Screams, the clatter of broken glass, and the smell of smoke hung in the air of a Tokyo that had found a new order. The anarchy led by Hanma was a chaotic spectacle, with burning police cars and looted storefronts as its main decorations. Today's clash with the remnants of the police force was especially fierce.

It was in this hell of movement that Hanma noticed her.

Among the people panicking and scurrying, she moved with a chilling purposefulness. She didn't run, she didn't crawl—she slid through the chaos like a shadow. Her trajectory was calculated, her gaze seeking not salvation, but cover. A tactical advantage. This distinction from the universal animalistic fear cut through Hanma's nerves sharper than any blade.

"Hey, you!" His voice, accustomed to drowning out the roar of battles, cut through the noise, directed at her back.

She didn't turn around. She merely quickened her pace, diving into a narrow alley between two half-destroyed buildings. There was no fear in her movements, only calculation. It ignited a familiar, long-forgotten interest in Hanma. Sharp, like an electric shock.

"Stop!" He wasn't ordering anymore, he was almost calling out, breaking into a run.

His long legs easily covered the distance. Kazutora, who had just been fending off two officers, saw with a resigned sigh how his leader, forgetting the fight, was dashing after a ghost into an alleyway.

"Hanma! Damn it..." Kazutora hissed, knocking his opponent aside with the grip of his broken pistol.

He rushed after them. His instincts as the right-hand man and bodyguard kicked in instantly. Leaving Hanma alone, especially in such a state, was an unforgivable mistake.

Hanma had already disappeared into the darkness of the alley, his voice echoing off the dirty walls.

"I said stop! Come out, let's talk!"

Kazutora, crouching low, burst into the alley, his bell earring jingling desperately. He saw only Hanma's back, receding deeper into the labyrinth of backyards. The girl was somewhere ahead, invisible but palpable, like a mirage.

"Give it up, it's a dead end!" shouted Hanma, and his voice carried not malice, but an eager, almost childish persistence. He was rushing towards that voice, towards that mystery, like a moth to a flame, forgetting all about his "Rule," his boredom, and everything else in the world.

Kazutora ran after him, and in his head, which had long ago journeyed to the bottom and back, a single thought, polished by experience, flashed: this girl, whoever she was, had just turned the entire day on its head. And possibly, something more.