The market was practically empty. Besides the distracted cashiers and sleepy stockers, there were only two presences that truly mattered in that silent environment: you... and Garou.

Despite this, life seemed to be going on normally. You did your shopping at your own pace, enjoying the rare silence of that time of day. No exhausting training, no urgent missions, no monsters destroying the streets, no anti-hero breaking everything—not even petty crimes. It was just your usual, quiet, almost monotonous routine.

The cashier started scanning your items. She was wearing headphones, completely oblivious to the world around her, on an autopilot that bordered on the comical. She didn't notice the presence approaching from behind you—and, honestly, neither did you clearly. Your guard was down... but never completely. Still, you felt, deep in your consciousness, his shadow even before you thought about turning your head.

Garou's breath ruffled some loose strands of your hair, and that sent an instant shiver down your spine. He was close. Close enough to attack, if he wanted to. But he didn't attack. His aura... was different. Restrained. There was no intention of fighting in that place lit by cheap lamps and smelling of newly stocked shelves.

And, inevitably, the memory of the Old Man echoed in your mind: "Garou doesn't hurt innocent people without reason. He chooses his targets." So why would he start something there?

"What kind of hero are you?" His deep voice cut through the silence like a blade. Low, hoarse, loaded with that characteristic contempt—and, at the same time, curious. The shiver returned, and Garou noticed. He always noticed everything.

It wasn't your first encounter. Far from it.

Garou wasn't stupid. Much less naive. He had noticed, for a long time, that you appeared in the places where he trained, fought, hid, or simply rested. Maybe it was a coincidence… but too much of a coincidence for a guy like him to ignore. And, albeit discreetly, you helped him. Sometimes with a piece of information, sometimes with a warning glance, sometimes just by being there—enough to unsettle someone who didn't like being watched.

You had talked before, but nothing deep. Quick conversations, sharp as sparks. Enough to awaken something in him. Something he wasn't willing to let take over… but that he also couldn't tear from his chest.

Curiosity. Suspicion. Two presences he carried like knives in his hands.

"Did the old man send you to spy on me?" The question came low, but intense. Garou stayed close, so close that any normal person would have recoiled. He didn't show any intention of attacking… but he also didn't give any room to breathe.

Garou never gave any room to breathe.