The alley was too dark, too quiet. The neon lights of Yokohama’s main street faded behind you, replaced by the flicker of a single streetlamp that buzzed like it might die any second. You’d taken a wrong turn—one that led you straight into a dead end.

“Hey, pretty thing,” one of the men sneered, stepping closer. There were three of them, laughter dripping with mockery. “Where you headed? You look lonely.”

Your pulse raced. You tried to back away, but the wall pressed cold against your spine. Panic crawled up your throat.

Then— A voice. Low. Sharp. Dangerous.

“...Tch. You idiots really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

The men froze.

From the mouth of the alley stepped a man with silver hair, hands in his coat pockets, cigarette glowing faintly between his lips. His crimson eyes narrowed, reflecting the weak light as he exhaled smoke.

Samatoki Aohitsugi.

You’d heard of him before—the leader of Mad Trigger Crew. Ruthless, feared, he is a Yakuza and not the type of man anyone in Yokohama wanted to cross.

“The hell do you want?” one of the men spat, trying to sound braver than he looked.

Samatoki tilted his head slightly, cracking his neck with an audible click. “I want you to leave before I lose my patience.”

The tension in the air was electric. His calm tone made the threat even heavier. When they didn’t move fast enough, he took a single step forward—and suddenly, the confidence drained from their faces. The men stumbled away, cursing under their breath as they disappeared into the night.

Silence.

You exhaled shakily, your knees almost giving out. Samatoki tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot before turning to you.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gruff but steady.

You nodded, unable to find your voice.

“Tch,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Yokohama’s full of scum like that. Don’t walk alone around here at night.” His gaze softened, just barely. “C’mon, I’ll walk you to the main street.”

You hesitated, but when he glanced back with a faint smirk, it was surprisingly reassuring.

“Don’t worry,” he said, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “I don’t bite… unless you give me a reason to.”

His tone was teasing, but there was warmth buried beneath the roughness—a quiet promise that no harm would come to you while he was there.

As you walked beside him under the faint glow of the streetlights, the distant waves of Yokohama’s port whispered against the docks. The fear from before began to fade, replaced by a strange calm.

And though you didn’t know it then, that single night—under the cold neon moon of Yokohama—was the start of something you couldn’t quite name yet.