Hiro’s Ramen Palace prided itself on noodles with exactly forty-five seconds of perfect chew. Hiro knew this because he was staring at the timer when the first zombie pressed its face against the window, leaving a greasy forehead print shaped like regret. By the time the zombies arrived, the ramen was already overcooked.

“Closed,” Hiro muttered, even though the sign still said OPEN and the zombie could not read. It groaned anyway, which Hiro took personally.

Within minutes, three more zombies shuffled in, attracted not by brains but by the steam rolling out of the shop. One of them pointed at the menu with a missing finger and made a hopeful sound. Hiro sighed. He had survived rent increases, food critics, and a disastrous soft-boiled egg incident. He was not going to lose his shop to undead freeloaders.

“Sit,” he said, out of habit. "It will be ready in five."

They sat.

The bell over the door jingled as more zombies arrived, forming a polite, wobbling line. A jogger being chased outside slowed down, confused, then joined the queue.

Hiro wiped his hands on his apron. If the apocalypse wanted ramen, fine. He’d serve it. But he was charging extra for substitutions—and absolutely no rotting flesh falling off in the dining area.

A good bit of rotting flesh ended up falling off in the dining area.

Hiro looked at this with immense distaste on his way to switch off the OPEN sign. Most of the zombies had been pretty easy to deal with, unexpectedly, but there had also been a decent handful who couldn't figure out the correct amount of money to pay their bill for almost five minutes or who didn't have money on them at all. One had even sent its bowl back because he'd gotten its order wrong. That was all bad enough on its own, but cleaning up rotten flesh for half the night? Way worse.

He sighed and reached up to turn off the sign. At this moment, the door opened with a frantic jingle and a slight figure barreled in, panting for breath.

He flipped the switch, and the neon letters dimmed. "We're closed."

"Wait, waitasec. . ."

They lifted their head. Hiro's first impression of this child was that they were even filthier than his restaurant.

"Can I. . ." They finally caught their breath. "Can I stay here? Just for a night. . ."

Hiro looked at them for a long moment. Then he went into the back, grabbed some cleaning supplies from the storeroom, and brought them back. He passed them to the kid and said, "Clean up."

The kid stared at the bucket and rags like they’d been handed a live grenade.

“…Clean?” they echoed.

Hiro didn’t soften. He nodded toward the mess on the floor, already turning back to the counter. “You want to stay, you help. Try not to slip on anything.”

For a second he thought they might bolt. The door was right there, and the night beyond it was loud in the distant, restless way that meant trouble. But the kid swallowed, set their jaw, and crouched down.

“Okay,” they said quietly.

They worked with surprising care. Hiro watched from the corner of his eye as he wiped down the counter. The kid avoided the walls, scrubbed where he was told, and flinched whenever a truck groaned in the distance. When they were done, they rinsed the rag twice without being asked and lined the supplies back up neatly.

That earned them a point.

“Sink,” Hiro said, jerking his chin toward the back. “Wash your hands. Then sit.”

The kid obeyed instantly.

When they came back, Hiro slid a bowl across the counter. Plain broth. Noodles. No extras.

The kid froze.

“…For me?”

“Yeah,” Hiro said. “It’s what’s left.”

They took it anyway, hands shaking, and drank like they were afraid the bowl might vanish. Hiro waited until they slowed down before speaking again.

“What’s your name?”

“Jun,” they said. After a beat, quieter: “I can work. I’m good at cleaning. And counting. And I don’t mind zombies.”

Hiro snorted despite himself. “Nobody minds them. You just get used to them.”

"Or you fight them."

"We don't fight here, kid. Fighting gets you killed,"

Jun looked up at that, eyes sharp. “Does that mean I can stay?”

Hiro wiped his hands on a towel and looked around the shop—empty stools, dim lights, the faint hum of the fridge. Safe.

“One night,” he said. “You sleep on the bench. We open at dawn.”

Jun nodded hard, like they were afraid any extra movement might undo the deal.

As Hiro locked the door and drew the curtains, he told himself it was practical. Extra hands. Nothing more.

But when Jun curled up on the bench and fell asleep almost instantly, Hiro turned the sign all the way off and left it that way longer than usual.

Contrary to his own words, Hiro did not open at dawn.

He told himself it was because he'd earned a break. Definitely had nothing to do with the messy brat still sprawled on the bench and snoring away. Jun would be gone as soon as they woke up. He had no need of a tween companion. He had a shop to run, and Jun would only be a burden.

Nevertheless, he didn't switch on the OPEN sign until eight, when Jun's snores became inconstant. Then he prodded the kid until they woke up, bleary and with a jerk that told they were ready to fight for their life.

Then their eyes focused and they relaxed greatly. ". . .It's morning already. . ?"

"Yes," Hiro said. "Now get up. The tables must be set."

Jun got up with no further complaint, and they both got to work.

It was another busy day, and Hiro had no time to worry about kicking Jun out. In fact, he only had time to dole out orders--bring him that, salt that pot, remove those noodles before they go to mush, quickly--which Jun carried out with a mildly impressive efficiency. Since opening his ramen shop, Hiro had been stressed all the time. His hair had even started to thin. But Jun was a competent helper, and it gave him time to breathe.

It was only because they had done such a good job that Hiro gave them a proper bowl of noodles after closing up and didn't kick them out. That was certainly the sole reason.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would send Jun on their way.

Even as he promised himself this, Hiro opened his spare toothbrush and put it in the holder. He couldn't let the kid leave without brushing their teeth.

Why he pulled out a second futon and set it up in the tiny little spare room of his apartment, well, he couldn't say either.