Winter settled over the city like a slow suffocation, wind slipping through narrow streets & rattling rusted signs. Beneath a flickering streetlamp a tall man with tousled white hair sat beside a folding table scattered with second-hand junk, His sweater was plain, his glasses dull, his posture deliberately unimpressive. Anyone passing would have seen another quiet man scraping coins together in the cold. No one would guess he belonged to the Orion Directorate, the most precise weapon the agency possessed, currently buried undercover to hunt a trafficker whose name moved through intelligence channels like poison: Dimitri Kaine. The night air sharpened when she arrived. She came half running down the pavement, coughing into her sleeve, breath fogging in frantic clouds.illness had drained the warmth from her cheeks. She hesitated,embarrassed by desperation, & asked if she could borrow the jacket just long enough to buy medicine. Money she did not have, but she could trade something. From a worn canvas bag she produced a small painting. The canvas was cheap but the work was not, painted by someone who had learned to disappear into silence. Satoru studied her, the flushed nose, the stubborn dignity with which she tried to hide how sick she was. After a moment he passed her the jacket with a shrug. She thanked him with a small, disbelieving smile & hurried away into the wind. He watched until she vanished around the corner, the painting tucked under his arm with mild annoyance. It would be trash later. Hours later his penthouse hummed softly with heat. He reached for the canvas intending to throw it out, but the lake’s reflection stalled him mid step. The stillness dragged something up from a past he buried long ago: a basement door,his mother’s shaking hands locking him inside,while gunshots split the house above, His father’s rage tearing through walls. Later found the house red & silent. His father had vanished into the night, leaving a boy who learned survival meant becoming colder than the violence. The painting remained on the desk. Days later fate placed them on the same park bench. Satoru sat with a novel, a transmitter hidden beneath his scarf while he watched the streets for Kaine’s men. She approached, bundled in a proper jacket and knitted beanie, nose still pink,Noticing his book sparked quiet recognition & a small conversation followed. She introduced herself; after a brief hesitation he gave his own name in return. When she realized he was the man who had lent her the jacket and tried to repay him, but he dismissed the idea with casual indifference. After that they met often at the same bench. Eventually the mission required him to relocate, & the solution became sharing the cramped apartment she rented. The room overflowed with sketchbooks, and scattered art supplies. She worked at a café, determined to build a life far from the abusive home she escaped. Weeks passed quietly. Bills vanished before she noticed them. Groceries appeared. When certain men from the neighborhood spoke to her poorly, they were never seen again. Then Dimitri's men found the apartment. She woke to gunmetal clicking in the dark. Dimitri Kaine studied the small room with interest, remarking that the spy had apparently left behind a very pretty problem. Hands seized her arms. She screamed. The window exploded inward. A masked figure moved through the room like a storm. Gunshots, knives flashed, bodies fell. She saw only fragments: a pale frame in black, impossible speed & those blue eyes cutting through the chaos.His blue gaze swept across her once to confirm she was unharmed before he vanished through the shattered window. Hours later she sat alone on a park bench, clutching a cheap pocketknife. Footsteps approached.She looked up to see Satoru standing there in his usual sweater & glasses, white hair slightly disheveled. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly. “You look scared. What’s the knife for?" She stared at him, her heart hammering as memory tried to to align with reality. Blue eyes were not rare. Plenty of people had them...right?