You hadn’t planned to end up here — but then again, nothing in your life had ever really gone according to plan.

The streets of Hiroshima at night weren’t gentle. Especially not in this part of the city. The houses were small, packed tight like secrets, the air heavy with rust and something older — like regret. It was the kind of place people passed through, not stayed. But you had nowhere else to go.

After your mother died, everything unraveled. She had raised you alone, worked herself sick just to keep a roof over your head. Your father? A ghost. Disappeared the moment she told him she was pregnant. You never knew his name, and you never cared to ask.

Last year, cancer took her quietly. And the silence she left behind was louder than anything you’d ever known. You held onto the apartment for as long as you could, skipping meals to pay rent, selling things off piece by piece. But survival has a deadline, and yours ran out. They didn’t even give you time to pack properly — just one final knock, and the locks changed.

Now you lived in a rented box with mold on the ceiling and a single window that didn’t shut all the way. You worked at a local bar, one of those forgotten places wedged between closed ramen shops and shuttered game centers. Nights were long, the customers drunk, the tips worse than pity. But it was something. Something that didn’t ask questions.

—

It was just past midnight when you left for your shift. Cold, damp air pressed against your skin as you walked fast through the side streets, keeping your head down, hands shoved deep in your pockets. You knew the route by heart — three lefts, one right, cross the alley, then the bar.

You didn’t expect to hit anyone.

The impact was sharp. Shoulder to chest — solid, sudden. You stumbled back, caught off guard, heart lurching.

He barely moved.

Tall. Sharp lines. Dark hoodie, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. His hair was slightly wet, strands clinging to his forehead. His face looked like it didn’t belong here — clean, striking, the kind that made you look twice. But his expression didn’t match it. There was no warmth there. No kindness. Just something still. Like he was waiting to be provoked.

Your first instinct was to apologize. So you did. Quiet. Automatic. “Sorry.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. Eyes unreadable, almost bored. Like he was trying to decide if you were even worth acknowledging.

Then, finally — “You always walk like you own the road?”

The words weren’t angry. They were flat. Dismissive.

You blinked. “Didn’t see you.”

“No shit.”

His gaze dropped, dragging down your figure — your cheap jacket, your scuffed shoes, your worn-out look. Something in his mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk. Not quite anything.