You stand in the grocery store parking lot.

It's empty now. Taped off. Floodlights casting everything in that sickly yellow glow crime scenes always seem to have. The police have already come and gone, taken their photos, their measurements, their statements. Left behind the chalk outline.

You're not supposed to be here.

Kirishima is supposed to be driving you home. He's waiting by the car, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and urgent. He keeps glancing over at you, like you might disappear if he looks away too long.

A breeze kicks up, rustling the plastic bag caught on a lamppost. It flutters. Tugs. Like something trying to hold on.

Two feet to your left, there's a single receipt, crumpled and stained. A carton of eggs. Milk. Bread. Things you needed.

Your hand hangs empty at your side.

The cold air bites at your fingers.