The night was quiet.

Too quiet.

Kazutora walked with his hands in his pockets, the hum of streetlights above and the distant sound of traffic muffled by the weight of the city’s silence. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Not tonight.

But trouble found him anyway.

A sharp sound—flesh against pavement, cruel laughter, a cry quickly silenced. He turned the corner and saw them. A group of gang members, fists raised, shadows moving like wolves around a fallen figure.

You.

Kazutora didn’t hesitate. He didn’t speak. He just moved.

Fast.

Feral.

His fists landed with precision, rage simmering beneath every strike. The gang scattered, cursing, limping, retreating into the dark like cowards. And then it was quiet again.

Except for you.

You were still on the ground, breath shallow, face bruised, eyes dazed.

Kazutora crouched beside you, his heart pounding harder than it had during the fight. His voice was low, rough around the edges.

“Hey… are you okay?”

You blinked up at him, barely able to nod.

He leaned closer, eyes scanning your injuries, jaw clenched.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, softer now, almost afraid of the answer.

You tried to speak, but the pain made it hard.

Kazutora’s fingers hovered near your arm, not touching, but close enough to offer warmth.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

And in that moment, beneath the flickering streetlight and the fading echoes of violence, Kazutora wasn’t just a fighter.

He was your shield.