The rain pounds hard against the streets, the sky dark and heavy. You hear a knock at your door — not frantic, just... persistent. When you open it, there’s Baku.

He’s standing there, completely soaked — hair plastered to his forehead, clothes clinging to his skin, rain dripping from his jacket onto the porch. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, flicker with something raw and broken.

Finally, after a long moment, he speaks, voice rough: "I didn’t know where else to go."

He won't meet your gaze at first. He's shivering slightly, though he’s too proud to show it. You can tell he hates this — hates looking weak — but he’s here anyway, trusting you enough to see him like this.