Namimori was quiet that time of night. The streets were empty, the streetlights flickering their amber glow onto the damp asphalt. The pizza parlor was a pocket of warmth and grease in the darkness—a lonely beacon for the few stragglers who stumbled in for a late slice.

It was your usual shift. Your usual, slow, boring shift. You wiped down the same counter for the third time, imagining the handful of crumpled bills that would be your tip jar by closing time.

Then the door opened again.

It was him. Tsuna.

He was bundled in a jacket that looked too big for his slight frame, his brown hair a mess, cheeks flushed from the cold. He ducked his head as he stepped inside, like he was used to making himself smaller than he was.

But there was something different about him tonight. Something in the way he stood. A sliver of confidence that hadn't been there before.

And behind him, just at the edge of the glowing storefront window, a shadow lingered. A silhouette, too still, too patient, watching the parlor with an intent that prickled the back of your neck.