**Musutafu, Old Industrial Quarter – January 22, 2026, Late Afternoon**
The warehouse stood like a forgotten giant at the edge of the district—six stories of cracked brick and rusted iron, windows shattered on the lower floors, but the top level still intact, high above the noise of the city. Yamcha had found the listing on a shady real-estate app: condemned building, cheap lease, "buyer beware." Perfect for a wolf who didn't want neighbors asking questions.
He pushed open the heavy fire door at the roof access, dust swirling in the golden afternoon light. The space was raw: exposed beams, concrete floor patched with old tar, massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling skyline of Musutafu. The view was breathtaking—neon towers in the distance, the UA silhouette faint on the horizon. This was it. His den.
Yamcha dropped the first box of supplies—weights, punching bag, basic furniture—and rolled up his sleeves. He worked methodically: swept the floor, patched a few holes with scavenged metal sheets, hung heavy bags from the beams. In one corner he set up a makeshift gym: pull-up bar, mats, a speed bag. On the opposite wall he sketched rough wolf motifs in charcoal—stylized fangs, howling silhouettes—planning to paint them later.
But as the hours passed and the sun dipped lower, the silence grew heavy.
He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, staring at an empty corner where a small bedroll waited. No chatter. No sudden shape-shift into a cat curling on his shoulder. No Puar turning into a lamp just to make him laugh when he was tired.
"Damn it, buddy," Yamcha muttered to the empty air. "You'd be having a field day here. Turn into a forklift to move this couch, huh?"
Flashback hit gently this time—not painful, just aching.
*Puar floating beside him in the desert cave, turning into a tiny dragon to fan cool air on hot nights. Puar shifting into a sword at the last second to save his life against Goku's Oozaru form. Puar's small voice: "Yamcha, we're a team, right? Always."*
He shook his head, grabbed another box, but his movements slowed. The space felt too big. Too quiet.
A soft knock echoed from the roof door.
Yamcha turned. Nemuri stepped in, balancing two large paper bags and a bottle of wine in one arm, her long coat open over jeans and a fitted black sweater. Her hair was loose, purple strands catching the dying light.
"Thought you might need reinforcements," she said, smiling. "And food. Real food, not whatever protein bars you live on."
Yamcha's face softened instantly.
"You didn't have to come all the way out here."
"I wanted to." She set the bags down, eyes sweeping the space. "This is… wow. Raw. Exposed. Very you."
She walked to the windows, trailing fingers along the glass.
"Big view for a lone wolf."
He joined her, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed.
"Thought it'd be nice to see the city from up here. Reminds me I'm not in the desert anymore."
Nemuri turned to him, eyes searching.
"But it's still empty, isn't it?"
Yamcha exhaled, looking out at the lights starting to flicker on below.
"Yeah. It is."
They worked together after that—unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, hanging the punching bag. Nemuri flirted shamelessly the whole time.
"Such a big space for one wolf," she teased, bending to place books on a shelf, giving him a deliberate view. "Plenty of room for… company."
Yamcha smirked, lifting a heavy weight rack into place.
"Careful, Midnight. You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you're applying for the roommate position."
She laughed, stepping close to hand him a tool.
"I'm not applying. I'm auditioning." Her fingers lingered on his as she passed the wrench. "And I think I'm winning."
They paused in the middle of the room, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and scattered tools. Yamcha set the wrench down, voice quieter.
"It's not just the space. It's… quiet. Too quiet."
Nemuri tilted her head.
"Tell me."
He leaned against a beam, arms crossed like armor.
"Back then… I had Puar. My best friend. Shape-shifter. Little blue cat-thing most of the time. He was always there. Turned into whatever I needed—sword, pillow, distraction when I was down. Talked to me when no one else did. Never left. Not once."
His gaze drifted to the empty corner.
"Here, unpacking alone… it hit me. He'd be turning into a dolly right now, complaining the whole time, making jokes. Or curling up on the couch while I trained. He was the only one who never made me feel like second place."
Nemuri stepped closer, hand resting on his chest.
"You're not second place here, Yamcha. Not to me. Not in this city. Not in this life."
He looked down at her, vulnerability raw in his eyes.
"I know. But I miss him. Every damn day."
She slid her arms around his waist, pulling him into a slow embrace. He hesitated only a second before wrapping his arms around her, chin resting on her head.
"You don't have to be alone anymore," she whispered. "Not in this den. Not with me."
They stayed like that for a long moment, the city humming far below.
Eventually she pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"Stay tonight?" he asked quietly. "First night in the new place. Don't want it to feel empty."
Nemuri's smile was soft, wicked, and tender all at once.
"I was planning on it."
They finished the last boxes together, shared takeout on the floor (ramen and wine), talked until the sky turned full dark. Then she led him to the makeshift bed—mattress on the floor for now, blankets piled high.
No rush. No performance.
Just her body curling against his, her head on his chest, his arm around her waist. Her fingers tracing lazy circles on his skin. His hand in her hair.
"You're not alone," she murmured against his collarbone. "Not tonight. Not ever again, if you'll have me."
Yamcha kissed the top of her head.
"I'll have you. Always."
The city lights glittered through the windows like distant stars.
For the first time since waking up in this world, the silence didn't feel so heavy.
He had a home.
And someone to share it with.