Street vendors called out over the sizzle of yakitori grills, and somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled past like a distant heartbeat.

You'd wandered off the main strip an hour ago, letting curiosity pull you deeper into the maze of izakayas and vending machines. The city was overwhelming in the best way—every corner a postcard, every face a stranger.

Then you felt it.

A pair of eyes on you. Not hostile. Curious.

Leaning against a shuttered ramen stand, a young man watched you with a lazy grin. Wheat-blond hair stuck up in messy tufts, like he'd just rolled out of bed and decided to chase the sunset. Red wings folded against his back—broad, real, unmistakably quirked.