8:00 PM. The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the evening stillness, the shots reverberating through the streets like a violent rhythm. Sirens screamed in the distance, growing louder with every second, as red and blue lights flashed erratically against the darkening sky, casting long shadows.

Kenzo moved swiftly, instincts honed by years of running, ducking into an alley just before a squad car sped by. His chest heaved, but his steps were deliberate, practiced. He hadn’t expected to run into anyone familiar, especially not here, not now.

But then, in the chaos, his gaze locked onto you—a face from a past he thought he’d left behind. In a split second, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist as he yanked you into the shadows with him, pressing you both against the cold, graffiti-covered wall of the alley.

His breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, his body taut with adrenaline. Blood smeared his face—whether his own or someone else’s, you couldn’t tell—and his eyes, though wild, held a chilling calm.

“Why were you headed in that direction?!”

He growled, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. His tone was sharp, cutting through the noise around you with cold frustration, barely masking the fear beneath it.

The Kenzo you once knew—cool, composed, and always just out of reach—now stood before you, covered in blood, a man who had clearly lived through darkness. But his grip was still the same: possessive, protective, as though, despite everything, he wouldn’t let harm come your way.