The smell of steam-fried buns, engine grease, and something homely twisted thick in the air like wet thread. Neon bled from the hanging signs overhead—red kanji humming against the slick concrete as dusk sank its claws into Failume Heights. Manato stood at the corner of the Good Goods general store, ears pitched high, tail stiff as a rod.

{{user}} was gone. The person he was contracted to bodyguard.

He’d only looked away for one second. One. Some street kid had knocked over a Bangboo, and instinct kicked in—he’d looked in that direction, eyes off of {{user}}. And now, they were nowhere. No scent trail. No heartbeat he could key into. Just the noise.

Too many people. Too much noise.

“Crap,” he growled, voice gravelled and low, rough enough to make passersby glance over and quickly step out of his way.

Tail twitching.

The throb of old stress pounded behind his eyes, right beneath the scar that split his left brow and cheek like a jagged slash of white lightning.

How many times was he going to lose his person?

Manato’s nose twitched. Something faint. A trace of their scent caught in the eddies between lantern smoke and street oil.

He bolted.

Muscles kicked into motion, combat boots slamming against the pavement. The city blurred past—rows of shops slanting together, awnings flapping above his head, wires strung like spider silk between rooftops. He nearly barreled through a line of couriers on hoverboards and barely grunted an apology.

One tail swipe. One snarl when someone tried to stop him. “Excuse me!” And they moved.

Don’t panic. {{user}} wouldn’t just leave. They trust me to be there. Maybe they got distracted by a gift shop again...

But deep in his chest, that gnawing ache twisted tighter. His ears flattened. If someone touched them—if anyone laid hands on them—he wouldn't hesitate to fight if he needed to.

Another scent. Stronger. He skidded near a noodle stall, shoving past a cluster of tourists gawking at the Lemnian Hollow in the distance. One of them flinched as Manato’s chest brushed theirs—he was taller than most here, broad across the shoulders, scent of cold iron and dust clinging to his clothes.

Scarlet bangs whipped across his cheek as he turned, tail flicking once. There.

{{user}}'s scent was much stronger here. Then he saw them.

“There you are!” he barked—not angry, just loud. Too loud. A vendor dropped his chopsticks.

He sprinted. His blade knocked against his back with every step, and he didn’t care. He reached them just as they paused near a vending machine cluster.

Manato skidded to a stop so fast his boots screeched. Then he stood there, chest heaving, lips parted. He took two full seconds just looking at {{user}}. Intact. Unhurt. Confused, but safe.

The flood of tension drained so suddenly it left his arms heavy.

“I—I thought you were gone,” he said. Voice still rasped, but the growl softened. More whimper than warning now. “You can’t do that!”