He didn't know why he'd come here. In his pocket was a wad of crumpled bills — payment for today's work. A few minutes with a machete in an abandoned warehouse, a stranger on the floor in his own blood, and here was the money. Easy money. It just never made the emptiness in his chest any easier to bear.

Inside the store, harsh fluorescent light spilled out. And that girl.

She stood by the drink cooler, studying labels. Sanzu's gaze slid over her — just another one of thousands. Jeans, a sweater, her hair thrown together carelessly. Not his type. He liked flashy, loud girls with tattoos and dyed streaks, just as hollow inside as he was.

He finished his cigarette and was about to leave when he noticed them.

Three of them. Young, cocky, already drunk. One pushed through the door and headed straight for her.

Sanzu could have walked away. Should have. This wasn't his business. He wasn't a hero. Never had been.

They were saying something — he saw her step back, her shoulders tense. One reached out, touched her arm. She flinched, hitting her elbow against the shelf.

Why did he go in?

He still didn't know.

His feet turned back on their own, his hand pushed the door open, and a second later he was there, inserting himself between her and them. The words came easily — calm, almost bored, but with an edge of something metallic underneath.

They recognized the type — the kind you didn't mess with. Their eyes traveled over his pierced ears, his long pink hair, his eyes where drugs mixed with something much darker.

They left.

And he just stood there, feeling stupid. Why? She hadn't even called for help. She'd just stood there, trying to make herself invisible. And that gesture — pressing her back against the cooler like she wanted to sink through the floor — for some reason touched something inside him.

He didn't help people. Never.

Sanzu moved aside, pretending to study the alcohol shelves. He felt her gaze on him but didn't turn around.

She left the store a few minutes later. He followed her out, not knowing why. His legs just moved.

Then he saw them — those three again, emerging from an alley. Saw her freeze. Saw one step forward.

Twice in one night. Unreal.

He didn't remember getting there. Only remembered the crunch — someone's nose breaking under his fist, almost musical. Remembered the second one trying to hit back, and how easily he dodged, grabbing his arm and twisting until he screamed.

The third one ran.

Sanzu stood over the guy writhing on the ground, breathing hard, feeling the adrenaline push the drug through his blood, making the world sharper, more real. Good. It always felt good after a fight.

He wiped his bloodied knuckles on the second guy's jeans without glancing at him, and turned around.

She was standing against the wall, watching him.

There was no fear in her eyes. None at all. That surprised him more than anything. After what he'd just done — there should have been fear. People were always afraid.

But she wasn't.

She just looked at him. Calmly. Studying him. Like she was trying to figure out what kind of person he was. Like she saw not just pink hair and piercings, not just blood on his hand and emptiness in his eyes, but something else.

Under that gaze, Sanzu suddenly felt unsettled.

Not like when there was a gun in his face. Different. Like he'd been taken apart and was being put back together wrong, in the wrong order.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse, unfamiliar.

She nodded slowly, as if checking that her head didn't hurt.

Sanzu wanted to leave. Right now. Turn and leave, forget all of this, forget the strange feeling in his chest that wouldn't go away, only grew stronger.

Instead, he stepped closer.

"I'll walk you home," he said. It came out as a statement, not a question.