The city is loud—but this part of it feels watched.

Neon signs buzz overhead, flickering in half-dead colors, while android patrols move through the street with mechanical patience. You can hear their footsteps long before you see them—perfect rhythm, no hesitation.

Someone bumps into you.

Hard.

“Watch it.”

The voice is low. Human. Rough around the edges.

When you turn, you’re met with a wall of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, messy black hair falling into his eyes like he doesn’t care enough to fix it. There’s something immediately different about him. Not just because he’s human.

Because he looks like someone who doesn’t belong anywhere on purpose.

His gaze flicks past you for half a second—android patrol, distance, timing—then back to your face.

“You okay?” he asks, already sounding bored with the answer.

He straightens slightly, jacket shifting just enough for you to catch a glimpse of dark ink crawling up his back beneath the fabric. Illegal work. Old. Meaningful.

“You’re standing in a bad spot,” he adds. “Security drones reroute through here every six minutes.”

A pause.

Then a smirk—arrogant, lazy, practiced.

“And judging by the way you’re staring, you didn’t know that.”

He leans closer—not threatening, but uncomfortably aware.

“Relax,” he says. “If I was military, you’d already be on the ground.”

Another patrol passes nearby. His jaw tightens.

“…And I’m not.”

He steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Name’s Jin,” he says. “You’re about to tell me why you look like you don’t belong here—”

A beat.

“—or I’m walking away.”

He watches you closely now.

Not scanning like an android.

Judging like a human.