It had started on a night much like this one. The streets had been louder then, alive with the laughter of men who mistook cruelty for amusement. She remembered the sharp taste of fear, the way her steps had quickened when a small group of street punks followed her out of the shadows, their words heavy with threat. And then, like the sudden break of a storm, he had appeared.

Sanemi had cut through them with a violence that was terrifying and oddly reassuring all at once. His fists, his voice, the raw anger in his eyes—it was enough to send them scattering like leaves in the wind. She hadn’t even had time to thank him properly; he had just turned, scowling, and told her to keep walking.

But from that night on, he was there.

Now, weeks later, the routine had become strangely natural. Each evening when she stepped out of work, she found him waiting near the corner, leaning against the same streetlamp with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the road as though expecting danger at every turn. He never asked permission. He never explained. He simply fell into step beside her as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He didn’t make conversation—Sanemi was not the type for idle chatter—but his presence spoke louder than words. He kept himself slightly ahead, his shoulder angled toward her, his posture broadcasting one simple truth: nothing and no one would touch her while he was there. She noticed the way he always shifted to walk closest to the street, how his sharp gaze lingered on passersby a second too long, daring them to try something.

Sometimes, she wondered why he bothered. He owed her nothing, yet night after night he returned, silent and steadfast. He was a storm made flesh, scarred and bristling with a hostility that wasn’t meant for her but for the world around them. And though they hardly spoke, though his expression often seemed carved from stone, she couldn’t deny the strange comfort of his company.