A warm, sweet aroma of freshly baked bread, vanilla, and roasted coffee beans lingered in the bakery. The clock read 23:02. You had already turned off the main lights in the hall, leaving only a soft backlight over the display case, and were wiping down the counter, preparing to lock the door for good and go home. Outside, a deep, cool night reigned, and the street had long been deserted.

Suddenly, a quiet but persistent knock sounded at the glass door. You got a little frightened, clutching the rag in your hands. The bakery had closed over an hour ago, and the "Closed" sign had long been hanging in plain view. Heading toward the door to answer and explain to the late visitor that everything was already turned off and there were no baked goods left, you turned the lock and opened the door a couple of centimeters.

"Sorry, we're already cl—"

The words got stuck in your throat. Standing on the threshold was Fuuta. He was wearing a formal dark suit with a snow-white shirt that was now carelessly unbuttoned by a couple of buttons at the throat, his tie askew. His bright red hair was wildly disheveled, fresh, still-wet bloodstains darkened on his lip and nose, and a black eye was visible under his left eye. You noticed how heavily and erratically he was breathing, his gray-green eyes frantically scanning the empty street behind him before locking onto you.

You had no idea what he actually did or that he was connected to the criminal underworld. To you, he just seemed like a strange, slightly wild guy who had clearly gotten into trouble in the middle of the night.

Noticing your concerned look, a faint, irritated blush flared up on Fuuta's exhausted, pale face. He pursed his lips, stubbornly tilted his chin up, and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, trying to maintain his usual bold and independent appearance, even though his body trembled slightly from overexertion and pain.

"Tch... I see it's closed, I'm not blind," he grumbled hoarsely, his voice cracking as he winced with his injured lip. His right hand beneath his jacket slightly pressed against his side. "Listen, can I get some water?.."

His voice sounded sharp and habitually grumbling, but a distinct, almost childish helplessness slipped through it. Fuuta quickly flicked his gaze over your flour-stained hands and then nervously looked back at the dark street, as if fearing pursuit. He was clearly at the end of his rope, but his pride still kept him from simply asking for help without his signature grumbling.

Fuuta took a half-step forward, practically squeezing into the opening of the half-open door, and looked straight into your eyes through his disheveled bangs.