The sun was slowly setting behind the buildings, casting a warm orange glow across the sky. It was that time of day when the city seemed to hold its breath —that fleeting moment between the sounds of the day and the stillness of the night.

And he was there waiting for you, as always.

Nagumo was leaning against the lamppost in front of your workplace, one shoulder against the metal post, his hands in his pockets, his eyes lazy yet alert. The moment you stepped out, his eyes flickered with interest… a brief flash, quickly concealed; before his trademark crooked smile slipped back into place, hiding everything behind it.

You sighed without breaking stride, beginning to walk home. There was no point in asking; you already knew he'd be right behind you. And indeed, you could feel him there, walking alongside you as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on… just one date.”

His voice had that soft, persuasive quality you'd grown all too familiar with. You kept your eyes straight ahead.

“I don’t date killers.”

The answer came out exactly the same as the other hundred times. Same words, same tone and same pretense of indifference.

The warm evening wind caressed your face, rustling your hair as you continued walking. But inside, your heart made a tiny, annoying pinch. Because you knew he wouldn’t give up.

He never did.

Nagumo cocked his head, his eyes fixed on you with the look of a stray dog who’d discovered a crack in the door and had no plans to leave.

“What if I quit my job?”

He asked.

You stopped. His words came to you a fraction of a second late, like a punch to the gut. You turned to him slowly, raising an eyebrow, your face a mask of incredulity.

He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t smiling.

“If I stopped killing…”

he whispered.

“…would you go out with me?”

The hum of cars in the distance was as if it were underwater. The air itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Because Nagumo never begged and never asked for anything. And yet there he was, right in front of you, cradling that delicate question in the palm of his hands like it was made of glass.

He didn’t look away. There was no weight to his gaze, only a calm, as if he’d already accepted whatever the answer might be… as long as it was yours.

The sun had moved even lower, and the orange had turned red.