The bathroom door creaked open.

  Steam billowed out into the hallway like a miniature monsoon, and there she was — Eira, wrapped in one of my old, ratty towels, looking both wild and weirdly regal at the same time.

  I cmped my hand over my eyes on reflex."Fully clothed?" I called out, peeking through my fingers.

  "I am... covered," she said simply.

  I dropped my hand, cautiously.

  Yup. Towel. Bare shoulders. Long pale legs. Dripping hair that clung to her face and neck in messy, golden waves.

  Panic smmed back into me like a truck.

  Because there was one huge, massive, critical problem:She had no clothes.

  And I wasn’t exactly stocked up on women's fashion for sudden elf guests.

  My brain scrambled into overdrive.

  "Wait here!" I yelped, bolting toward the living room. "Don't move! Don’t stab anything!"

  I dove for my phone, thumb flying across the screen.

  Blinkit.Bless those speed demons.

  I searched frantically:Oversized T-shirts. Unisex shorts. Emergency modesty kit.

  Fifteen minutes delivery time.It would have to do.

  I threw random sizes into the cart. XL. XXL. Whatever looked baggy enough to avoid another Bajrang Bali Save Me situation.

  As I tapped Pce Order, I heard soft footsteps behind me.

  I turned.

  Eira stood there quietly, dripping onto my floor, watching me with that same calm, unreadable expression.

  "You require offerings for this ritual?" she asked, gncing at my frantic phone tapping.

  I choked on a ugh."Yeah. Offerings. Modern-day sacrifices to the gods of clothing and dignity."

  She blinked slowly.Accepting it without question.

  God help me.

  Fifteen minutes ter, the Blinkit guy arrived, looking suspiciously at the busted wall patched up with a bedsheet and the random debris scattered around.

  I gave him a weak smile and a fat tip.

  "Renovation," I muttered.

  He nodded like he didn't want to get involved and vanished.

  I shut the door and tossed the pstic bag at Eira like it was a live grenade.

  "Here! Clothes! Modern, comfy, non-lethal!"

  She caught it easily, peered inside, then pulled out one of the T-shirts — a pin bck XL monstrosity with "NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE" printed across the chest.

  I resisted the urge to expin motivational quotes.

  "And shorts," I added, holding them up like a peace offering. "You, uh, wear them under the T-shirt."

  Eira inspected the garments seriously, as if judging the craftsmanship of a sacred artifact.

  "I will change," she said.

  "Good!" I said, turning my back again like a good, chaste, terrified man. "I'll just be over here praying to survive."

  A few minutes ter, she tapped my shoulder lightly.

  I turned.

  And froze.

  The T-shirt hung loose on her small frame, the sleeves nearly reaching her elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh.The shorts were barely visible underneath.Her damp hair was pulled into a messy braid over one shoulder.She looked like some absurd combination of warrior princess and confused college student.

  And somehow — impossibly —she still looked gorgeous.

  "Bajrang Bali," I whispered hoarsely under my breath, praying for strength.

  "You approve?" she asked, totally serious.

  I cleared my throat violently. "You look... uh... human. Very Earth-friendly. Good job."

  She tilted her head, considering this.

  Before my brain could combust completely, I yanked out my phone and snapped a quick photo.

  Proof.Because otherwise Aman would never, ever believe me.

  I sent it to him with the caption:"Bro. Help."

  Aman replied almost instantly:

  AMAN: [voice message] "BHAI! BHAAAI! SHE LOOKS LIKE SHE CAME OUT OF A MANHWA! YOU'RE LIVING MY DREAM!!"

  Then another:

  AMAN: "ASK HER IF SHE HAS AN OLDER SISTER."

  I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

  From the corner of my eye, Eira watched me, confused.

  "You seek counsel from your kin?"

  "From my idiot friend," I corrected. "Who's currently being no help at all."

  She said nothing for a while.

  Then, surprising me, she sat down cross-legged on the floor opposite me, mirroring my posture exactly.

  It was the first time she really... rexed.Not standing stiff, not scanning exits, not ready to fight.

  Just sitting.

  "I do not understand this world," she said quietly, looking around at the mess — the busted monitor, the patched wall, the piles of undry.

  "Honestly," I said, rubbing the back of my neck, "I barely understand it myself."

  She looked at me then — really looked — and for the first time, there was something vulnerable in her expression.Something... human.

  "In my world," she said slowly, "trust is a weakness. It gets you killed."

  I nodded. "Same here. Just... slower. And with paperwork."

  She didn’t smile.But she didn't look away, either.

  "I do not know how to live without a mission," she said. "Without... orders. Targets."

  My throat tightened unexpectedly.

  Because yeah, I got it.Different battlefield. Same feeling.

  "You’re not alone," I said quietly. "Everyone’s just... making it up as they go."

  She frowned. "And you?"

  "Me?" I ughed bitterly. "I’m a guy who thought his biggest problem was climbing out of Silver rank in Valorant."

  She blinked at me.

  "And now?" she asked.

  I met her gaze.

  "Now," I said honestly, "I think my biggest problem is making sure you don't feel alone here."

  Another long pause.

  Then — barely — she nodded.

  A silent agreement.

  No oaths. No fancy decrations.Just two broken weirdos sitting cross-legged on a dusty floor, trying to figure out what the hell came next.