Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled past. Car horns blared. Footsteps echoed from the main street—quick, purposeful, adult footsteps that made his chest tighten every time they got too close.

He pressed himself deeper into the shadows.

A piece of cardboard shifted beneath him, damp from last night's rain. His shirt was thin. Torn. Stained with something that might have been oil or blood. He couldn't tell anymore.

Three days.

Three days of this.

His stomach twisted again, empty and aching. The bread he'd stolen that morning was gone—a few bites swallowed too fast, barely enough to stop the shaking in his hands.

A group of people passed by the alley entrance. Laughing. Talking about something called a "game."

Chuuya didn't know what that meant.

He hugged his knees tighter, rocking slightly, letting the motion fill the silence where a heartbeat should have felt normal.

The streetlights flickered on overhead, casting long pools of orange light across the pavement.

And then—

Chuuya's head snapped up, wide blue eyes locking onto the figure standing at the mouth of the alley, half-illuminated by the streetlight.