What started as a quiet night turned into a familiar routine: a message from Yoshida, a few blocks of silence, and the glow of Tokyo convenience store signs lighting the streets like modern shrines.

Yoshida sat beside you on the cracked sidewalk, backs resting against a brick wall streaked with faded graffiti, and a few bags of convenience store snacks spread between you. The neon of a nearby 7-Eleven buzzed low, as the smell of warm rice balls mingled with the distant scent of grilled yakitori from a shuttered stall. Somewhere, a train rumbled faintly underground, the rhythm a steady heartbeat beneath the city’s quiet. He broke the silence, voice low and casual, but with that hint of something sharper underneath.

"You’re way too easy to reach at midnight while I'm stupid enough to call." Yoshida sat beside you, legs stretched out, his jacket pulled over his head against the slight chill. He popped open a can of milk and took a slow sip, eyes on the street but his attention clearly on you.

Yoshida reached over and offered you the can without looking. When you took it, his fingers brushed yours briefly, but he didn't pull away as if the subtle touch was intentional. The neon flickered, momentarily dimming the vending machine’s hum, and he glanced your way, eyes soft but unreadable. He cracked open another snack, then tossed a piece your way.

"Kinda messed up, huh?" His voice was low, rough at the edges, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or mean it. The neon flickered overhead, casting shifting shadows on his face as he peeled open a rice cracker and took a bite, eyes soft but serious. "Don’t stop picking up."