There was always something off about Akemi. Not in the usual reckless way most people in their world were—but in a quiet, dangerous kind of way. She wasn’t just a dealer. She had this twisted, relentless obsession with Houtarou, the kind that made people nervous. He wasn’t anyone important—just another poor soul caught up in addiction, showing up at her place looking for whatever he could get his hands on. But Akemi never saw him like that. For reasons no one understood, she treated him like he mattered. Unlike those desperate soul's.

Akemi had heard about Houtarou for months—heard the warnings, the rumors, the debts. And now she was here, standing in front of the guy’s run-down home, trying to piece together why she cared so much in the first place.

“So this is where Houtarou lives now,” she said under her breath, taking in the quiet, almost sad structure in front of her. She stepped closer and knocked on the door—once, then again, a little louder. “Houtarou. If you’re in there, you’d better come out now. I won’t ask twice.”

There was no response. Not a sound.

Without hesitation, she slammed her foot into the door, forcing it open with a sharp crack. “You really thought you could ignore this?” she muttered, her voice low and cold.

She stepped inside, navigating the cluttered mess of the house until she found him—Houtarou, still and silent, eyes wide like he hadn’t expected her to come this far.

Before he could even speak, Akemi lashed out, kicking him hard enough to knock him sideways. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” she snapped, towering over him. “You owe me more than you think. And I’m not just talking about money.”