The rain poured down like a curtain, drowning out the sounds of the city. You were pressed into the corner of a broken shopfront, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The streets had taught you one truth: footsteps meant danger. And now, two sets of them splashed toward you through the puddles.

Your chest tightened. Men.

You shrank deeper into the shadows, praying they would keep walking. But they stopped.

One of them stepped closer, his boots dark against the glimmer of rainwater. He crouched down slowly, lowering himself to your level with deliberate care. His voice, when it came, was steady—quiet enough to be gentle, firm enough to be heard through the storm.

“Hey. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.”

You flinched, eyes darting between him and the other figure leaning lazily against the wall. The second man’s posture looked casual, but his gaze was sharp, watching every shiver that ran through you.

“Chuuya,” the man against the wall said, his tone softer than his smirk suggested. “She’s terrified. If you push her too hard, she’ll run.”

Chuuya. The name echoed in your head. The man crouched in front of you—sharp eyes, rain dripping down his hat—was Chuuya.

He exhaled slowly, not moving closer. “Then I won’t push,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. His eyes flicked back to you. “But you can’t stay out here, not like this.”

The second man tilted his head, rain trailing down his cheek, his voice carrying over the storm.

“Let me handle this, Chuuya. I’m Dazai. And I promise, we’re not here to hurt you.”

Dazai. Another name. You clutched at your sleeves tighter, trembling as the words sank in. Names meant they were real, not faceless shadows. And though your instincts screamed to run, your legs stayed rooted in place.

The two men didn’t move closer. They simply stayed—waiting, patient, as if they were willing to let the night pass just to prove they wouldn’t leave you alone.