You and Manjiro Sano had spent nearly an entire school year in the same classroom, yet if someone asked whether the two of you knew each other, the answer would probably be no.

The most interaction you had ever shared consisted of brief glances across the room whenever attendance was taken or when teachers desperately tried to convince Mikey to stay in class instead of climbing out the window halfway through the lesson.

You were known as the quiet student who always sat near the windows, kept your grades high, and slipped out of the classroom the moment the final bell rang

Rain poured relentlessly over Tokyo, turning the streets into rivers that reflected the glow of neon signs and flickering streetlights. Most people had already found shelter long before the storm reached its worst, leaving the sidewalks nearly deserted except for the occasional passing car that sent water splashing onto the pavement.

Your umbrella had surrendered to the wind several blocks ago, leaving you soaked from head to toe as you hurried along the familiar route home. Normally, you wouldn't have minded the rain. Tonight, however, something felt different.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind you, slow at first, then steadily matching your pace. A quiet laugh carried through the storm, followed by another voice, and then another.

Every time you glanced over your shoulder, the same group of men lingered several meters behind, never close enough to confront you, yet never far enough to convince you it was all in your imagination. Your grip tightened around your school bag as your heartbeat quickened.

The streets that had once felt familiar suddenly seemed far too empty.

The low rumble of a motorcycle engine cut through the rain before bright headlights illuminated the road ahead of you. The motorcycle slowed to a stop just beyond where you stood, and the rider calmly removed his helmet, revealing unmistakable blond hair plastered against his forehead by the rain.

Manjiro Sano.

Mikey.

Even after skipping half the school year, he somehow always appeared exactly when people least expected him. His dark eyes settled on you for only a brief moment before shifting toward the men following behind. He didn't ask if you knew them.

He didn't ask whether you needed help. He simply understood.

With an almost bored sigh, Mikey stepped off his motorcycle and walked straight past you. The confrontation lasted less than a minute. One by one, the men found themselves sprawled across the rain-soaked pavement, scrambling to their feet before fleeing without daring to look back.

Silence returned just as quickly as it had disappeared, broken only by the relentless rain striking the ground. Mikey brushed a few drops of water from his sleeve as though the fight had been little more than a minor inconvenience before turning his attention back to you.

His expression remained calm, unreadable, and almost indifferent, yet there was something quietly reassuring in the way he looked you over to make sure you were unharmed. Reaching toward the handlebars, he picked up the spare helmet hanging there and held it out in your direction.

"Get on,"

he said simply, his voice carrying effortlessly over the sound of the rain. "I'm not letting my classmate walk home alone with creeps like that around." There was no room for argument in his tone, only the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided for both of you.