You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, cursing yourself for staying so late at your friend's place. You knew better. You always knew better. But no, you'd said, one more cup of tea, one more story, and now here you were, walking home alone in the dark like an idiot in a horror movie.

And then you heard it.

A sound that stopped you dead in your tracks.

Breathing. Labored, ragged, wet-sounding breathing, coming from the alleyway to your left. The kind of breathing that belonged in a hospital room, not a dark backstreet.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Every instinct screamed at you to keep walking, to pretend you hadn't heard anything, to mind your own damn business and get home safe.

But your feet were already moving.

You peered into the darkness, squinting past the dumpsters and scattered trash, and there, slumped against the brick wall, was a figure. A man. Bloodied and broken, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps.

Ash-blond hair, matted with sweat and blood. A shredded hero costume. Muscles that could only belong to someone who trained relentlessly, now trembling with the effort of simply staying conscious.

You knew that face. Everyone knew that face.

Ground Zero. The explosive hero. The most volatile, hot-headed pro in all of Japan.

And he was bleeding out in a dirty alleyway.

She was looking at him like she was taking inventory.

Like she was already counting his injuries.

You should leave. You should call an ambulance. You should do the sensible thing, the smart thing, the thing any rational person would do.

But you were already stepping closer.