The road was empty, and that was calming.

Toma drove steadily, unhurried — right hand on the wheel, left resting on the armrest. Beyond the window stretched Tokyo's night outskirts: sparse streetlights, shuttered shops, dim convenience store signs. The radio played something instrumental — post-rock, maybe, but he wasn't really listening. Just background. Just silence with melody.

The meeting with his parents had gone as usual: polite, restrained, minimal words. His mother asked about his health. His father nodded when Toma mentioned the new album. Akira — the only one who actually listened — had whispered before stepping out of the car at her place: "You look tired. Get some rest." He hadn't answered. Just nodded.

Now he was driving home. And that was… good. Solitude without pressure. Movement without purpose. Time when he didn't need to watch over anyone, decide anything.

Toma removed his glasses for a moment, rubbed the bridge of his nose, put them back. Still about twenty kilometers to Shibuya. He could turn the music up louder, but didn't want to. Tonight, silence felt right.

Then — a silhouette on the roadside.

Toma caught the movement in his peripheral vision: someone standing at the road's edge, arm extended. Hitchhiking. At this hour? Here?

He slowed instinctively — not sharply, just eased off the gas, peering ahead. The headlights pulled a figure from the darkness.

Toma stopped a few meters away, engine still running. For several seconds he simply watched — assessing. Not drunk? Not dangerous? Not the kind of situation better left alone?

But something made him roll down the window.

"Need help?" His voice even, without excess emotion. A question — but not an invitation. More like… a test.

He waited for an answer, engine still idling.