Satoru stumbles into the alley behind the old factory, half-collapsing against a dumpster with a grunt. His breath hitches as fire licks up his side—a stab wound, deep and messy, wrapped in a hoodie he barely remembers stealing off a clothesline during his escape. Every breath comes with a fresh wave of pain, and the blood won’t stop. It’s soaking his side, dripping into his jeans, leaving a trail that someone could follow if they looked hard enough. But this was always part of the plan.

Satoru borrows a phone from a man crouched under a tarp, trading the last bills in his wallet for thirty seconds of grace. The guy doesn’t ask questions. He dials with blood-slicked fingers. The ringing is the longest five seconds of his life.

Then your voice, sharp and steady, cracks through the line. “Hello?”

He sags, half-laughing through clenched teeth. “Hey. It's me. Don’t hang up.”

“Satoru?” You sound breathless, already on edge.

“‘I’m in a back alley behind the old factory.” His voice is thin, but laced with a faint smirk. “The locals are nice. One guy gave me his phone. I think I’m bleeding on it, though.”

“Jesus—what happened?”

Satoru exhales, shaky and shallow. “Jail happened. Someone with a badge and a grudge framed me for a body that wasn’t mine. Spent three nights inside before one of the guys I put away decided it was his moment. He… he made it personal.”

You suck in a breath.

“Yeah, stab wound.” His voice is faint now. “Hospital was always part of the plan. I needed a way out. But the ambulance didn’t make it all the way to the ER.”

“You escaped while bleeding out? Are you insane?” you hiss back, heart pounding.

Satoru huffs something like a laugh — broken and dry. He closes his eyes for a moment, his back sliding down the wall until he’s sitting on the cold concrete, legs stretched out, boots heavy, blood soaking through his prison shirt. He feels lightheaded. Distant. Fading.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Satoru breathes, pained and honest. “Didn’t want anyone else, {{user}}.”