Thunder cracked across the sky, rattling the tall glass windows of the convenience store. To Daichi, the storm had long since become background noise. Another part of the city's night shift. The automatic doors hissed open every so often, steel and glass scraping against the soaked tiles while the soft chime of the recently repaired welcome message played on repeat. Each time someone stepped inside, dripping umbrellas and raincoats left little rivers across the floor, and each time Daichi groaned, already picturing himself with a mop in hand. At least, now, as the clock blinked past one in the morning, the city had slowed to a crawl.
He slouched behind the counter, cheek braced against his palm, fingers drumming against the smooth surface. Normally, by this hour, he'd be glued to the MRA stream, eyes locked on the night's big race. Bets to place. Wins and losses to track. But ever since that night at the garage, even the thought of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. The memory of his best friend gambling away everything she was on a race she couldn't possibly win.
His eyes drifted to the desk calendar propped beside the register. Day after day crossed out in red ink. Two weeks since the disaster. Fourteen days of waiting, and with each tick of the clock, the cold dread in his gut only deepened, like a phantom hand tightening its grip until his stomach lurched.
Dahlia kept insisting she was fine. Kept saying she was getting better. But the bandages told a different story. Cuts, scrapes, bruises she couldn't hide. He'd watched her push herself past exhaustion, chasing a finish line that was already slipping away.
Daichi groaned, raking his fingers through his hair, his voice breaking into the empty store.
"Shit!" he snapped, the sound echoing off the tiles. "Goddamn shit! I told her it was a bad idea, but does she ever listen? Hell, does anyone ever listen to me? No, of course not!" His hands curled into fists, nails biting his palms as he glared at the ceiling. "I should never have told her about the MRA."
His words cracked into a whisper, the anger bleeding into guilt. "Now she's gonna lose everything… and it's all my fault. Way to go, Daichi. Mess up your own life, sure, but why stop there? Drag someone else into the muck too."
The door slid open with a soft hiss, and the cheerful chime rang through the empty store. Daichi straightened instantly, his drowsiness snapping away as two men stepped in from the rain. Their overcoats glistened under the fluorescent lights, water dripping onto the tile. They were mid-conversation, low-voiced and calm, one of them carrying a rolled magazine under his arm.
At first glance, Daichi pegged them as trouble. The kind of quiet, clean-cut men who dealt in things that never made the papers. But as his eyes adjusted, recognition hit him like a cold slap. Detective Nishimura. And beside him, a younger man he didn't know, though the badge on his belt and the posture made it obvious, another cop.
Both were dressed sharp, navy and charcoal suits beneath their damp coats, the kind of pressed fabric that screamed authority.
Relief flickered, then vanished just as quickly. His stomach turned, his mind racing down every dark possibility. It had been weeks since Nishimura last came by. What if this wasn't a casual visit? What if they'd found out about him and Dahlia? About the MRA meet? Maybe they were here to haul him in, cuff him, throw him into some dim interrogation room until he cracked and confessed to something he didn't even do. His chest tightened. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, each beat louder than the rain outside.
The sharp clack of a can hitting the counter made him jolt upright.
"I didn't do it, I swear!" he blurted, near cracking into a yelp.
Nishimura froze mid-reach, hand still on the can of black coffee. His brow arched. The corner of his mustache twitched as he studied the pale, wide-eyed clerk.
"…You okay there?" he asked.
"Yes, why wouldn't I be, Detective?" Daichi blurted, his grin too wide, too forced. The nervous twitch in his cheeks made Nishimura's brow rise even higher.
Daichi coughed into his fist, trying to recover. "Sorry. Been a little jumpy, that's all. Had… had one too many energy drinks tonight."
The old detective let out a weary sigh. "And there's your problem. You kids keep guzzling that garbage thinking it'll keep you running. Sure, maybe for a while, but one day it's gonna punch a hole right through your ticker."
A new can tapped the counter, the metallic clink punctuating the scolding. "Speak for yourself, old man," said the younger cop with a grin. "Coffee's weak stuff. You want real power, you go for the red, blue, and silver."
"Case in point," Nishimura said dryly, shaking his head. "You might feel invincible now, Kaito, but give it twenty years and you'll be praying for my metabolism."
Daichi studied the newcomer. The man looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine shoot, not a precinct. Long silver hair brushing his collar, sharp features softened just enough by youth, eyes like polished steel that gave away nothing. Even his stance radiated that easy confidence Daichi had always envied. Everything about him screamed charisma, not cop work.
"Better wired on poison than snoring at my desk," Kaito said, gesturing with gloved hands. "Besides, it keeps me sharp. These late shifts'll eat you alive otherwise."
"Right," Nishimura cut in. He tilted his head toward Daichi. "Anyway, this here's Daichi. Been working the graveyard shift the past two years. We'll be seeing a lot of him with all the crap going on lately."
Daichi blinked, startled by the introduction, just before Kaito turned to him and extended a gloved hand. "Detective Kaito Kagami," he said with a disarmingly warm smile. "Pleasure."
Daichi shook his hand. "Likewise, Detective."
"Kid's been keeping me company since I started running this part of town," Nishimura added with a grin. "Always in the middle of some kind of nonsense. Hooligans, punks, yakuza types, you name it. Never a dull night around here, eh?"
"You said it, Detective." Daichi took the cans, scanned them one by one. The register beeped, numbers lighting up on the screen. "So, what brings you both out this late?"
"The usual," Nishimura replied with a weary sigh. "Couple of schoolyard punks trying to play tough around town again."
He waved a hand to stop Kaito from tapping his card. The younger detective blinked, then gave a small shrug as Nishimura slid a thousand-yen note across the counter instead.
Daichi took it and rang it up, glancing at the old man.
"If there's one thing I absolutely can't stand," Nishimura went on, shaking his head, "it's these snot-nosed kids pretending they're gangsters while mommy's still cooking their meals and doing their laundry. Parents bust their backs every day, and these wastes of space repay 'em by running wild. Spray-painting walls, pissing on sidewalks, and acting like they own the damn streets."
He cracked open his can of coffee, the hiss of gas breaking the air before he took a long sip. "Back in my day, we so much as thought about pulling that crap, our old man would've tanned our hides till we couldn't sit for a week."
Kaito chuckled as he popped his own can. "Careful, Nishimura. Your age's showing." He took a drink, smirking. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're speaking from experience."
"Damn right," Nishimura said, pointing his can at him. "I wasn't the best father, but my kids turned out fine. No wannabe tough guys, no punks on the evening news." He nodded toward Daichi behind the counter. "More of 'em should take a page from your book, kid. You're working hard, staying outta trouble."
Daichi rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah, though stocking shelves and mopping floors for minimum wage isn't exactly living the dream."
Nishimura shrugged. "We all start somewhere. When I was your age, I was delivering newspapers just to buy lunch. Didn't have much, but I kept my head down, and look at me now." He gave a wry smile. "Still tired, still broke, but at least I'm respectable."
Both Daichi and Kaito laughed, the sound cutting through the hum of the fridges and the distant patter of rain. As the moment settled, Daichi's eyes drifted toward the rolled magazine tucked under the young detective's arm. Uma Weekly. This week's cover showed a glossy spread of smiling racers mid-gallop beneath the stadium lights.
Kaito noticed the look, smirking as he set the magazine down on the counter. "Ah, so you are a racing fan," he said, grin widening. "C'mon, kid, who's your favorite?"
Daichi hesitated, color rising in his cheeks. "Uh… I don't really have one," he said, scratching at his neck. "But if I had to pick… probably Oguri Cap?"
Kaito slapped his thigh, laughing. "Knew it! You've got that quiet, old-school energy. Oguri fan through and through." He raised his can. "Me, though? I'm a Majiro guy. Fast, fierce, and—" he bobbed his eyebrows with a click of his tongue "—easy on the eyes."
Nishimura groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it almost looked painful. "For God's sake, half of them are still in middle school. I swear, the whole URA scene's become a playground for degenerates."
"Oh, come on," Kaito shot back, bumping the old man's shoulder. "Don't act like you weren't young once. Bet you had your favorites too."
"Yeah," Nishimura replied dryly, taking a long sip of his coffee. "Back then." He set the can down with a soft thunk. "You have daughters, and suddenly all that 'favorites' nonsense stops real quick."
Daichi flipped open the magazine, the glossy pages crackling under his fingers. His eyes widened at the full-page ad splashed across the front. He read the title aloud, brow furrowing. "The… Godly Fifteen Convention?"
"Now that's something worth talking about," Nishimura said, jabbing a finger at the page. "I was wondering when that roadshow would finally roll into Tokyo."
"Sounds like you're a fan," Kaito said with a sly grin. "Can't lie, so am I."
Daichi tilted his head, clearly lost, and both men caught it immediately.
"Wait, wait, don't tell me you've never heard of the Godly Fifteen?" Nishimura asked, his brow lifting.
"I mean… I've heard people mention them," Daichi admitted, glancing back at the ad. "Something about being big-time champions?"
"Well, considering they're from the States, I don't blame you for not knowing," Kaito said, leaning on the counter. "But they're not just champions, kid. They're legends. Secretariat, Man o' War level. Hell, even Symboli Rudolf would bow her head to be part of that lineup."
"I'll give you that," Nishimura added, folding his arms. "The Emperor's a legend in her own right, but she hasn't conquered circuits across the globe like these girls. Every last one of 'em swept stakes on multiple continents. Even our champions look up to them."
"Huh." Daichi nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the page. "Interesting. Guess you really do learn something new every day." He looked up with a small grin, then blinked. "Oh, crap, your change!"
He fumbled into the drawer, grabbing the notes and coins before snapping it shut with a metallic clack.
"But that's only half the story," Kaito continued. "Truth is, none of those girls would've become half as great if it weren't for the guy who trained 'em."
Nishimura gave a low nod. "Yeah. The Hand of God himself, Logan Deschain."
The coins slipped from Daichi's fingers, scattering across the floor with a sharp, echoing clatter. Both detectives turned, watching him freeze where he stood. His eyes were wide, face pale.
That name.
It hit him like a lightning strike, his pulse hammering in his ears. In an instant, memories flooded back. The quiet gaijin who'd been a regular fixture in his store for the past two years. The unshaven face, the worn jacket that smelled faintly of smoke, the hollow eyes that carried too much history. The way he always kept to himself, polite but distant. That was the name he'd given him the very first day they met. And now Daichi finally understood that look. That flicker of panic, like a slip of the tongue, then relief, when Logan realized he hadn't been recognized.
"Whoops." Daichi forced a laugh, his nerves barely masked behind it. "Sorry, guess I'm a bit of a klutz." He crouched quickly, scooping up the fallen coins before either detective could look too closely at his face.
"Anyway," Kaito went on, unfazed. "The guy's a legend among legends, especially back in the States. It's just… a damn shame how it all went down."
"You can say that again," Nishimura said. "Man kills someone, and the next thing you know, the whole country finds out Strider Academy's been trafficking umas under the table. The fallout nearly buried the place. Hell, even the URA's U.S. division was hanging by a thread after that."
Daichi kept his head low, pretending to chase a coin that had rolled beneath the counter. His fingers trembled as he gathered them into his palm.
"Well, as they say, two wrongs don't make a right," Kaito said, tapping a finger against the magazine, "but it's messed up how they wiped him out of the record. Not a single mention of him anywhere. You'd never even know he trained the Godly Fifteen unless you went digging."
"Well, can't exactly market an ex-con," Nishimura replied. "Not great publicity." He smirked faintly. "Just don't say that in front of Lightning. She gets a little… touchy when people bad-mouth her old trainer."
Daichi straightened, eyes widening as he placed the change atop the counter. "Lightning? As in Wild Lightning, the champion from the States?"
"The very same," Nishimura said, sliding his change into his coat pocket. "After she retired, she took command of the C.H.A.S.E. division back home. She and her partner were the ones who cracked the Strider case wide open, exposed everything. Then she made her career chasing down street racers and MRA scum."
"The premier expert on the MRA and street racers," Kaito added with a grin that was half pride, half mischief. "And, not gonna lie, she's smoking." He caught the look Nishimura was about to give him and raised a finger preemptively. "And before you start, she's an adult. Still can't believe a woman like that's single."
"Cool it, horn dog," Nishimura muttered, shaking his head. "You keep talking like that, and HR'll be knocking before sunrise."
Daichi chuckled, trying to play along. "You're speaking like she's right here in Tokyo or something."
Kaito's grin widened. "That's 'cause she is."
Daichi froze mid-motion.
"Yeah," Kaito continued, leaning casually on the counter. "She's setting up the new C.H.A.S.E. division here in Tokyo. Hell, for all of Japan. Tough as nails, smart as they come, and the MRA's already sweating bullets just hearing her name."
"S-she's here?" Daichi stammered, his throat dry. It felt like the air had turned to ice around him. "You mean… right now? Running point against the MRA?"
"Bingo," Kaito said, taking another sip of his drink. "And trust me, when she's done, the MRA's not gonna know what hit 'em."
Nishimura's brow furrowed, his sharp eyes narrowing on Daichi. "You… sure you're alright, kid?" he asked. "You've been acting off ever since we walked in."
"N-No—uh, I mean yes!" Daichi stammered, laughing nervously. "I'm p-p-perfectly fine, Detective. T-totally fine." His eyes darted left, then right, his hands fidgeting at his sides.
Kaito smirked, crushing his empty can with one hand. "Come on, old man, cut him some slack," he said, jerking his head toward the door. "Let's wrap this up. The sooner we deal with this mess, the sooner we get back to the station and outta this damned rain."
He turned back to Daichi, flashing that easy grin. "Good meeting you, though something tells me it won't be the last." He slipped a card from the inside of his coat and held it out. "If you ever need anything, or if anyone around here gives you trouble, give me a ring."
Daichi took the card, his fingers trembling slightly as he scanned the name Kaito Kagami. "Will do," he said, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Rookies," Nishimura muttered with a shake of his head as Kaito stepped out through the sliding doors. He gave Daichi a final nod. "Take care of yourself, kid. And try not to land in trouble."
"I'll try," Daichi replied weakly, watching as the door slid shut behind them.
He stood there for a long moment, the silence pressing in, then bolted.
Darting from behind the counter, he pressed his face to the glass, watching the detectives until they vanished into the rain-slick street. Only then did he flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED, snatch an umbrella from the rack, and lock up in a blur.
The second he stepped outside, the chill air hit him, but he barely felt it. His pulse pounded in his ears, thoughts racing faster than his feet.
He had to get to Dahlia.
She needed to know. About Logan, about Lightning, about all of it.
****
The crack of a strike and the sharp cry that followed cut through the crowd. Though the pounding bass nearly swallowed it whole. The warehouse at the city's edge trembled beneath the music, its cracked glass windows rattling in rusted steel frames while the beat pulsed through the concrete walls and up the corroded stairwells.
The MRA's faithful had gathered again. Racers, gamblers, and hangers-on packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the flood of neon and strobe. The air was thick with exhaust and sweat, cigarette haze tangled with the syrupy burn of cheap liquor and the artificial sweetness of vapor clouds spilling from grinning mouths. Every fist, every shout, every pulse of light moved in rhythm with the chaos.
At the far edge of the warehouse, Lady's crew lounged in a loose semicircle, grins curving like knives as they watched their leader in one of her infamous fits. Lady's boot came down hard into Lightning's stomach, drawing a guttural cry that vanished beneath the music. The younger uma curled over herself, trembling, her torn uniform clinging to bruised skin. Blood beaded at the corner of her mouth and slid down her chin as she gasped for breath, pain folding her body in half.
"Goddammit!" Lady screamed, clutching her hair with both hands. "Another day, another damn loss. All 'cause you can't do a single thing right!"
Light writhed on the concrete, tears streaking down her dirt-smeared cheeks. Her ears flattened back against her head, trembling. Lady crouched beside her, fingers twisting into a fistful of hair before yanking her upright. The scream that tore from Light's throat was swallowed by the pounding bass overhead.
"You know," Lady sneered, her grin baring rows of jagged, shark-like teeth, "I'm really gettin' tired of you screwin' up." She gave her head another sharp tug. "Maybe you ain't cut out for this navigator gig after all."
"Please, Lady—" Light gasped. "I-I'm sorry… just please, stop…"
"Yeah? Tough shit." Lady released her grip, letting Light crumple back to the grime-covered floor. "If you can't pull your own damn weight, then you don't belong here. Simple as that." She tilted her head. "Which brings me to my next problem, sweetheart. A pinkie who can't carry her weight ain't worth the dirt she's standing on."
One of her crew walked up to her, leaned in and whispered something into her ear. Lady's brow rose, then her smirk spread. "Well now," she murmured, "that ain't a bad idea."
Light blinked through her tears, confused.
Lady turned her gaze back down to her. "If you can't earn us cash on your feet…" her grin widened, eyes glinting under the neon, "…maybe you'll do better on your back."
Light froze, horror flooding her face. "N-no, Lady, please. Please don't make me—" she stammered, dragging herself forward on her knees. "I'll do anything, I swear, just not that." Her words cracked, raw and desperate. "Please don't make me do that." Light clung to Lady's leg, fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt. "I can't. I won't!"
Lady's face twisted, fury flashing white-hot across her features. Without warning, she drove her boot into Light's face. The crack of impact split through the music. Light hit the floor hard, a splash of blood streaking across the dirt.
"You won't?" Lady roared, the crowd around them faltering, heads turning toward the noise. "You forget who the hell you belong to?" She stomped toward Light, each step ringing against the floor before she started kicking again, over and over. "I own you!"
Light folded into herself, arms thrown over her head as Lady's boots found her ribs, her back, her stomach.
"You think this life's a fairy tale, huh?" Lady shouted. "That some shining knight's gonna come save your sorry ass—" She froze mid-sentence, realization flickering behind her eyes. Her snarl deepened. "Hold on, that's it, isn't it?"
She loomed over the trembling girl, breathing hard. "You think that bitch is gonna beat me, don't you? You think she's gonna come save you." Her boot slammed into Light's stomach again, drawing another strangled cry. "You're dreaming, you worthless piece of trash!"
She kicked her once more, spittle flying as she screamed. "You're not going anywhere! When I burn her on that track, I'll make damn sure she's selling her tail right next to you!"
Lady raised her foot again, her words devolving into a furious snarl. "You're my bitch! When I say run, you run! When I say jump, you jump. I tell you to blow off fat bastards for loose change, you get on your knees and—!"
"Enough."
The word sliced clean through the noise.
Lady froze mid-step, her snarl fading into a glare as she turned toward the voice. Her anger faltered the moment she saw who it belonged to. Standing beneath the fractured lights was an uma dressed in black leather, her long, waist-length hair slick with the sheen of rain and smoke. Raven motifs gleamed faintly on her jacket, and a jeweled black mask obscured the upper half of her face.
Every head in the room turned. Lady's crew went rigid, whispers rippling through them like static. They knew that silhouette. Everyone did.
Midnight Queen.
She stood still, composed, fists loose at her sides.
"Queen," Lady spat. "This is crew business. Don't concern you." Her sneer twisted. "Or are you just bored enough that you're lookin' to stick your nose where it don't belong?"
"Maybe," Queen said evenly, her gaze dropping to the trembling girl on the floor. "But I've seen enough." Her eyes drifted back to Lady. "I'm not here to tell you how to run your crew." She swept her gaze across the group. Not one dared to meet her stare. "Just seems to me you've forgotten what crews are for."
Lady's jaw clenched. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Queen's words stayed level, but it carried weight. "Unlike you, most of us are here to race. Not to take our failures out on people who can't fight back." She took a slow step forward, the faint scuff of her polished, jet-black boots echoing through the warehouse. "You want to throw a tantrum, you do it outside, like everyone else."
"You better watch yourself, Queen." Lady's tone darkened as her muscles tensed. Her crew rose one by one, closing in behind her like a pack ready to pounce. "You might be the fastest uma on the streets, but that don't make you invincible."
Queen tilted her head, unbothered. "Is that so?"
From the shadows behind her, six figures stepped forward. Umas of every build and color, each draped in the same black leathers marked with the raven sigil. The dim lights caught the glint of their buckles and chains as they formed a silent wall at Queen's back.
"Funny," Queen continued. "That's not how I remember it… not after I left your sorry tail spinning in the dust earlier."
Lady's sneer faltered. Her crew hesitated, glancing at one another, unease flickering across their faces. Light, still trembling on the floor, blinked through her tears as the standoff played out before her. The Queen and her ravens standing tall, unshaken.
"Tell you what," Queen said, folding her arms. "If you've got something to prove, we can always settle this the right way." Her gaze hardened. "One race. No excuses."
Lady scoffed and looked away, forcing a laugh. "Whatever." She jerked her head toward her crew. "We're done here."
They started for the exit, boots scraping over the dirt. But at the threshold, Lady paused and glanced back, her expression curling into disgust as her eyes met Light's. "Get the hell outta my sight."
The warehouse held its breath. The music faltered, bass fading to a dull throb as eyes tracked Lady and her crew slipping out into the rain-soaked night. The silence that lingered felt heavier than the smoke curling through the air.
Queen stood motionless for a moment longer, her gaze falling on Light. Through the shimmer of sweat and tears, Light met it, steady, wordless, almost gentle beneath the mask. Then, without a word, Queen turned and disappeared into the shifting crowd, her ravens following in her wake like shadows dissolving into fog.
The beat rose again, the bass trembling through the steel and concrete, pulling the room back to life. Light slowly pushed herself upright, every breath sharp and shallow. Her knees threatened to give way, one arm wrapped around her bruised ribs. Yet, through the ache, she couldn't shake the image. That fleeting moment of understanding behind Queen's mask, the kind of look she hadn't seen in a long time.
She shook her head hard, her tail snapping behind her. No. This wasn't the time to break. This had to end. Tonight. Dahlia had already risked too much, thrown herself into a storm she didn't understand, all for her sake. Light couldn't let her do it again. She wouldn't.
A sharp pain tore through her chest, deeper than any bruise or kick Lady had left. It was the weight of truth. The one she'd buried for far too long. The secret she'd kept from Dahlia. The one thing that had chained them both.
Light gritted her teeth and forced herself upright, one trembling step after another. Her body screamed in protest, but she pressed on, limping toward the warehouse doors. The rain outside glimmered faintly under the neon lights as she reached the threshold.
She had to find her. She had to tell her everything.
****
Rain poured endlessly over the city, a silver curtain falling through neon light. Colors bled into the puddles, pinks and blues rippling across the flooded streets as water surged through grime-choked gutters, carrying the night's filth away.
Light hobbled along the pavement, weaving through the narrow backstreets of Kabukichō. Her uniform clung to her soaked skin, every thread heavy with rain. The glow from dingy bar signs washed over her in shades of red and violet, painting fleeting ghosts across her face as she passed. She'd overheard the whispers back at the MRA meet. About the black-haired uma who'd gone up against Lady and lost, spending her nights running drills in some abandoned car park nearby.
She'd searched for hours, the minutes stretching deep past midnight into the witching hour, each one swallowed by the steady pulse of the rain. Water rushed through the drains, mingling with the rhythmic patter on rooftops and the low hum of vending machines that never slept. Her body trembled with exhaustion and cold, the soaked weight of her uniform clinging to her every step. Auburn hair and tail dripped steadily, plastered to her back as she pushed forward.
Once or twice, she passed a stumbling salaryman, face flushed from cheap whisky, muttering to himself as he fought to stay upright. None spared her a glance. In Tokyo, even the broken became invisible.
Light moved halfway down another alley, eyes darting through the shadows that clung to the walls. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to get out while she still could. This is a bad idea. But she forced the voice down, burying it beneath the same stubborn resolve that had kept her running this long. She had to find Dahlia. She had to stop her.
A sudden clatter of metal echoed behind her. She spun, breath catching in her throat, only to find a stray cat leaping off a pile of cans and vanishing into the dark. Her shoulders slumped with relief. She turned back and nearly collided with someone.
She stumbled back, startled, taking in the boy who now stood inches from her. He couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen, black hair slicked beneath a lavender beanie, a faint smirk twisting his pale face. His gray jacket was damp with rain. What made her blood run cold wasn't him, it was the sound of shuffling feet behind him. Four more shapes emerged from the shadows, spreading out, hemming her in.
"Well, look what we got here," the boy drawled. "What's a pretty tail like you doin' out here all alone?"
Light's eyes flicked from one face to another. Each wore the same grin, hungry and cruel. She swallowed hard. "N-nothing… I'm just trying to get home."
He snickered, glancing at his friends. "You hear that, boys? She's just tryin' to get home." Laughter rippled through the group. "Trains don't run for hours. Why don't you hang with us till then, huh? Promise we'll make it worth your while."
"I-I really can't," Light stammered. "Please, I just—"
She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, blocking her path. His hand shot out, barring her chest. "C'mon now, sweetheart. Don't be like that. Stick around," he said, grin curling wider. "Promise we'll show you a good time." He leaned in close enough for her to smell the alcohol on his breath. "And trust me, you'll be beggin' for more before the night's over."
"Get away from me!" Light shoved him hard, the force sending him stumbling back a step. She turned to run, but pain exploded at her scalp as he yanked her by the hair, dragging her backward. She screamed, nails clawing at his arm. "Let me go!"
"You little bitch!" he spat, hauling her around. His hand rose, but it never landed.
Instead, a sharp cry of pain split the alley. The boy staggered back, clutching his face as blood streamed from his nose, the red stark against the pale of his skin. His eyes went wide, more stunned than hurt, fingers trembling as they came away slick with crimson.
Before him stood a young man in a convenience store uniform, rain still dripping from his hair and shoulders. His stance was tense, every muscle drawn tight. In his hands, he gripped a closed umbrella. The shaft bent nearly in half from the force of the blow, held out before him like a makeshift weapon. His knuckles were white, his arms shaking, but he stood his ground, planted squarely between Light and the group of thugs.
His eyes flicked from one face to another, wide with fear, but there was something else beneath it. Resolve, however fragile. He already knew he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. Light's breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. Her unlikely savior, stepping out of the rain and into danger like a ghost from another life.