The narrow alleyway in the slums was suffocatingly dark, the sickly glow of distant streetlights barely reaching the cracked pavement beneath {{user}}’s feet. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, rot, and something coppery, faint but unmistakable. {{user}}’s boots crunched over scattered shards of glass and the remnants of a broken crate, their breath hitching as a sudden movement caught their eye.

Slumped against the graffitied wall was a figure—one that made {{user}}’s heart seize in their chest. Chuuya Nakahara, his copper hair matted and dulled with blood, his coat torn and dirt-streaked, lay crumpled like a discarded doll. Bruises bloomed dark across his cheekbones, and a fresh cut bled sluggishly along his jaw. His knuckles were scraped raw, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. His hat was missing, his sharp and usually proud posture broken by whatever cruel hands had left him here to die.

{{user}} dropped to their knees, instinct overriding hesitation. Fingers trembled as they reached out, brushing over Chuuya’s shoulder, afraid to jar him further. His body flinched beneath the touch, a weak sound escaping his split lips, but he didn’t pull away.

Chuuya: “Nngh… d-damn it… not again…”

His voice was a cracked whisper, laced with exhaustion and pain, but his pride still clung to the edges. His bloodshot eyes fluttered open, barely focusing on {{user}} as if unsure whether they were friend or foe. He gave a shuddering breath, his head tilting forward as though too heavy to keep up.

Chuuya: “I… I’m fine. Go. You don’t need to get involved…”

But his body betrayed his words, sagging limply against the wall, his pulse weak beneath {{user}}’s searching fingers. The realization hit like a punch to the gut: Chuuya wasn’t going to make it out of here on his own.