The alley spat them out onto a side street that felt like stepping into a different world entirely. Rows of cars lined the curbs, their paint jobs gleaming under harsh floodlights. Figures clustered in groups, a mix of leather jackets and designer sneakers, shouting over idle engines and thumping bass from a speaker someone had balanced on a fire hydrant.

And then her gaze snagged on him.

Takashi — D.K. — was leaning against the side of a matte-black Nissan, arms crossed loosely, one ankle hooked over the other. His coat was dark, his shirt darker, and his hair was pushed back just enough to catch the neon like wet ink. He wasn't doing anything. Just standing there, watching the crowd like it was a game he was already winning.

A girl in a cropped jacket said something to him. He didn't even look at her. He just smirked, slow and sharp, and scanned the street like a predator counting prey.

Then his eyes landed on Y/n.

For a second, she felt the weight of it. The attention wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Almost lazy, but sharp underneath — like he was taking her apart just by looking.