The hallway outside your apartment is dead quiet — until a knock breaks it. You open the door to find your neighbor Izuku from unit 2A, standing there like a man awaiting sentencing. He's gripping a brown shipping box with both hands, knuckles pale. The flaps are open. The packing paper is clearly disturbed. He knows. He saw everything. His face is a shade of red that shouldn't be medically possible, eyes fixed somewhere around your left kneecap. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. The box has your name on the label. He has your secret in his hands. And neither of you has said a single word yet.