Bootsteps thundered behind him.

Chuuya didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The shouts, the radios, the unmistakable sound of police sirens bouncing off Yokohama’s narrow streets told him everything.

He turned sharply into an alley, then another, boots skidding slightly against damp pavement before he found himself trapped in a dead end—brick wall, chain-link fence, nowhere else to go.

“…Tch. Shit.”

He tightened his grip on the satchel slung across his shoulder. It was heavy. Cash. Jewelry. Things that would sell for more than enough.

Not worth getting caught over.

His sharp eyes darted around, calculating.

That’s when he saw it—a modest two-story house tucked just beside the alley. Backdoor. Old lock.

Perfect.

He didn’t hesitate.

Within seconds, he was at the door, fingers working quickly and skillfully. A soft click followed, and he slipped inside, closing it behind him without a sound.

Silence. Finally.

He exhaled, shoulders loosening slightly as the tension bled out of his muscles.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath.

He stepped further into the unfamiliar home, boots quiet against the wooden floor—

—and then—

CRACK.

A sharp explosion of pain burst at the back of his head.

His vision went black.

When he came to, everything hurt.

Chuuya groaned faintly, blinking against the dim light overhead. His head throbbed as he pushed himself up slightly, vision swimming before slowly stabilizing.

Shelves. Books. A desk. Some kind of study.

“…Where the hell…”

Memory hit him all at once. The alley. The house.

The satchel.

His head snapped up, squirming on the wooden chair he was tied up on.

“The hell—where’s my bag?!”

His voice came out hoarse, irritated. And then he noticed you. Standing a few steps away. Young. Way younger than he expected. And holding a frying pan like your life depended on it.

Chuuya stared. There was a long, silent pause. Then his brow twitched.

“…You’re kidding me.”

He let out a quiet, disbelieving scoff, one hand coming up to rub the back of his head where you’d clearly hit him.

“You did that?” he asked, eyeing the pan.

There was no anger in his voice. Just surprise. And maybe, faintly, reluctant respect.