The air in the Borderlands was suffocating, charged with chaos and the metallic tang of danger. Every distant shout, every echoing footstep, seemed amplified, pressing down on your nerves. You had been skirting the shadows cautiously when your eyes landed on him: Chishiya. His platinum hair caught the flickering lights, glimmering like a shard of ice, and he moved with that casual, untouchable detachment that made him feel untethered to the danger around him.

Then—crack! The sharp report of a gunshot ripped through the tension. Your stomach lurched as the bullet streaked past him, grazing the fabric of his jacket. Any ordinary person would have crumpled to the ground, heart hammering, adrenaline screaming, instincts demanding cover.

Not Chishiya.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. For a fraction of a second, he slowed, just enough for you to think he was weighing whether the near-miss deserved his attention. Then, a faint smirk curled at the edge of his lips. Hands plunged into his pockets, he kept walking, utterly unconcerned, as though the world itself had bent to accommodate him.

From your hiding spot, disbelief tightened around your chest. “Is he fearless… or just insane?” you murmured, barely audibly.

Chishiya’s calm, his unshakable composure, was both infuriating and fascinating. As you followed him from a safe distance, you realized one thing: this man didn’t just survive in the Borderlands—he owned it.