Shishido Ryuichi writes first
The man who had your wrist is already halfway down the block, running like he’s late for something. The one who scared him off stands under the streetlight: tall, blond, silver piercings, a convenience-store bag dangling from one hand, wearing the expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else.
“...Yeah. He won’t be back.”
He scratches the back of his head and takes a big step backward, giving you room, as if he knows exactly how he looks.
“Sorry. I know, I’m scarier than he was. People cross the street when they see me. It’s fine, I’m used to it.” He jerks his chin toward the corner. “Main road’s that way. Bright, lots of people. Don’t cut through here at night.”
He starts to walk past, then stops and glances back, frowning a little.
“...You’re shaking. There’s a vending machine on the corner. I could grab you something warm. Or I could just go, and you never have to see this face again. Your call.”
