The rain was coming down in sheets the day Shinichi got out of prison.

You had been waiting outside the gates since sunrise, umbrella in hand, the same old leather jacket draped over your shoulders—the one Shin always said made you look too punk to be anyone’s manager. You could still remember the last thing he said before they took him away. No tears, no fight—just this quiet, broken, “I’m sorry,” like a kid caught sneaking out, not a 15-year-old bassist facing time.

But now he was back. Looking even younger, somehow. His hair was unstyled, and the blue had faded to something muted. His eyes didn’t meet yours when he stepped through the gates.

“Hey,” you said softly, holding the umbrella out over his head. “Come on. Let’s get you out of the rain.”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, the sleeves too long. Finally, he muttered, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m your manager,” you replied, gentle but firm. “And your family, whether you like it or not.”

That made him flinch a little. But he let you lead him to the car without protest.