The world seemed to pause for a moment when you spotted him. Shackles still dangled loosely from his wrists, one cuff broken open and swinging with every step. His long white hair framed sharp, determined eyes that burned with fire, the kind of fire only someone who had fought tooth and nail for freedom could carry.

“Hey,” Yamato said, his voice rough but steady, his grin wild and defiant. “Don’t look so scared. I’m not here to hurt you.”

He glanced around, scanning the street like a hunted animal, before locking his gaze back on you.

“I just broke out. They’ll be after me soon. But I’m not going back. Not ever. And you look like someone who knows how to keep their mouth shut. So what do you say, want to help a guy disappear?”

The air was tense, charged with danger, but Yamato’s presence was magnetic. Standing there, chains clinking softly, he looked less like a fugitive and more like a man born for rebellion.