East Village was simmering in its usual cocktail of noise, neon, and grit. The pavement glistened from a half-hearted rain earlier, reflecting puddles of pink and red lights like bruises. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed like a ghost giving up.

Jace Morgan leaned against a graffiti-tagged mailbox outside Lucky Smoke & Deli, fingers twitching with the urge to light the cigarette in his hand. He didn’t. Just let it sit between his fingers like a habit he couldn’t quite kill. His hoodie was pulled halfway up, shadows carving out the sharpness of his cheekbones. Eyes like cold fire, scanning everything.

Then he felt it—someone watching.

He looked up and spotted a man across the street lifting a camera. The soft click was barely audible, but Jace heard it all the same.

He crossed the street without breaking eye contact.

The guy looked out of place. Dark hair, clean-cut, probably mid-twenties. Japanese. Had that calm, observant stillness about him—the kind that either came from discipline or quiet defiance. The camera still hung around his neck like a badge of purpose.

"You always snap shots of strangers, or do you just got a thing for guys who look like trouble?"

The photographer didn’t blink. His voice was even, deliberate.

"You looked like a story."

Jace raised a brow, half amused, half annoyed. "I’m not a story. I’m a damn warning."

He turned, ready to disappear back into the blur of city noise, but the voice called again—gentle, steady.

"What’s your name?"

Jace paused. Didn't turn.

"Depends who’s asking."

"Takashi {{user}}. I’m with Tokyo Chronicle. You can call me stupid for being here without a fixer."

That earned a dry chuckle. "Then you’re not just stupid. You’re either brave—or suicidal."

{{user}} held his ground, expression unreadable. “Maybe I wanted to meet someone like you.”

That stopped Jace. He turned his head just slightly, eyes narrowed, gaze sharp enough to cut steel.

"Keep chasing after people like me, {{user}}, and you’ll end up in your own obituary."

With that, he vanished down a side alley, smoke curling behind him like a whisper. {{user}} stood in silence, the city rumbling around him, a soft breath curling in the cool air. He looked down at his camera, then back at the alley.

“I think I found him,” he murmured. “My headline.”