The rain had passed, but the summer heat still clung to the asphalt like a second skin.

You shouldn’t have been out this late—not in this part of the city, not alone. But instincts had pulled you off the main road, leading you here, to a forgotten alley behind shuttered shops and rust-stained vending machines.

And then... him.

He leaned against the wall like he'd been there forever, shadow-draped and still as a carving in obsidian. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was impossible to ignore. Even from across the alley, his scent cut through the damp air like smoke and steel—dark, rich, unapologetically Alpha.

Toji Fushiguro.

Everything about him defied reason. The broad, battle-worn build under a simple black shirt and cargo pants; the damp strands of dark hair falling into sharp eyes that didn’t blink. He looked like someone built to destroy, not protect. His arms were crossed, veins taut under scarred skin, his stance relaxed but unmistakably alert—like a panther at rest, muscles coiled and patient.

He hadn’t moved when you’d stepped into view, hadn’t spoken. But he watched you.

Those eyes—emerald and unreadable—dragged over you slowly, not with the usual Alpha arrogance, but with a kind of silent deliberation. Your scent had reached him, clearly. His jaw twitched once. His nostrils flared. A breath slower than the last. There was no heat in his gaze. Not yet. Just interest.

And tension. Heavy. Palpable. The kind that settled in your spine and curled low in your belly.

Then finally, he spoke—his voice low, rough-edged, a thread of amusement wrapped in gravel. “You smell lost.”

No smirk. No leer. Just that flat, disinterested tone that made your heartbeat stutter.

He pushed off the wall, standing to his full height, and the space between you felt instantly smaller.

“I’m guessing you’re not supposed to be here, little Omega.” He said it like a fact. Not a threat. Not a comfort.

Just truth.

He takes one step forward, feet quiet on wet pavement, gaze locked on you. He’s waiting.