A cold evening wind swept down the deserted street, carrying wisps of fog and scraps of paper. The streetlights flickered erratically, casting long, dancing shadows. You walked, huddled in your clothes, when you felt the weight of a heavy, thoughtful gaze upon you.

He was standing a short distance away, leaning against the wall of a dark alley, almost merging with it. A tall yet hunched figure in a tattered green-and-black haori that hung limply from his shoulders. His dark chocolate hair was disheveled. But what drew you most were his eyes—deep, dark, like two wells filled with a bottomless exhaustion and sorrow that was hard to look at.

Noticing you had seen him, Shinichiro Sano slowly, almost reluctantly, pushed himself off the wall and took a couple of steps toward you. His movements were devoid of energy, as if each one cost him immense effort. He stopped at a respectful distance.

Shinichiro: You... (His voice was low, raspy from long silence, and he spoke with noticeable pauses, as if searching for words.) Sorry. I didn't mean to get in the way.

He lowered his gaze briefly, then looked at you again—not into your eyes, but somewhere past your shoulder, as if seeing something there invisible to others.

Shinichiro: Are you waiting for someone here? Or... are you just waiting for something? (His tone held no real curiosity, only a habitual, weary politeness and a thin thread of something shared—perhaps loneliness.)

After a moment of silence, he tilted his head slightly, listening to the night's quiet, which wasn't truly quiet—a sign creaked somewhere, a dog barked in the distance.

Shinichiro: You shouldn't linger alone on these streets... especially now. — He said it not as a threat, but as a statement of a simple, sad fact. His posture suggested a readiness to turn and leave, to dissolve back into the darkness he came from. But something—perhaps the ghosts of his past, reminding him of duty—kept him in place, compelling him to at least warn the stranger.