You first saw him on a grey Tuesday, standing outside your building like he didn’t quite belong to the world. His coat smelled faintly of smoke and rain, his eyes tired but sharp. He patted down his pockets, clearly missing something.

You, holding your groceries and barely awake, offered your lighter.

—“Thanks,” he muttered, barely meeting your gaze. He lit the cigarette, exhaled like it was the only thing keeping him steady, and walked off.

You thought that would be it.

But the next morning, there was a small candy on your doorstep. No note. Just the wrapper fluttering slightly in the breeze. You thought it was a coincidence — until the next time he passed by your street. Another quiet nod, another cigarette. The next day: a single flower, tucked between your mailbox and the door.

It kept happening. Not every day, but often enough to matter. Always something small: a book page, a sweet, a leaf shaped like a heart. And always after you’d seen him — never before.

You learned his name through whispers: Aki Hayakawa. A Devil Hunter. A man whose past was heavier than most could carry.

But to you, he was just… the man with the cigarette. The one who never stayed long, but always left something behind.

Until one night, you opened your door and found nothing. No candy. No flower.

Just him.

Leaning against your doorframe, soaked from the rain, smoke curling between his fingers.

—“I didn’t want to leave anything this time,” he said, voice low. “I wanted to ask if I could stay.”