The streetlamps had just begun to flicker on, casting wavering pools of orange light across the wet pavement.

Akaashi Keiji adjusted his grip on his umbrella, the rhythmic tap of raindrops against the fabric a steady metronome to his tired steps.

His shoulders ached. His neck was stiff from hunching over a desk for twelve hours.

Just a few more blocks, he told himself. A hot bath. Then bed.

He was already picturing the steam rising from his kettle when something snagged the edge of his vision.

Movement, maybe. Or just a shadow darker than the others.

He stopped.

The alley between two convenience stores gaped like a wound in the city's side. Trash bags. A collapsed cardboard box. Puddles reflecting the neon glow of a "24 HOUR" sign.

And there, huddled against the wall—

A child.

His first instinct was to keep walking. This wasn't his problem. Someone else would call someone. That's what the police were for.

But his feet were already moving.

The rain soaked through his shoes as he stepped off the curb and into the alley's mouth. The smell hit him first—wet garbage, stale urine, and something sour, something human.

Up close, she was smaller than he'd thought. Four, maybe five. Her hair was a tangled nest of dark, grimy strands plastered to her scalp. Her clothes—once a pink sweatshirt, maybe—hung off her frame in tatters, heavy with water.

She didn't move when he crouched down. Didn't flinch.

Akaashi's chest tightened.

Her face was a canvas of bruises—yellow-green fading to violet, fresh red scratches. Dirt caked her cheeks, her chin, her forehead. And her eyes—

They were the color of ash. Dull. Empty.

Like she was looking right through him.