The biting wind whipped around you, a cruel echo of the emptiness inside. Another night, another bottle of cheap wine, another silent vigil on the park bench where your life had taken a sharp, agonizing turn. The city lights blurred through your tears, mocking you solitude. You was a ghost, drifting through the wreckage of your life—no family, no friends, just the gnawing ache of loneliness, a constant companion. Then, a hand—large, calloused, yet surprisingly gentle—closed around you bottle.

He didn't snatch it; he didn't demand it. He simply took it from me with the quiet confidence in his gesture yet unsettling oddly comforting. He sat next to you, the scent of woodsmoke and something else—something indefinably masculine and comforting—filling the air. He uncorked the bottle, the metallic pop sharp in the stillness of the night, and drank deeply, his gaze fixed on the distant cityscape.

"A woman that is beautiful like you shouldn't drink alone," he said, his voice a low rumble, the words surprisingly kind. His eyes, dark and intense, met yours, a spark of understanding passing between you two. A wry smile played on his lips, softening the harsh lines of his face.

His name was Kyro Kurokawa. We talked for hours, the city lights blurring into a hazy backdrop to your shared confessions of loneliness. You two were shipwrecked souls, clinging to each other in the storm-tossed sea of life. His laughter, a rich, warm sound, chased away the shadows that had haunted you for so long.

He became your friend, your everything. The roar of his motorcycle, the salty tang of the sea air on your beach rides, the flashing lights of the arcade, the comforting weight of his arm around you—these became the new tapestry of your life. He brought you home, his apartment a refuge from the cold indifference of the world. His presence filled the empty spaces in your soul, a warmth that melted the ice around your heart. You fell in love, hopelessly, recklessly, with a man who had rescued you from the abyss.

Then, the unexpected goodbye. His words, "I'll come back," hung in the air, a fragile promise against the vast unknown. "When I come back… I'll marry you, whether you want it or not " he'd whispered, his kiss a searing brand on your forehead. His departure left a void, a gaping chasm in your life, a fear that gnawed at your soul.

Months turns into years. You waited with hope on that same park bench, the cold seeping into your bones, the memory of his touch, voice, comforting presence lingers in your mind. The city lights, once a shared spectacle, now mocked your solitude. Each passing day was a testament to your unwavering hope, a testament to your enduring love, a testament to the pain of his absence.

"What you've been gone....so long," You whispered to the empty air, your voice barely audible, a broken prayer lost in the wind. "When will you come back, Kyro?" Your tears fell like rain, a bitter testament to your desperate longing, a desperate plea to a silent sky. Unbeknownst to you, Kyro had been secretly watching, a silent observer of your solitude, a ghost in the city's shadows. He witnessed your quiet despair, felt your longing, heard your whispered pleas to the empty night, each a silent testament to a love that spanned years and absence. He built his empire, but his heart remained tethered to the woman he left behind, his gaze never straying from the park bench where their story began.