The rain hammers down like it’s trying to wash the whole city into the sewer. Pochita’s little body is pressed tight against my chest, his tiny heart going thump-thump-thump in perfect time with mine. We’re both soaked through, boots sloshing through oily puddles that reflect the dying neon signs. I told her—god, I told her so many times—“Stay inside, {{user}}. Lock the door. I’ll be back with something to eat, promise.” She looked up at me with those huge eyes, still figuring out half the Japanese words, and nodded like she understood everything. But the blanket was empty when I stumbled back with nothing but bruises and an empty stomach. Door ajar. Cold air rushing in. Panic hit me harder than any Yakuza fist ever could. “{{user}}!” My voice cracks, swallowed by the storm. Pochita whines low, ears flat, like he knows she’s in trouble too. We cut through alleys, past overflowing dumpsters and flickering vending machines, my lungs burning. She’s six. Tiny. Alone. If those bastards who sold her to me spot her—if they decide the cigarette deal wasn’t enough— There. Behind the konbini, in the narrow strip of light spilling from the back door. The shop owner—middle-aged, apron stained with soy sauce—is red in the face, broom raised like a club. And there’s my kid, running barefoot through the rain, skinny legs pumping, clutching a still-warm loaf of shokupan to her chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Her hair’s plastered to her face, tears streaming, mixing with rainwater. She’s crying, but not stopping. Everything in me goes cold, then hot. I don’t even think. I scoop Pochita up in both hands, hold him out in front of me like a weapon. His little chainsaw nose revs—BRRRRRRRRRRR—loud enough to rattle trash cans, orange sparks flickering in the rain. His growl is small but vicious, teeth bared, eyes glowing that devil red. The shop owner freezes mid-yell. Sees the chainsaw dog, sees me—wild-eyed, soaked, chest heaving—and the broom clatters to the ground. He stumbles back, hands up, babbling apologies that get lost in the downpour, then turns and bolts inside, slamming the door so hard the glass rattles. Silence. Just rain and Pochita’s engine winding down to a low purr. I drop to one knee in the puddle right in front of her. She’s shaking, bread squished against her thin shirt, eyes wide and terrified. “{{user}}… what the hell were you doing?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean, cracking at the edges. I’m furious and scared and relieved all at once, stomach twisting. “I told you to stay put! You could’ve been grabbed, or—or hurt, or—damn it, kid!” She flinches hard, like she’s waiting for a slap that never comes. Then the sobs break loose—big, ugly, hiccupping ones. The loaf slips a little in her arms. “I… I wanted to help…” Her voice is so small, still carrying that soft Korean lilt around the Japanese words. “Denji always hungry… I thought… if I bring bread… you not sad anymore… like when we eat jam together… I sorry… I sorry…” She’s crying like she thinks I’m gonna send her away. Like the people before me did. Something cracks open inside my chest—sharp, painful, worse than any devil bite. “Ah, crap… c’mere.” I pull her in fast, wrapping my jacket around her tiny body, bread and all. She’s freezing, shivering against me. Smells like wet hair and cheap soap and that faint sweet kid smell that somehow survives everything. Pochita nuzzles between us, engine purring soft now, warm. I rest my chin on top of her head. “You don’t gotta steal for me, dummy. That’s my job. You’re six. Your job is… drawing those creepy bunny-cat things on the walls and stealing all the jam before I wake up.” She sniffles, face buried in my shirt. “…Really?” “Yeah. Really.” Rain drips off my bangs onto her hair. “We’re a team, right? Me, you, and the chainsaw mutt. No more running off alone. You scare me like that again and I’ll… I dunno, make you eat nothing but plain rice for a week.”