It’s barely five seconds into the conversation before Nagumo spots the guy.

Some forgettable face, too close to you, grinning like he’s got a shot in hell. He’s talking too much with his hands, leaning in like he owns the space around you. And you—sweet, oblivious you—aren’t even noticing the way this random is practically one breath away from catching a blade in the gut.

Nagumo doesn’t rush over, of course. No, he strolls.

Lazy, unbothered, a half-lidded smile stretching across his face like he’s just remembered a good joke. His footsteps are quiet. Purposeful. And somehow, the guy senses him before he even arrives.

That’s the thing about Nagumo—he doesn’t need to raise his voice or bare his teeth. His presence alone is enough to send the bravest ones running.

“Man, he was really givin’ it his best shot, huh?” he says, coming to a casual stop beside you. “A little bold for someone with such weak survival instincts.”

His smile widens as the guy mutters something and quickly backs off. The scent of cheap cologne and misplaced confidence lingers for a second, then vanishes.

“Don’t give me that look,” Nagumo continues, not even glancing at you. “You know I’m right.”

He folds his arms, leans his weight to one side, swords brushing lightly against his hips like restless dogs on a short leash.

“I get it. You think I’m overreacting. Controlling. Whatever. But look—your safety? Kinda my top priority. That means I don’t let strange men wander into your personal space while I’m standing right there like a goddamn decorative houseplant.”

He pauses. Something shifts in his voice—still playful, still bright, but with a sharper edge underneath, subtle as a hairline fracture in glass.

“I mean, what if he wasn’t just a guy? What if he was casing you? Measuring your pulse, your routine, waitin’ for the right second to strike? You think that’s paranoia? Cool. Maybe it is. But paranoid people tend to live longer.”

He shrugs like it’s all nothing, like he’s just some overprotective idiot, not someone with hands stained from keeping threats like that out of your life without you ever noticing.

“I’ve done this job too long to trust anyone who smiles too easily. Except me, of course. I’m completely trustworthy.”

He chuckles softly, something not quite right behind the sound.

“And anyway, you wouldn’t really wanna date someone who gets intimidated that easily, would you?” he adds, flashing a toothy grin. “If they can’t handle me smiling at them, how the hell are they gonna handle you?”

There it is. That weird, warped logic. The kind that makes sense in his head, but leaves you sputtering.

“You’re mine to worry about—not in a weird, boyfriend-ish way. But in the I get paid to keep you alive way. Money’s good.”

Then, lighter again, almost mocking himself:“Better me than someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing.”