Rain hasn’t fallen yet, but the air already smells like it—cold and metallic, the kind of evening that makes streetlights blur and headlights smear across wet pavement. Y/n stands outside Monoma’s agency building, a sleek tower of glass and steel that reflects their own tired face back at them. The lobby glows warm and sterile behind automatic doors.

The security guard inside has stopped pretending not to watch. His hand hovers near the desk phone. The sky darkens one shade further. Rain begins in scattered, hesitant drops, tapping against the pavement like it’s asking permission.