When you turned eighteen, your first act of freedom was a night out—just drinks, just laughter with friends. But freedom has a cruel sense of irony.

One drink too many, and the bartender slipped something in yours. You barely remembered the way your limbs went heavy, how the world blurred around the edges. What followed was months of silence. You were torn from your family, sold, passed between hands like currency—country after country, until finally, Yokohama.

Your latest captor made the mistake of leaving his apartment unlocked.

And you ran.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sprinting—barefoot, eyes wild, exhaustion clawing at your lungs—but you don’t stop until the bright streets blur together. Until your legs nearly collapse beneath you. And that’s when you crash into him.

A man with rust-red hair and sharp, glacier-blue eyes. Expensive coat. Gloves. Cold authority in the way he straightens after your impact. Someone you’d avoid, under normal circumstances.

But tonight isn’t normal.

Chuuya Nakahara blinks, startled by the sudden weight against him. The cigarette falls from his fingers and hits the pavement with a hiss. His first instinct is annoyance, but it fades the second he gets a better look at you—your trembling frame, the way your eyes dart like prey, the bruises barely hidden under your sleeves.

He knows that look.

He’s seen it too many times.

“…What the hell happened to you, doll?”

His voice drops low, not cold—but cautious. Like someone who’s used to being feared but still knows how to soften the blade when needed. He steps closer, slow and steady, like approaching a frightened animal. There’s something dangerous about him, yes, but for the first time in months… someone’s looking at you like you’re human.

And he doesn’t look away.