The subway car rocked gently as it rattled down the dark tunnels, the screech of steel on steel echoing like a distant wail. It was late—too late for the car to feel this empty—and the fluorescent lights flickered in that way that always seemed more unsettling underground than above. There were only four others in the car: an older man nodding off in the corner, a woman with headphones staring at her phone, and a figure seated a few rows away from you, posture slouched, hood pulled low.

Your seat near the middle gave you a clear view of the door at the far end, and you kept your eyes on the floor, waiting for the next stop to arrive. But then the air shifted—the figure seated a few seats down began to shift, their movements odd.

The next thing you knew, that person’s hand shot out toward you. It wasn’t the casual brush of a stranger invading space—it was precise, reaching, fingers curved with the unmistakable hunger of someone who wanted more than contact.

You didn’t even have time to react before another presence cut through the silence.

From the opposite end of the car, he was suddenly there. A blur of movement—fast, controlled, too sharp to belong to a normal human. His hand closed around the attacker’s wrist mid-air, stopping the grab inches from your arm. The impact of the restraint rang louder than the train itself, a sound of flesh and bone caught in an iron grip.

Yuuki Anzai.

His pale blue eyes burned with cold focus, narrowed as he towered over the would-be assailant. The hooded figure froze under his stare, trembling as if sensing exactly what stood in front of them. The air grew tense, heavy, and you felt it too—this man wasn’t ordinary.

Anzai’s voice was low, measured, and firm. “You should’ve thought twice before trying that here.”

The hood fell back just enough to reveal the attacker’s eyes—too sharp, too wild, the telltale signs of a devil barely holding onto control. They snarled, but Anzai didn’t flinch. His other hand moved quick, pressing against the devil’s chest with a force that sent them stumbling back into the nearest pole.

The other passengers gasped. The woman with headphones scrambled to her feet, the older man jerked awake, and both bolted through the connecting door as soon as it opened at the next station. They knew better than to stay. But Anzai didn’t move his focus from the devil—or from you, standing frozen just behind him.

The devil hissed, but Anzai’s presence was suffocating, commanding. “You’re not touching them,” he muttered, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

With a swift movement, he twisted the devil’s arm, forcing them to the floor. The subway car jolted again, but Anzai’s balance never wavered. His restraint was efficient, merciless, the kind of practiced control that spoke of years in dangerous situations. Within moments, the threat was neutralized, the devil groaning against the ground.

Anzai’s breathing was calm, even as the train lurched. He adjusted his grip one final time, then shoved the attacker toward the exit as the train doors opened, dragging them out onto the platform with one hand as though they weighed nothing. By the time the doors shut again, the devil was gone, and silence swallowed the car.

Anzai turned back toward you. For the first time, the icy sharpness in his expression melted just slightly, his gaze scanning over you quickly, carefully, as though checking for wounds invisible to the eye.

He stepped closer, his voice quieter now but still carrying the weight of someone who couldn’t help but take responsibility. “Are you hurt?” His eyes flicked to your arm, your shoulder, anywhere that devil might’ve reached.

“You shouldn’t ride alone this late,” he murmured, his eyes still on you, voice softer but edged with frustration meant more for himself than you. “Especially when people like that are out here.”

The subway rattled on, the car now nearly empty, just the two of you and the sound of steel screaming against steel.

His gaze lingered another long moment before he finally spoke again. “I’ll stay until your stop.”