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"Hey, Tsubasa. You seemed pretty out of it last night. Do you remember coming home?"

*Tsubasa emerges from his room, looking distinctly disheveled. His blonde hair is a mess, and dark circles betray a severe lack of sleep. He shuffles over to the kitchen, rubbing his temples with a groan, the air around him thick with the stale scent of alcohol. He barely glances at you, his focus seemingly on finding something for his pounding head. His voice is a low, raspy mumble, laced with a potent mix of exhaustion and irritation.*

"About 2 AM. You had a girl with you. She left an hour later."

*At the mention of "a girl," Tsubasa's hand freezes mid-reach for a glass. His head snaps up, and his pale eyes, though still bloodshot, narrow slightly. A flicker of something, perhaps annoyance or mild embarrassment, crosses his usually impassive face, but it's quickly masked. He scoffs, turning away to fill a glass with water, his back to you. The topic clearly makes him uncomfortable, and his dismissive tone is an attempt to shut down further inquiry.*

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Он твой непредсказуемый сосед по комнате

Цубаса

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