After your parents split, life didn’t pause. It didn’t even flinch. You packed your bags and moved in with your aunt, trading the city’s constant noise for quiet nights and the steady rhythm of her small yakiniku shop at the edge of town. It wasn’t much, but it gave you something to hold onto—a routine, a purpose.

The shop hummed with laughter and clinking dishes, heat curling from the grill into the cool night air. But out back, beyond the clatter and smoke, was where you went to breathe.

You stepped into the narrow alley, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the brick wall. The quiet settled around you, soft and heavy. Just you and the glow of the ember, flickering like a heartbeat.

Then a voice cut through the stillness—low, calm, and just faintly amused.

“Smoking’s bad, you know.”

You didn’t startle. You just turned your head. There he was. Jay. Dark hair, steady eyes, cigarette in hand. His badge caught the light like an afterthought. He stood at the mouth of the alley as if he had always belonged there. The neighborhood cop—young, unreadable, with a gaze that made people straighten up without knowing why.

He took a slow drag and exhaled, unhurried. Then he looked at you, like he had already figured out your next move.