For the first time since the fight, Zemin's cool demeanor faltered. His smirk faded into disbelief. "What do you mean, eight out of a million? You saw what I just did! I took them down like it was nothing!"
No answer.
She simply took a slow drag from her cigarette, the ember glowing bright red, before exhaling the smoke into the chilly night air. The silence stretched on. Her voice was steady, almost disinterested, when she finally broke the silence. "Name's Shuren. Remember it." With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the cigarette aside, crushing it beneath her boot.
"Oh, I guess I should introduce myself too. My name is—"
"Don't bother. I already know who you are."
Zemin opened his mouth, still hoping for some kind of explanation, but Shuren had already turned away, her coat swaying as she moved.
"Come on. We're going somewhere," she said matter-of-factly, stepping out of the alley without looking back.
Zemin stood there for a moment, processing her words. Eight out of a million… His fists tightened, the initial shock morphing into something deeper. Frustration. Curiosity. A flicker of desire. Then he took off, following Shuren into the stunning streets of Kurayamiya.
A dim lantern illuminated the sign of a little ramen shop. The place had seen better days; the paint was peeling, and the door creaked ominously on its hinges, but the mouthwatering aroma wafting out was simply irresistible.
"Sit," Shuren instructed as she settled onto a stool. The owner, an elderly man with weary eyes, didn't bother with questions he just nodded at her and disappeared into the back.
Just a few minutes later, two steaming bowls appeared on the counter, the broth so rich that it fogged up the glass pane separating them from the street. Shuren set her cigarette down on the table, balancing it between an ashtray and a napkin, then snapped her chopsticks apart with practiced ease.
She didn't hesitate. Her hands moved fluidly, drawing noodles and broth into her mouth with a steady, unhurried rhythm.
Zemin found himself staring at his bowl.
Then at the chopsticks.
His fingers twitched, fumbling awkwardly. He tried to imitate her, but the sticks slipped from his grip, clattering against the edge of the counter. A few noodles splashed into the broth, leaving small stains on his sleeve.
"Tch." He muttered a curse under his breath and reached for Zemin's memories—anything, a fragment, an instinct. Surely this body should know how to eat ramen.
But there was nothing.
Just static, broken flashes. Completely useless.
Across from him, Shuren paused mid-bite, her eyes narrowing. "…Why aren't you eating?" Caught off guard, Zemin stiffened. "I—uh…"
She leaned back slightly, observing him with that sharp, calculating gaze of hers. A thin wisp of smoke from her cigarette drifted between them.
"You don't know how to use chopsticks," she stated flatly. Not a question an accusation.
Zemin felt a flush creep up his cheeks, bristling. "Of course I do. It's just… been a while." The chopsticks slipped from his hand again, clattering against the counter. His excuse crumbled in the silence.
Shuren exhaled through her nose, almost amused. "Pathetic." But then, without missing a beat, she picked up a noodle with her own chopsticks and held it out across the table. "Here."
The steam curled between them, carrying the scent of garlic and pork.
Zemin blinked, caught between pride and hunger.
The noodle hung between them for what felt like an eternity before Zemin finally relented, leaning in and slurping it down in one clumsy bite.
Shuren smirked slightly, clearly pleased with her small triumph, then shifted her focus back to her own bowl. The shop fell into silence again, the only sound being the gentle bubbling of the broth simmering in the background. Midway through her meal, she suddenly checked her wrist. Her expression turned serious.
"Ah, crap. I completely forgot about it." Zemin raised an eyebrow, his chopsticks still quivering in his grip. "Forgot what?" Shuren pushed her bowl aside, flicked her cigarette into the ashtray, and stood up in one fluid motion. Her coat swayed as she moved, leaving a faint trace of smoke in the air.
"I've got somewhere to be," she said, her tone brisk and impatient. "You—wait for me. Other side of town. Don't be late." Zemin opened his mouth to protest, to ask what on earth she was talking about, but before he could even get the words out, she was gone.
No footsteps. No creaking door.
Just vanished.
The stool still spun slightly where she had been sitting, the smoke from her last drag curling in the air like a ghost that refused to fade away. Zemin sat there, frozen, staring at the empty spot she had left behind.
"What the…" he muttered, his heart racing. He hadn't blinked more than once, and yet she had slipped from his view entirely, as if she had never existed. The ramen in front of him steamed, untouched, suddenly feeling less like a meal and more like a trap.
Shock coursed through him. He had witnessed plenty of fights, seen his share of deaths, and encountered all sorts of tricks in the streets, but nothing like that.