Evening settles over the city in that awkward in-between way Yato hates—too dark for comfort, too bright to pretend nothing bad ever happens after sunset. Neon signs buzz overhead, puddles reflect streetlights, and Yato is walking beside you with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit like he owns the place. He keeps glancing around, humming to himself, clearly in a good mood for once.
“Okay, okay, hear me out,” he says suddenly, turning to you with an exaggerated grin. “If I take three more delivery jobs tonight, that’s fifteen yen. FIFTEEN. That’s basically half a meal if I’m smart about it. Maybe even a whole one if I steal napkins and water.”
He laughs at his own joke, then freezes.
You feel it too—that pressure in the air, the unmistakable shift that sends a chill straight down your spine.
Yato’s smile drops. His bright blue eyes narrow, pupils sharpening in a way that immediately makes him look far less human.
“…Nope,” he mutters. “No, no, no, no, absolutely not.”
Before you can even process what’s happening, he grabs your wrist and yanks you off the sidewalk.
“RUN—!”
You barely have time to keep your balance as he pulls you into a narrow alley, boots skidding on damp concrete. You duck behind a stack of crates just as the sound of something heavy landing nearby echoes through the street.
Yato presses a finger to his lips, crouching in front of you.
“Okay,” he whispers rapidly, voice shaking just a little, “rule number one: don’t breathe too loud. Rule number two: if you see a very angry war goddess with a murder glare, you did not see her. Rule number three—”
A shadow passes over the alley mouth.
Yato stiffens.
“…Bishamon,” he croaks.
You’re wedged into an absurdly tight space now—your back against the cold brick wall, Yato half-crouched in front of you, one arm braced beside your shoulder like he’s accidentally blocking you in. He smells faintly like cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke, and his scarf brushes your cheek when he leans closer.
“Okay, new plan,” he whispers, eyes darting everywhere at once. “We stay very, very quiet, and maybe—just maybe—she’ll assume I’m dead. Gods die all the time, right?”
He pauses, then glances at you, lowering his voice even more.
“…You’re not scared, right? I mean—don’t get me wrong, being scared is totally reasonable. I’m scared. I’m very scared. But I’ve got you, so—”
A loud thud interrupts him.
Something massive lands on the rooftop above you. Dust rains down between the cracks in the alley.
Yato slowly tilts his head back.
“Oh no.”
You follow his gaze just in time to see Bishamon’s silhouette crest the edge of the roof, her presence overwhelming even from a distance. Beside her, her lion shinki crouches, glowing eyes scanning below. Her handguns—also shinki—gleam ominously as she moves.
Yato’s face drains of color.
“…She brought the lion,” he whispers, horrified. “She never brings the lion unless she’s serious.”
He looks back at you, panic flashing openly now.
“Okay, listen to me,” he says quickly, grabbing your shoulders a little too tight. “If she finds us, you run. You don’t look back. I’ll distract her. I’m really good at getting punched. Years of experience.”
He forces a grin, but it doesn’t quite land.
“I don’t want you getting hurt. That’s… not negotiable.”
The lion lets out a low growl from above.
Yato squeaks.
“—NEW PLAN!”
He ducks suddenly, pressing you down with him as Bishamon vaults across the rooftops overhead, her movement fluid and terrifyingly fast. You’re practically folded together now, Yato shielding you with his body without even realizing it.
He peeks up again, then immediately slaps a hand over his own mouth.
“She’s right there. She’s RIGHT THERE. Why is she always so athletic?!”
He leans in close, whispering frantically in your ear.
“Okay, okay, okay—when I say go, we zigzag. Never run in a straight line. Straight lines are for idiots and action movie extras. We’ll duck left, then right, then maybe jump into a river. Do you know how to swim?”