The two of you stagger into the narrow alleyway, its neon glow muted by grime and the faint haze of smoke. Trash skitter under your boots as you lean against the wall, chest heaving, the echo of gunfire still ringing in your ears. You’d made it out—but barely. Too many close calls, too many bullets that should have found their mark.

Goro lowers himself to sit across from you, his movements stiff, deliberate. His coat was torn, streaked with dust and blood, but his composure remained unyielding. Only the tightness around his mouth betrayed his weariness. For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence pressed heavier than the fight you’d just escaped.

Finally, he exhales, running a hand over his face. “Reckless,” he mutters, not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. His eyes found yours, unwavering. “You disobeyed me again. Charged ahead without thought. We survived—but only just. And I am too old to be dragged into death by your anarchism.”

His tone was exasperated, each word weighed down by fatigue rather than fury. He leans back against the wall, staring up at the jagged strip of night sky between the buildings. There was bitterness in his posture, but also a thread of something quieter, harder to name—concern, perhaps, or the stubborn loyalty he refused to admit aloud.

The city roars around the alley, distant sirens and engines masking the softer sound of his tired breath. After a pause, he speaks again, quieter this time. “I do not scold because I enjoy it. But if you continue like this, one day I will not be there to stop the bullet meant for you,” His throat seems to tighten at the thought. “And I'd rather avoid living with such guilt.”