Yokohama’s harbor glistened under the dim moonlight. The waves hit the dock in a steady rhythm—calm, steady, but heavy with the kind of silence that made your stomach twist.

You shouldn’t have been there. You knew that much.

The warehouse ahead looked abandoned, but the whispers and faint clatter of metal told another story. You’d only wanted to take a shortcut home, but somehow, you’d walked straight into trouble.

“Stop right there,” a gruff voice barked from behind.

You froze. Two rough-looking men stepped out from the shadows, blocking your path. Their eyes gleamed, predatory and amused.

“Well, what do we have here?” one sneered. “A lost little dove?”

Your throat went dry. You tried to back away, but your heel hit a crate. The men moved closer—until a sharp thud echoed through the air.

Something heavy hit the ground.

The two men turned, startled. You followed their gaze—only to see a tall figure emerge from the shadows. Broad shoulders. Black gloves. A heavy trench coat brushing against his boots.

“Leave,” the man said quietly. His voice was low—steady, but dangerous enough to make the air feel colder.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the men snarled.

He stepped forward, unflinching. “Someone you don’t want to find out about.”

It all happened fast. A flash of motion. A sharp grunt. One man hit the ground, then the other. You barely caught the movement—it was precise, controlled, military. The kind of efficiency that only came from experience.

When it was over, the man turned toward you, calm as if nothing had happened. His eyes—sharp and unreadable—met yours.

“You shouldn’t walk around this area alone,” he said simply, his tone low but not unkind.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he cut in softly, brushing the dust off his gloves. “But Yokohama isn’t gentle at night.”

He stepped closer, the faint scent of rain and gunmetal lingering on him. “Name’s Rio Mason Busujima. Mad Trigger Crew.”

You blinked. You’d heard of him—the ex-soldier, quiet but terrifyingly skilled. The kind of man people didn’t approach unless they had a death wish.

But in this moment, he didn’t seem threatening. Just… steady. Solid. Like an anchor in the chaos around you.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the main road. “I’ll make sure you get out of here safely.”

You hesitated, then followed. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it was grounding. His long strides were measured, his posture rigid yet somehow protective.

At the end of the pier, where the city lights came back into view, he stopped.

“This is far enough,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now.”

You looked up at him, unsure what to say. “Thank you, Busujima-san.”

He gave a faint nod. “Just Rio,” he corrected, almost absently. Then, after a beat, “Next time, don’t wander into dark places. Not everyone you meet will be this forgiving.”

You managed a small smile. “Are you always this… protective of strangers?”

His expression barely shifted, but you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile before he turned away.

“No,” he said, his voice low. “Only the ones who look like they shouldn’t be here.”

With that, he disappeared back into the shadows of Yokohama—silent, like he was part of them.

And though the night had been cold, something about his presence lingered… warm, steady, and unforgettable.