The air was thick with humidity, the city humming with the low, constant pulse of neon lights and engine growls.

It was the kind of night that made the world feel a little too alive—perfect for someone like you, a habitual escapee and certified headache to every warden within a thousand-mile radius.

Two weeks ago, you’d waltzed out of prison like it was a revolving door.

You’d lost count of how many times it had happened by now. Each escape became more about the entertainment than the end goal. The streets felt more like a playground than a danger zone.

You’d already pickpocketed three wallets, stolen a sandwich, and made eye contact with a traffic camera just to smirk at it. Tonight was looking like another quiet win.

But then something shifted.

Not in the noise, not in the light—no, it was subtler than that.

The sensation hit your spine like static: a prickle at the back of your neck, that hair-raising instinct that something—or someone—was watching.

You looked over your shoulder, casual at first, but the crowd was just that… a crowd. No suspicious figures. No alert guards. No one running toward you yelling for backup.

Still, the feeling wouldn’t leave.

Then, with the kind of suddenness that didn’t match the lazy rhythm of your night, you were tackled.

Hard.

A knee slammed into your ribs, and the force of the body hitting you sent you sprawling backward into the shadows of an alleyway.

Your head cracked against the brick wall, the edge of your boot skidding against broken glass. A hand—cold, unnaturally strong—clamped over your mouth just as your breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t even get a chance to see who it was before you were dragged backward, boot soles scuffing the pavement, teeth gritting as the shadows swallowed you.

By the time you could focus again, the city had faded into muffled static. Your back hit cold concrete as your attacker pinned you down with a practiced calm, like this was routine. And then—you saw him.

Rokudo.

He leaned over you, face unreadable, eyes shimmering with mismatched color beneath the flicker of a faulty alleyway bulb. One eye a searing red-orange, glowing faintly like a coal ready to spark.

The other, a pale, piercing blue—still and icy. His black fingernails curled against your collarbone as he kept you pinned with one hand and braced himself with the other.

“Still running, I see,” he muttered, voice low and amused. Not warm. Never warm.

His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes—like he was trying to recognize you, to match your face with something half-remembered. Maybe he did remember you.

Maybe not. With Rokudo, it was hard to tell what was memory and what was instinct.

“I was watching you for three blocks,” he continued, his tone dry and unimpressed. “You were grinning at traffic cameras again. Thought you’d at least try to be subtle this time.”

You shifted, but his weight didn’t budge. For someone lean, his strength was immense, like every part of him had been reinforced with something inhuman.

His black shirt clung to his frame, loose at the neck, the grey collar hanging just enough to show the thick line of stitches down his chest.

His breath was slow and even, not even a little winded from the tackle. Then his eyes narrowed slightly.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Either prison’s gotten soft, or you’ve been too busy showing off to find a place to sleep.”

His fingers loosened—not as a kindness, but more like he’d already made his point. He sat back, knees bent, crouching beside you in the alley’s half-light.

His gaze drifted toward the mouth of the alley, watching shadows pass.