Akatsukicho had already wrecked my mood before I even got a chance to complain. Narrow alleys, purple-tinged neon, bass bleeding out of bars like a low-grade threat. My body begged for sleep. My brain wanted to stop spinning. Legs felt like they'd been poured full of concrete. But in the middle of all that—in the middle of a crowd that stood there and watched—there was one person I couldn't ignore.
Alan was on the ground. Two men were kicking him. The third one was drinking straight from a sake bottle, laughing like this was the funniest thing he'd seen all week.
My blood ran hot. Not because it was Alan. Because… he wasn't fighting back. And Alan was never the type to take a hit and stay down. If he was, he'd hit his lowest point. And that… made something in my chest pull tight.
I wasn't a hero. Just a regular girl. Taking on three guys? That only worked in fiction. But I had one thing going for me: nerve. The nerve of someone naive, with garbage situational awareness, who suddenly had a reason to move anyway.
I stepped directly between Alan and the three of them. The smell hit me immediately—cigarettes, alcohol, sweat—sharp enough to sting. I kept my back straight, even though my fingers had gone completely numb.
"Three on one?" The words came out lower than I felt. Flat. Controlled. The same voice I used when I caught people breaking rules. "Seriously? You're not even embarrassed?"
The biggest one—a snake tattoo coiled around his neck—turned to look. His eyes ran up and down my body. Then he grinned.
"Well," he said, letting out a short whistle. "Look who showed up."
The guy beside him stepped halfway forward, hand reaching out like he was about to grab my shoulder. "What's a girl doing out here alone? Come inside. We'll have a little fun."
I slapped his hand away. "Back off," I said, keeping my voice even.
"Getting saved by a girl?" The third one barked out a laugh. "That's pathetic, bro."
Alan shifted behind me. His arm brushed my back, a weak push. "Go…" he rasped. "I can handle—"
I shook my head without turning around. Held my ground.
From the corner of my eye, I swept the area—quick, methodical. The light was mounted on the building's corner. Not a regular light. Small, boxy, red cable running along the wall. Security camera.
Patrol cops were on the main road. Maybe thirty feet from here. If I yelled loud enough, someone might hear. But if things got worse before backup arrived, Alan and I'd be the ones paying for it.
I had one card to play.
"You want to go? Let's go." I put my fists up. Shaky form. Trembling legs. But I didn't step back.
The tattooed man clicked his tongue. "The hell is your problem?"
"My problem," I paused—letting it land—"is that if you keep beating on a university student in his school jacket in the middle of a public street, this stops being your business. It becomes the whole university's business." I held my breath for a beat. Then pointed to the corner of the building. "There's a camera right there. You want to explain that to the cops? Or keep going? Your call. I'll wait."
A lie. I had no idea whether that camera was live. My heart was going haywire. But my face stayed blank.
The three of them exchanged glances. The one in the middle muttered something under his breath. The one on the left waved his hand, irritated.
"Wait—is that cam even live?" one of them whispered, suddenly uncertain.
"No idea. Go check it yourself."
"Hard pass. I'm not catching another case. Last time I ended up in a holding cell overnight over a fight at the train station."
The tattooed man stared at me for a long moment—hard, calculating. Then he jabbed a finger in Alan's direction without even looking at him. "Tell that kid," he said, "not to get in our faces again." His eyes came back to me. "Last warning. Outcast jerk."
Then they turned and walked. Heavy steps. The bar door swung open and swallowed them back into the thumping music and red light.
The crowd started to break up. Everyone except one guy—messy hair, black shirt, camera still aimed at my face.
"Turn that off," I snapped, watching the flash keep blinking.
"Already got the footage. Good stuff, too. Totally usable."
"For what? You planning to post it?"
"Maybe," he said with a smug smile. "Or perhaps Alan pays me not to."
"Delete it. You're not helping—you're looking for leverage."
"Why would I help him? That guy's too arrogant to deserve it. He's started trouble around here more times than I can count. Never once went down. Seeing him get dropped tonight? That's a rare moment."
"You're unbelievable," I said, my voice sharp with disgust.
"What are you gonna do, fight me too?" His laugh came out high and grating.
"Here's the deal—you delete that video right now. Or when Alan wakes up, I make sure he hears about this, and you deal with him yourself. Your choice."
The smile flickered. His eyes cut sideways toward Alan, who was somewhere between sitting up and collapsing back down.
"Fine, fine—deleting it. Not worth the hassle." He rubbed the back of his neck. Then backed away, half-running.
I let out a long breath. My hands were still shaking. I tucked them behind my back and curled my fingers tight, willing them to stop.
Alan was still trying to stand—or more accurately, trying to convince himself he could. His whole body was unsteady. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, dripping off his chin.
"Alan," I said.
He looked up. His dark blue eyes were unfocused. Glassy.
"I'm… fine…" he managed, voice breaking apart. "I could've… taken them…"
"Yeah," I said, stepping closer. "You could've. But it's over now. Come on—I'll get you home."
That night, what started as one bad call turned into something I couldn't take back.
Alan's full weight crashed into my shoulder. I stumbled, almost went down with him. I readjusted fast—got his arm across my shoulders, forced both of us upright.
"Stay with me," half command, half plea.
He muttered something incoherent. But his feet moved—slow and unsteady—and we started putting distance between ourselves and the bar.
Every step felt like hauling a soaking-wet sandbag. The weight was unreal. My shoulder locked up, my arms started shaking. His breath was hot against my ear, ragged and uneven, thick with the smell of sake.
I glanced back. My bike was still lying on the side of the road. No way I was getting that back tonight.
Fine. Leave it. We'd walk.
We dragged ourselves out of the Akatsukicho district.
"Alan," I said between the effort. "You have to give me something here. I'm running on empty. I spent all day crossing this city and now you're worsening it."
No answer. Just a low sound, almost a laugh. "...hehe."
I clicked my tongue. Infuriating. But I didn't stop.
This was the price of giving a damn.
The streetlights thinned out. We moved into quieter territory—a narrow alley wedged between shuttered shops and an old apartment block. Cracked asphalt. Dirty puddles pooled in the gaps.
Then headlights swept from behind. I yanked us both to the side on instinct. A car blew past, missing us by inches.
"Are you serious right now—"
Alan mumbled again. His head dropped against my shoulder, his breathing growing rougher.
We kept moving.
We passed a convenience store on the corner. Through the glass, I caught two people at the register paying for energy drinks. I thought about stopping. Cold tea. Water. Anything.
But I didn't. If I stopped, I wasn't sure I'd be able to start again.
A few steps later, a woman came out of a shop carrying a bag of groceries. She saw us—me holding Alan up, blood on his clothes, his face a mess—and her eyes went wide.
"Oh my—" she murmured, and walked away fast. No questions. No offer to help. Just the wide eyes and the exit.
I didn't blame her. From the outside, we probably looked exactly like trouble.
I would've thought the same thing.
I pushed forward, one step at a time, until I caught a bicycle out of the corner of my eye. Same make as Marina's. Same wolf graphic on the frame.
"Marina?" I called out, looking both ways. Half-hoping she'd appear with that worried face of hers and say 'the brochures are done, let me help you, Lin.'
A second later, a man walked over and picked up the bike. He looked annoyed—it was late, and some girl was yelling at his property.
I immediately apologized. It wasn't hers.
I really thought it was hers. Of all the timing.
"Great. Of course."
We kept walking. One block. Two blocks. Three.
I'd lost track of time. Maybe an hour. Could be two. Everything blurred into nothing—just step after step, breath after breath, and Alan's weight dragging me toward the ground.
My feet had gone numb. Cold sweat ran down my temple, mixing with the street dust that had settled into my skin.
Then I saw the sign. 'D-Room Hiyoshicho.'
Something in my chest loosened. I knew this building. I'd been here before—with the Dean—to track down Alan for skipping class. Thank God I still remembered.
On whatever was left in the tank, I dragged him inside. Up the stairs. One step. Then another. My knees threatened to give out at every landing.
The third floor felt like the summit of a mountain.
I stopped in front of his door. Catching my breath. Back completely soaked.
"Alan. Where are your keys?"
Nothing. His head had dropped against my shoulder again. Eyes shut. Body going slack.
My chest tightened. No other option. I reached into his pants pocket—awkward, clumsy, but necessary. Found a small keychain in the right pocket.
The door opened.
The apartment was dark. I felt along the wall, found the switch, pressed it.
The light came on. And I just stood there.
This is an apartment, not a hoarder's nest. I think.
The place was a disaster. I mean genuinely bad. Stale alcohol and cigarette smoke hit me like a wall. Empty cans carpeted the floor. Clothes were piled everywhere with no logic to them. Cables tangled like dead snakes.
"Alan, oh my God…" I muttered. "If you don't want to deal with cleaning, you could just hire someone. This is so much worse than when I came here to write you up."
I exhaled. No time to editorialize. I needed to get him to bed.
With what felt like every last bit of strength, I hauled Alan toward the mattress. His foot caught on a stack of boxes. I kicked them aside—thick books spilled out and scattered across the floor. Another pile, I shoved with my foot—empty cans rolled away, metal clanking loud against the floor.
The moment his body hit the mattress, I dropped beside him—sitting on the edge, gasping. My hands went up on their own, pressing against my throbbing temples. Completely wrecked. Every inch of me.
On campus, Alan had this whole thing going—handsome, cold, the kind of guy girls glanced at when they thought no one was looking. But this room. This smell. This chaos.
Whatever image I had evaporated on the spot. His fan club would leave him in two seconds flat if they ever saw this.
But my eyes… wouldn't leave him.
His face was calmer now. Breathing slow and even. The blood on his lip had dried to a dark stain against pale skin.
Something stirred in my chest. A strange feeling. Maybe concern or frustration—the kind that made me want to shake him awake and ask what the hell was wrong with him.
"Whatever."
I exhaled and stood up. I should leave. My job here was done. His cuts weren't my problem to clean up. Let them scar. He'd earned it.
But before I actually made it to the door, my hand moved on its own—reached for the crumpled blanket bunched beneath the mattress, and pulled it up over him.
I turned toward the door.
My gaze swept the room one more time. Stacked boxes. Books on the floor. Electronics scattered like they'd been thrown.
A disaster—but that wasn't what made me stop.
On the corner of the desk, there was a can with Cyrillic writing on the label. Around it—red stains. A lot of them. Like dried paint that had been spilled.
Or blood.
I stepped closer. Crouched down. Reached for one of the cans.
A sharp sting.
"Damn—"
Something cut my finger—a shard hidden under the pile. I hissed and pulled my hand back fast. A thin line of blood welled up from a small gash on my index finger.
I looked closer. Broken glass. Tucked under the cans.
I looked for a tissue. A bandage. Anything.
Nothing.
I ended up blotting the blood with the hem of my shirt, pressing down to stop it. I swallowed the sound trying to come out.
With a room this trashed, Alan should know better—leaving junk everywhere was how people got hurt. But this was just who he was. Living however he pleased, consequences be damned.
My gaze drifted to another corner. Under the nightstand, a white plastic bag. I recognized the shape. The Red Cross logo.
I stood, walked over, and picked it up. Light. Completely empty. But inside, dried red residue clung to the plastic.
Why is there a blood bag in here?
I set it back down. My hands were trembling slightly.
Was Alan sick? Or had he donated blood?
Strange but it's enough. I needed to go home. Whatever Alan was into, whatever he'd done—that wasn't my business anymore.
I walked to the door. Reached for the light switch.
The room went dark. I twisted the door handle.
Locked.
I stopped.
"You've got to be kidding me. Auto-lock? Seriously?"
Before I could turn around to find the key, the air shifted.
I didn't know why, but the room felt… different. Colder. Or warmer? I couldn't tell. Something had shifted, and I couldn't name it.
My breathing slowed. My ears sharpened.
Behind me, there was a sound.
Soft. Barely there.
Breathing.
But not regular breathing. Something heavier. More unsettling.
I swallowed. My heart picked up.
Alan was asleep. This was just my imagination running on fumes.
I forced myself to turn around. Slow. Deliberate.
A figure was standing there.
Exactly one meter away. My back was against the door.
"Alan?"
Head down. Hair covering his face.
I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs—too hard, too fast.
"Alan?" I called again.
He didn't answer.
But his head moved, slowly lifting.
And I saw something that made every hair on my body stand up.
His eyes.
Not dark blue.
Green. Bright. Glowing.
Like phosphor burning in the dark.
Then the sound came.
A growl.
Low. Deep. Barely audible—but unmistakably there.
I wanted to run.
Too late.
In one movement—too fast for human eyes to follow—Alan's hand was over my mouth.
The scream died before it was born. I struggled but my body was dragged down, my back slamming into the cold floor. The air left my lungs in one hard knock.
Those green eyes blazed—unnatural. His jaw was set, teeth gritted, like he was holding something back that wanted to tear loose.
This wasn't Alan. He wasn't drunk. My mind, even in full panic, was still running the math. 'This is something else.'
His hands gripped my shoulders, pinning me to the floor with a strength that made no sense. Bones groaned. Air cut off.
"Al—Alan—" my voice broke against his palm.
His head lowered. Slow. Too close. Too deliberate. I felt the edge of something graze the skin of my neck—cold, sharp, like a freshly honed blade.
Then the feeling changed.
Pain. Sharp. Burning. It radiated from the back of my neck and spread through my entire body, like an electric current ripping me open from the inside out.
The world shook. My vision split into black and white. Sound pulled away. Consciousness came loose piece by piece—but the pain, and the weight of him above me, held on.
Before everything went completely dark, one last thing remained.
Alan's scent. The heat of him. A low sound against my ear.
And something sweet. Metallic.
Like—
Blood.