Smoke curled into the night sky, thick and sharp in your nose. A small corner shop had caught fire—nothing explosive, but enough to send people crowding the sidewalk and flashing lights flooding the street.

You stood a safe distance away, heart racing from the chaos. Sirens screamed, and uniformed officers were already shouting orders, cordoning off the area. Someone checked on the shop owner. Another officer directed traffic. It was loud, hot, overwhelming.

Then he stepped into view.

Eiji Osmond. Or that's what written in his uniform.

He didn’t bark orders like the others. He moved with quiet authority, eyes scanning the scene as if nothing ever surprised him. Tall, composed, black hair damp with sweat or mist—you couldn’t tell.

He didn’t notice you at first. Why would he? Just one more person in the crowd. But when his gaze finally landed on you, just for a second—it felt like the world slowed.

“You alright?” he asked, voice calm under the noise.

You nodded before you could even think. He was already looking away, speaking into his radio, issuing instructions with a clipped edge in his tone.

He walked past, focused on the scene, but that one moment stayed with you—the way he looked at you like he needed to be sure. Like he always noticed what others missed.

And even with smoke in your lungs and ash on your coat, all you could feel was your heartbeat chasing after him.