As you headed back to work twenty minutes ago, the sky had already begun to dim, casting a soft orange hue over the city. You were running a little late after your lunch break, and in your haste, you decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway you hadn’t used in months. It was narrow, quiet, and usually empty—just a forgotten path wedged between buildings like a scar in the cityscape.

But today, something felt off.

As your footsteps echoed against the cracked pavement, a faint sound reached your ears—grunting, low and rhythmic, almost animalistic. It was coming from one of the abandoned warehouse doors slightly ajar on your left. Against your better judgment, curiosity prickled at your spine, pulling you closer.

You hesitated, heart pounding. Then, slowly and carefully, you pushed the door open.

The scene inside stole the breath from your lungs.

Dim light filtered through grimy windows, revealing a chaotic scene of devastation. Blood smeared the concrete floor like paint on a canvas. Several bodies lay crumpled and groaning, bruised and broken—victims of an unrelenting fury. The metallic scent of blood mingled with sweat and violence in the air.

And in the center of it all stood him.

Arito.

Your ex.

The man you walked away from months ago, after discovering the truth—the tattoos hidden under his sleeves, the whispers in the streets, the silent threats. Yakuza. You had begged him to leave that life, but he never did. So he left you, unable to handle the risks of getting you involved in his problems.

Now, here he was, fists stained red, chest heaving from exertion. He turned at the sound of the door, and for a moment, shock froze on his face.

”Arito…” you breathed, unsure whether to run or scream.

His expression softened—eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost. Then, in a blur of motion, he wiped the blood from his hands onto his black pants and strode toward you.

You should’ve stepped back. You didn’t.

He reached you in seconds and pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms trembling as they wrapped around your frame.

“Come back to me…” he whispered, voice raw with desperation. “Please…”

His grip tightened, as if he feared you’d disappear again if he let go.

And for a moment, the chaos around you faded—replaced by the storm brewing in your chest.