilized veneer. It all looked awful. It also looked exactly right.

I leaned against the massive table, opened the group chat, and dropped it in. Shimo: Saw it. 22 is viable. Big. Illegally big. Barely three seconds of quiet. Then it exploded. Jess:??????? Jess: That description sounds less like a house review and more like you're talking about some upperclassman's chest size. Shimo: Shut up. Maki: Layout first. Of course it was her. Her life apparently came with an integrated filter that processed Jess's nonsense as background noise. Shimo: First floor: common area.

Huge living room, one table that seats 11. Kitchen actually usable. Laundry room big enough. Shimo: Basement's thick. Shimo: Thick enough we could store an entire semester's worth of secrets without sound bleed. Harvey: Basement? Harvey: How thick? Can it take equipment? Heavy power? Ventilation? I could practically see his eyes lighting up. Shimo: This reaction makes me think I shouldn't have told you about the basement. Shimo: But yes. Very much can. Do NOT start scheming yet. D: Parking. Always mobility first.

Shimo: One car, two motorcycles. Flat. Cargo lift from yard to basement. This time the group went quiet for five full seconds. Then the blast radius doubled. Roy: Hold up—cargo lift??? Lan: Straight to the basement? Akari:... What was this house supposed to be. Jess: Hahahaha I love it. Harvey: CARGO LIFT????? Harvey: Shimo, stay there. I'm coming over. Shimo: You ditch class to come over and I will personally send you down the lift and seal it. Maki: Third floor? I looked up at the stairs. Seven girls.

Seven rooms. Two bathrooms. Jess and Maki sniping through doors at midnight if they ended up too close. Shimo: Third floor: seven rooms, two full bathrooms. Lan was first this time. Lan: Seven? Lan: So—one room per girl? Jess: ohhhhhhhhhhh— Jess: Now it's interesting. Akari: The interesting part is you, not the house. Jess: You don't get it. The real war starts now. Maki: If it's singles, allocation gets much easier. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Jess: Maki, before you hit send, would you like to place your hand on your heart and say you weren't already eyeing the room closest to Shimo? The chat went silent for one beat. Then— Maki: I'm only concerned about traffic flow. I nearly laughed out loud. Traffic flow. I'd heard that excuse before. Jess: Right, your dedicated route from your door to Shimo's door. Shimo: Could you not turn the third floor into a post-marital neighbor dispute before we even move in. Akari: It's already too late.

The second floor wasn't any calmer. D: Men's floor? Shimo: Second floor. Four guys, one bathroom. Harvey: ONE??? Harvey: For the record, I'm not accepting wet towels on my bed. Roy: Then promise you won't stash screws and wrenches in the bathroom. Harvey: That's different. D: No. In shared living, it's the same. I snorted. All right. The boys' floor had officially joined the party.

The chat kept rolling with increasingly detailed arguments about bathroom schedules, room assignments, and whether this constituted moving house or signing a ceasefire agreement. I watched the feed scroll and looked up at the stairwell. The real headache was just getting started. Because from this point on, I wasn't asking can we live here. I was asking: who has to live where so nobody commits murder in week one. The Neighbors We were just about to leave No. 22 when the door next door opened.

The woman came out first. She looked to be around sixty as well, but time hadn't diminished her—it had just smoothed some edges, turning sharp beauty into something warmer, more self-possessed. Her blonde hair caught the evening light like pale honey. She had wrinkles, but they didn't stop you from immediately picturing what kind of beauty she'd been at twenty. She stood at the doorway and called into the yard.

"Time to come in for dinner." A sudden thought hit me—one completely inappropriate for the moment. If Squad 144 actually moved here, this retired couple was going to witness the kind of disaster no military unit had ever produced during their active service. But that was for later. Right now, this door was what we had to deal with first. I pocketed my terminal, looked once more at No. 22, then at the retired couple next door. Then said, honestly, to myself: All right, Federation. You made your opening move.

Our turn. Her tone wasn't sharp—if anything, it carried the patience of someone who already knew he'd need the extra moment and had deliberately drawn out the syllables to accommodate it. The man in the rocking chair finally lowered his book a fraction, as if willing to spare a small portion of his attention for reality. He still looked unhurried, black hair combed neatly back, projecting less the aura of retirement and more of someone who had temporarily lost interest in society. He glanced our way.

Not scrutinizing, not curious—just the casual, unhurried look of someone noticing two students coming home late next door. Then he gave us a small nod. I returned it almost reflexively. The woman noticed us too—a brief pause, then a warm smile and a nod in our direction before turning back to usher her husband inside. Aida stood beside me, tone unchanged.

"As I said. Retired couple."

"That tells me functionally nothing."

"Knowing too much wouldn't do you any good either."

"Is withholding information considered basic etiquette on this street?"

"You're only noticing that now?" I watched the man rise slowly from the rocking chair, watched the woman hold the door for him, and decided to file my curiosity away for later. This place was already strange enough. Strange enough that retired couple next door with obvious history maintaining surface-level domestic tranquility was starting to feel like one of the more normal pieces of intelligence on this street. The Return We barely spoke in the taxi back. More precisely—I didn't feel like talking.

Not from awkwardness or exhaustion. The house had been too large, large enough that my brain had automatically started running deployment scenarios. How to use the living room, what to hide in the basement, how to manage laundry in the yard. How the four guys on the second floor would gradually convert an entire level into something between a munitions depot and a budget hostel.

How the seven women on the third floor would, beneath a veneer of civility, escalate rooms, bathrooms, the refrigerator, and blow-dryers into strategic resources. I leaned against the window and watched the evening streets scroll past. And very seriously considered, for the second time today: I should probably get a motorcycle license. This was becoming a survival instinct. If we actually moved in, that one-car-two-motorcycle configuration would be our daily mobility infrastructure. Cars were adults' territory.

Motorcycles were a broke student's last scrap of dignity. Right now I had neither, which meant I was destined to become everyone's errand runner. I glanced at my terminal. More unread messages. I opened it. Immediately regretted it. Squad 144's group chat was scrolling like a breached dam—shameless, undignified, collectively demonstrating exactly how communal living would sand down any remaining illusions about your teammates. Jess fired first. Jess: Since you're already off campus, grab bubble tea on the way back.

Large, less ice, full sugar. Harvey followed immediately. Harvey: Hot pot. Spicy. Not the place from last time—their broth tasted like battery acid. Akari was concise. Akari: Bento. More meat. Less vegetables. Lan deployed maximum politeness for maximum entitlement. Lan: If it's not too much trouble, could you grab me two rice balls? Thank you. Roy at least attempted a preamble. Roy: I wasn't going to ask. Roy: But if you happen to pass that place— I scrolled past him.

Of course, the next one was the most shameless. Jess: Also fried chicken. Jess: Yeah, I said it. Get me fried chicken. See how honest I'm being? I closed the terminal with a flat expression. Perfect. Pretending to have no signal. Last resort of a civilized person. Aida glanced at me—probably caught the faint murderous energy in the way I'd shut the screen.

"What's wrong?"

"My teammates are collectively demonstrating why humans aren't suited for communal living."

"They're asking you to bring things back?"

"Bubble tea, hot pot, bento, rice balls, fried chicken." I paused.

"I'm starting to think the basement should open for business early." Aida laughed quietly. Then she glanced at her own terminal, like she'd just received something.

"Your friends say they're waiting for you at the cafeteria." I turned to look at her.

"…Why are they messaging you?"

"Probably because you just lost signal." Two seconds of silence. Right. My fake-disconnect strategy had apparently only worked in my own head.

"Power corrupts," I said.

"But it's very useful," Aida completed naturally. I closed my eyes and leaned back.

"I'm starting to think Squad 144 will be collectively corrupted by you before we even move in."

"That sounds like you're blaming me."

"I am, a little."

"Then remember to factor that in when you're assigning rooms." …This woman sometimes said things more dangerous than anything Jess came up with.