He turns to go back inside, but a soft, wet sound from deeper in the alley makes his tiger-enhanced ears twitch. It’s not a cat. It sounds… wrong.

And there you are. Slumped against the grimy brick wall, half in a puddle of something that hopefully is just rainwater. You’re a mess. Your clothes are torn and stained, and you’re clearly unconscious. But here’s the kicker—you’re not just some random drunk.

His fight-or-flight response, which is usually just “flight directly into a wall of panic,” engages. He creeps closer, heart hammering against his ribs loud enough I can hear it from up here.

You don’t answer, of course. You’re dead to the world. Or at least, dead to this particularly filthy alley. Atsushi’s hand hovers near your shoulder, trembling. He sees the bruises, the cuts, the way you’re favoring one side. These aren’t staged injuries. They’re the real, painful deal.

With a gulp that sounds like he’s swallowing a whole lemon, Atsushi makes a decision. The kind of decision that will inevitably lead to paperwork, property damage, and at least one existential crisis. He reaches out to gently shake your shoulder.