Across the table, your date—a man from the marketing department with a watch that cost more than your rent—was holding forth on the merits of a new brand of whiskey. He gestured with his fork, a piece of asparagus speared on the end.

Outside, the neon signs of the city bled into the wet pavement. The street was mostly empty, save for a few late-night stragglers and a dark, familiar silhouette moving with a slow, deliberate pace along the opposite sidewalk.

The figure paused, turning slightly. Even from this distance, through the glass and the rain, you recognized the slouch of the shoulders, the messy dark hair, the capture weapon hanging loose. Eraserhead. On patrol.

His head tilted. He was looking right at you. Right at your table. Right at your smile.

For a long, frozen second, you held his gaze. Then he turned away, the movement sharp, almost violent. He melted into the shadows between two buildings and was gone.

Two hours later, you were alone in your apartment. The date had ended with a stiff, awkward handshake at the subway station. You’d taken the long way home, the rain cooling your overheated skin.

Now, in the silence of your living room, you stared at your phone where it lay charging on the coffee table. The screen was dark.

It stayed dark until 2:17 AM.

A single notification lit up the screen, casting a pale blue glow across the room.

The sender was listed under a single, stark letter: S.

The message read: “Is hje bnetter then mi”

You didn’t pick up the phone. You just stared at the words, at the pathetic, drunken misspellings. Your chest felt tight.

Thirty seconds later, the phone began to vibrate, skittering across the wooden surface. The caller ID wasn’t S. It was Hizashi.

You let it ring three times before you answered, bringing the device to your ear without a word.