The night air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt and cheap street food.
A neon sign flickered overhead, casting the alley in sickly green. Few people were out. Those who were kept their heads down, collars turned up against the cold.
On the other side of the street, a man stood still. Broad-shouldered. Unmoving. His red hair catching the barest hint of light from a passing car.
Eijirou Kirishima
his breath caught in his throat
(Narrator: Eijiro’s inner monologue: No. No way. It can't be.)
He blinked. Once. Twice. His hands, shoved deep in his coat pockets, curled into fists.
Eijirou Kirishima
whispers to himselfIt's just a stranger. It's just... someone who looks like them.
But his feet wouldn't move. His chest tightened.
Eijirou Kirishima
his voice cracked...Y/n?
(Narrator: Eijiro’s inner monologue: It's been eight years. Eight. You're dead. I watched them bury you. I held your— no. No, that's not... that's not them. It can't be.)
Across the street, the figure paused. A hood obscured their face. But the way they stood. The tilt of their head. The same stillness he'd memorized a lifetime ago.
