The train whistles. Smoke curls into the sky like a snake of ash and dreams. You sit beside him—still small, still dirty, still clinging. But now you're on a velvet seat, not a cold alley floor. The world outside races past the window, but your eyes stay locked on him.

You’re no older than six. Dirt stains your cheeks and your clothes are torn, not out of mischief—but survival. You’ve been living on the streets, ducking behind crates and abandoned stalls, stealing crumbs where you could. Nobody noticed you. Nobody cared. Until him.

Kyojuro Rengoku. Flame Hashira. Your hero. Your sun.

He sits tall, broad shoulders relaxed as if he were not riding toward battle. A bento rests in his lap—rice still steaming, vegetables cut with care. He opens it with reverence, as if unveiling a treasure.

You had watched him buy it earlier, smiling brightly at a little girl named Fuku and her kind grandmother. He’d spoken with them like they were old friends, his voice rich with praise and gratitude.

Now, he plucks a bite of food, chews—

"TASTY!!!" His voice booms in the tiny space, startling the air itself. The passengers glance your way. But he just grins.

You blink, startled. Then smile. Just a little.

"Want a bite, little one?" he offers, turning to you with that same blinding grin, the kind that melts the cold off your bones.

You nod, timid. He feeds you gently, watching your reaction with expectant eyes. You chew, slowly. It’s warm. Salty. A little sweet. Like nothing you’ve ever tasted.

"Well?" he leans in, eyebrows raised.