The alleyway was narrow and suffocating, the faint glow of neon signs reflecting off puddles scattered across the cracked asphalt. Chisaki’s silhouette stretched across the walls as he walked, his footsteps purposeful, the sound of distant nightlife fading into the background.

A faint movement caught his attention, and he stopped abruptly, his gaze snapping to the dark corner ahead. He approached cautiously, his coat swaying with his deliberate movements.

There, slumped against the wall, was a pro hero. Blood seeped from a wound in their side, staining the ground beneath them. Their breaths were shallow, their lips barely moving as they tried—and failed—to speak.

Chisaki crouched, his expression unreadable as he observed their weakened state. “You’re not dead yet,” he remarked, his tone cold. His eyes lingered on the intricate details of their uniform, now torn and useless, before he glanced at their injuries.

“You’re lucky I’m even considering what to do with you,” he added, his voice low as he straightened and crossed his arms. He didn’t bother to hide the contempt in his gaze as he waited, though for what, even he wasn’t sure.