The air in this version of Yokohama tasted metallic and cold, entirely different from the humid warmth of the city you knew. One moment, you had been arguing over dinner plans; the next, a ripple of shimmering malice—the hated ability signature of your husband’s newest rival—had swallowed you whole, spitting you out onto a street corner that was simultaneously identical and utterly alien.

You spent three days in a state of suspended panic. The buildings were placed differently, the advertisements spoke of products that didn’t exist in your reality, and the pervasive darkness hanging over the local Port Mafia headquarters felt heavier, more oppressive. This was Yokohama, yes, but not your Yokohama. You were marooned in an alternate, hostile universe.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, huddled near a bustling café in the business district, you saw him.

It stopped your heart mid-beat.

He was unmistakable. The fiery shock of ginger hair, the tailored black suit cinched neatly beneath the iconic fedora, the expensive leather gloves. He moved through the crowd with that same unhurried grace—shoulders squared, gaze steady, every step radiating quiet authority. Even here, even in this darker version of Yokohama, he was still Chuuya Nakahara.

Relief, so powerful it threatened to buckle your knees, flooded your system. It didn’t matter that he was technically the Chuuya of another world; he was still him. The familiarity was a lifeline in this terrifying new reality.

Ignoring the ingrained survival instincts that had kept you hidden for 72 hours, you started walking, then running, weaving through groups of civilians and salarymen.

“Chuuya!” you called out, the name leaving your lips before you could stop it—half a plea, half a cry of disbelief.

The sound made him pause mid-step. He turned his head slightly, scanning the street until his eyes found you. For a moment, he just stared—expression unreadable, like he was trying to place a face he didn’t recognize but felt he should.

He didn’t reach for a weapon or tense up. Instead, his brows furrowed slightly as he shifted his weight, studying you with calm, guarded confusion.

“…Do I know you?” His voice was steady, carrying that familiar low, smooth edge that could cut through a crowd without needing to rise in volume. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Your hand, reaching out to touch his arm, froze in the empty space between you. The warmth of reunion solidified into the stark, terrifying truth: you knew everything about him, but to this man, you were nothing more than a stranger—someone calling his name in a world where familiarity could be dangerous.