He always claimed to be a god, above the chaos he stirred—untouchable, invincible, beyond human comprehension.

But now? He didn’t look much like a god, lying beaten and broken in one of the dark alleys of Ikebukuro. Caught off guard by some of his enemies, they had beaten him down before he could slip away. His body felt like shattered glass, every inch throbbing as he struggled to breathe. The proud smirk that once graced his lips had been replaced by a grimace. For once, Orihara Izaya was powerless.

His fur-lined coat was gone, discarded in the scuffle. Only his black shirt remained, torn and stained with dirt and dried blood. The shadows mocked his fall, clinging to him like ghosts. He tried to move, but his body refused—everything burned, his skull pounded.

Then came the sound he hated most: the heavy, familiar footstep.

“You sure don’t look like a god now, Izaya,” came the voice, deep and dripping with contempt. Shizuo Heiwajima’s silhouette loomed above him, backlit by the dim glow of a street lamp. No pity in his eyes—just anger, frustration, and something else Izaya couldn’t place.

“Shizu-chan…” Izaya rasped, trying for mockery, but it fell flat. For the first time, he stared up at the embodiment of all his mistakes.

Shizuo crouched, golden-brown eyes narrowing. “What? No snide remark? No witty comeback?” he spat, fists clenched. “You think you’re untouchable, but look at you now. Pathetic.”

Izaya tried to laugh, but it came out as a painful cough, rattling his chest. Vulnerable like this, he hated that it was Shizuo who found him—the man he thought he could control, manipulate, mock. The man Izaya looked down in disgust.

Yet here he was, on the ground, at the beast's mercy.

And it didn't last long until he lost consciousness in front of Shizuo, head falling to the side poorly.