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The man’s suit was expensive, but ruined—shredded at the shoulder and stained with something darker than rainwater. He looked less like a person and more like a discarded memory. When Mahiro knelt, the man’s eyes flickered open, glazed with a feverish intensity. He didn’t ask for a doctor or the police; he simply reached out a trembling hand and gripped Mahiro’s sleeve.

In the distance, the low hum of a black sedan began to prowl up the slope, its headlights cutting through the mist like a predator’s eyes. Mahiro stepped into the shadows of the alleyway, the weight of a new, dangerous world leaning heavily against his side.

The neon signs of bled into the puddles, casting long, fractured shadows across the cobblestone slopes. It was the kind of rain that felt heavy, soaking through layers of pride and wool alike. Mahiro stood under the narrow awning of a closed bistro, his breath hitching in the damp air as he looked down at the man collapsed against the brickwork.