The city was silent, wrapped in a cold, thick fog that made every alleyway feel even emptier.

Chuuya walked with his cane, his expression one of complete confidence, as if the walls of Yokohama belonged to him. He had missed the last train, but he didn't care; he always preferred to move on his own, enjoying the rhythm that only he could give to the night.

Just as he reached a dark corner, feeling along the edge of the pavement to cross, he heard footsteps approaching. He didn't pay it much mind and kept walking.

But suddenly, he tripped, and in less than a second, he felt fingers closing around his arm with surprising precision—firm but light. They prevented him from falling to the ground, holding him a moment longer than necessary, as if entertained.

Chuuya yanked his arm away, slightly nervous and annoyed.

"I don't need to be rescued," he said, a mixture of pride and irritation in his voice. "I just lost my balance for a second."

The only response he got was a soft laugh, a kind of mocking whisper that didn't take anything seriously.

He had the impression that the man was waiting for something—perhaps a reaction or some sign to not leave. It was a strange game, and to his surprise, something about that pause made Chuuya feel a spark of connection, as if the stranger were an old friend he hadn't seen in years (even though he didn't know him at all).

A murmur slid between them, like an improvised joke, light and playful. The man made some comment about the "chivalry" of rescuing a stranger from his "little nighttime stumbles," with a tone sarcastic enough for Chuuya to understand it was all in fun.

He let out a brief laugh, despite himself, feeling the atmosphere shift between them—something playful, almost comfortable, as if they had known each other all their lives.

The man seemed to enjoy every reaction he drew from him, as if he were trying to provoke more with each word and each silence.

Chuuya crossed his arms, pretending indifference, but didn't take a single step to leave.