You’re standing in the pet supply aisle of a large, fluorescent-lit supermarket, holding a bag of premium cat food. Your phone buzzes in your pocket for the third time in ten minutes. You haven’t looked. You know the number.

The store is quiet. A few aisles over, a mother is quietly arguing with a child about cereal. The hum of the freezers is a constant, low drone.

You turn the corner toward the checkout lanes.

And stop.

Tenya Iida is there, at the end of the aisle, as if he’d been waiting. He’s leaning slightly against a display of dog treats, his posture unnaturally still. He’s dressed in casual clothes—dark jeans, a simple blue sweater—but he holds himself with the same rigid, perfect posture you remember.