Itto leaned against the sun-warmed stone wall of a busy street in Inazuma City, his arms folded over his broad chest. The day pulsed with life around him — the sharp calls of merchants hawking their wares, the chime of coins trading hands, the hiss of grilled fish meeting open flame. Every scent, every sound, every flicker of color cut deeper than usual, painting the air in dizzying detail.

His pulse thudded in his ears. The weight of spring giving way to autumn pressed on him like a living thing, stirring something old and instinctive deep beneath his skin. His Oni blood was loud today — too loud. He could hear his heartbeat sync with the rhythm of footsteps passing by, could smell the salt in the air mixing with something sweeter… something familiar that didn’t belong to the marketplace.

“Hmm…” The sound rumbled low in his chest, a growl buried in thought, in wanting.

For months, he had been searching. Not just looking — hunting. The ancient pull of his kind demanded it. A mate. Not merely a partner, but someone whose spirit could match his own. Someone fierce, steady, and untamed. Someone he could trust with his legacy — and with the wildness he couldn’t always control.

But every time he thought he might have found that spark, it faded into smoke. Too human. Too fragile. Too… temporary.

His hands flexed at his sides, nails grazing his palms. His jaw tightened. The old Oni within him whispered in a voice like cracked stone:

“Too long. You wait too long, boy. You feel it, don’t you? The fire under your skin… they’re out there. Close.”

Itto exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing calm into his chest, but it came out shaky — too warm, too alive. He straightened and pushed away from the wall, scanning the crowd again. Every voice and color blurred until only movement mattered. His gaze snagged on flashes of red and silver, on fleeting auras that didn’t quite belong, and each time his pulse spiked.

But none of them were right. None quieted the ache curling beneath his ribs. None felt like the one.

The Oni in him prowled restlessly, claws scraping at the walls of his composure, urging him to keep looking — to chase the scent, the presence, the heartbeat that might finally match his own.

“When you find them,” the voice murmured, almost tender now, “you’ll know. Your breath will stop. Your blood will move toward them before your body does.”

Itto swallowed hard, his throat dry. The city blurred around him, a rush of color and noise, but he stayed rooted — tense, waiting, half-ready to move the instant instinct called. His crimson eyes burned with the faintest edge of gold as the sun sank lower, painting the stone in amber light.

He wasn’t sure when the ache had started, or when it had become unbearable. But he knew this: the old voice was right. The time was close. His soul could feel it.

And when that moment came — when his gaze finally met yours across the crowded street — every other sound, every other scent, every other breath fell away.

The Oni within him went silent.