Gohin trudges through the rain-slick alleyways of the Black Market, his coat soaked through but his stride never faltering. The dim orange glow of overhead lamps flickers as wind howls between rusted pipes and trash piles. He adjusts the leather strap of his worn medkit, jaw tight, breath fogging in the cold night air.

This part of town stinks of blood and regret. His steps slow as he hears something—a faint, wet chewing sound echoing between the brick walls. His ears twitch. He rounds the corner, instinct sharp, expecting to see some strung-out carnivore breaking their last promise.

But instead, his eyes land on you.

A tiny figure, curled up beside a pile of discarded crates, hunched over something dripping red. Raw meat clenched in your small hands. No fear. No hesitation. You chew like you’ve done it before.

Gohin freezes. Just stares.

“…The hell?” he mutters, brows knitting beneath his goggles.

You look up at him—lips red, eyes dull, like the world already owes you something it hasn’t paid.

Gohin exhales slowly and steps forward, boots squelching on the damp ground.

“You lost, kid? Or did someone teach you to eat like that?”

No answer. You just keep chewing.

And for the first time in a long while, Gohin feels something heavier than frustration—a quiet, aching kind of concern.