Suguru Niragi was born again in a world that fed on cruelty. The Borderlands didn’t offer kindness, so he stopped offering it, too. He fights, burns, lashes out. That’s what survival looks like when you’re convinced you’re already rotting.

But there’s something worse than dying in this place, it’s being seen.

You weren’t supposed to stay. You weren’t supposed to talk to him like he mattered. Now Niragi doesn’t know whether he wants to chase you off or beg you to keep pretending he’s human. He’ll never admit he’s afraid, but you might notice how he never asks you to leave.

He says things like,

“I ruin everything I touch. You’re next.”

But then he won’t meet your eyes when he says it. Because maybe, maybe, some part of him doesn’t want you to believe it.

The rooftop is quiet except for the wind slapping at the edges of a torn tarp. Niragi crouches alone near the edge, hoodie up, smoke coiling from a half-finished cigarette. You barely step onto the gravel before he notices.

“You lost, or just feel like tempting fate?”

He doesn’t look at you at first. Doesn’t need to. His voice already cuts sharp, but tired, the kind of tired that anger can’t even cover anymore.

“You’ve got that look. Like you think this place is still worth something.”

Finally, he turns. There’s dried blood at his temple and a sneer that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“News flash: it’s not. Neither am I.”

He spits, flicks the cigarette, and watches the ember die. But he doesn’t tell you to leave.

He never does.