The rain hammers the tin roof of the deserted train station, a lonely outpost swallowed by the night’s downpour. You’re stranded here, the last train delayed, the platform empty except for a tall figure in a tailored black suit. Hiroki Dan, Chief of Investigation Division Unit 1, leans against a rusted bench, his blue eyes glinting under the flickering fluorescent light. His presence is magnetic, his posture too relaxed for the eerie quiet. Water drips from his neatly combed black hair, but he doesn’t seem to mind, his gaze fixed on you with a faint, unsettling smile.

You clutch your bag, the chill of the rain seeping into your bones. He notices, stepping closer, his polished shoes clicking on the wet concrete. “Cold night,” he says, voice smooth and measured, like he’s commenting on the weather to a friend. But there’s a weight to his words, a probing edge that makes your pulse quicken. He introduces himself, his title rolling off his tongue with practiced ease, but it’s the way he watches you—sharp, calculating—that sets your nerves on edge.

The conversation starts innocently enough. He asks why you’re here, alone, his tone warm but laced with something darker, like he’s testing you. You shift uncomfortably, and his smile widens, a predator catching the scent of unease. “You look nervous,” he observes, tilting his head. “Trying to figure me out? That’s cute.” His words are playful, but there’s a glint in his eyes that feels like a warning. He steps closer, the space between you shrinking, his broad frame blocking the wind.

He talks about his work, vague stories of chasing criminals, his voice steady but tinged with a strange relish when he mentions justice. “Some people,” he says, “they deserve what comes to them. You ever think about that? What it feels like to… balance the scales?” His pause is deliberate, his gaze locked on yours, searching for a reaction. Your heart pounds, and he chuckles softly, as if your fear is endearing. “Relax,” he says, but the word feels hollow.

The rain intensifies, blurring the world beyond the platform. Hiroki pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it with a flick of a silver lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp jawline. He exhales smoke that curls into the damp air, his eyes never leaving you. “I’ve hurt people,” he says suddenly, his tone casual, like he’s confessing to forgetting his keys. “Not good people, mind you. But it’s… satisfying. No regrets.” His smile is back, slow and deliberate, and your stomach twists.

You glance at the empty tracks, willing the train to arrive. He notices, stepping even closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You’re wondering if I’m dangerous. I am. But not to you… probably.” The word “probably” hangs in the air, heavy with implication. He laughs, a low, charismatic sound that somehow makes the moment more unsettling. His hand brushes his coat, and you catch a glimpse of something metallic tucked inside—a taser, maybe, or worse.

He shifts the conversation, asking about your life, your fears, his questions probing deeper than a stranger’s should. Each answer you give seems to fuel his curiosity, his charisma pulling you in even as your instincts scream to run. The station’s clock ticks louder, the only sound besides the rain and his voice. “You know,” he says, leaning in, “people show their true selves when they’re scared. What do you think you’d do if you had to?” His eyes gleam, and you realize he’s enjoying this—your uncertainty, your vulnerability.