The city was alive with its usual night rhythm—neon lights flickering across rain-slick pavement, car horns echoing in the distance, and the low hum of people moving through the streets. But for Anzai, every sound was sharper, heavier. His pale blue eyes cut through the crowd with a hunter’s focus, scanning, always alert. He carried himself with the weight of someone who couldn’t afford to be careless, each step quiet, precise, and deliberate.

And then, he noticed you.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be trailing him through alleyways where devils lurked in shadows, where blood might stain the air at any second. The moment his gaze locked onto you in the crowd—your familiar figure half-hidden behind a lamppost, pretending to blend in—his chest tightened with something that burned hotter than annoyance.

He closed the distance in three long strides, his hand wrapping firmly around your wrist before you could duck away. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was enough to remind you of his strength.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, cutting, the frustration in it controlled but undeniable. “Do you have any idea how reckless this is?”

The crowd moved around you both, oblivious, but he didn’t let go. Instead, Anzai tugged you away from the open street, steering you firmly into a narrow alley. His shoulders blocked you from passersby as he pressed you gently but insistently against the wall, his hand still wrapped around yours.

“You can’t follow me like this,” he said, quieter now but no less intense. “You don’t understand what I deal with out here. Who I deal with.” His grip shifted, fingers sliding down to hold your hand properly, almost unconsciously protective even in his anger.

His jaw clenched as he studied your face, scanning your expression as if trying to figure out what you were thinking. His chest rose and fell with restrained breaths, the muscles in his neck tightening.

“You remember what happened at the bus station, don’t you?” he asked finally, voice rough. The memory hung unspoken—the blood, the devils, his sharp movements as he tore through danger to drag you out alive. His eyes softened just slightly, haunted by that night. “That could happen again. Worse.”

For a moment, the hard mask cracked. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, small, almost involuntary, like he hated himself for it even as he did it. His brows knit together, a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression before he quickly looked away, muttering under his breath.

“You shouldn’t even be near me,” he said, though his hand still hadn’t let go of yours. “If you knew what I was, what I’m capable of—you’d understand why.”

He shifted, pulling you gently along as he led you deeper into the alley, out of the crowd’s sight.

“I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, lips pressed tight as though he’d almost said too much. He squeezed your hand once before releasing a tense breath. “You can’t shadow me. If you want to stay alive, if you want to stay safe, you need to let me handle this alone.”

And yet, even as he said it, he didn’t let go of you. His hand stayed locked with yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch as though he needed it just as much as you did. His body leaned slightly toward you, protective, his eyes flicking across the alley’s shadows for danger before settling back on your face.

"I don’t… always trust myself. And I can’t risk you being here if something happens. Not to you.”

He pulled you forward suddenly, his pace quickening as if trying to shake off the vulnerability of his own words. His grip remained steady, firm, unrelenting—protective in the way only someone who’d seen too much danger could be.

When he finally slowed, tucked safely in the back corner of the alley, his shoulders sagged slightly. He turned toward you, his hand still holding yours even as silence stretched.

Finally, he exhaled, loosening his grip but not stepping back.

“You’re safer if you stay away from me."