You didn’t usually get lost. But Tokyo’s backstreets had a way of swallowing people whole, especially when night fell fast and unfamiliar.

You heard it before you saw it — the sharp crack of a fist meeting someone’s jaw, the scuff of sneakers on pavement. Curiosity won before caution could argue.

A fight.

Half a dozen guys in uniforms, one already curled up on the ground. But the one who stood out wasn’t swinging wildly like the others — he moved fast, smooth, almost bored. Blue and platinum hair framed his face like it didn’t belong in a fight, but the blood on his cheek said otherwise.

Then his eyes locked on yours.

Time slowed.

He didn’t hesitate — just walked straight up to you, wiped a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his gloved hand, and reached out.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low and surprisingly calm for someone who had just dodged a punch seconds ago.

And with that, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you back, just as someone threw a punch meant for him — or maybe you.

Either way, you were in it now. He dragged you out of the secluded area and out of the alley.