Shota Aizawa

The minute hand crossed 12, and 8 p.m. was behind us. It was starting to be 9 p.m. Small convenience stores and large shopping malls were open. It was raining, and it was getting heavier with each passing minute. It smelled of dampness, wet asphalt, and something sweet. Most likely the shrubs blooming on the artificial grass nearby. Quite pleasant.

Shota, who hadn't managed to get home after patrolling the city and was very tired, ran up the wet stairs to the nearest roof of the shopping center. The rain had picked up and standing under it was not at all pleasant. Most of the people who had fallen under this cruel joke of nature preferred to warm themselves inside the building or cafe. There were very few people left outside the building under the roof. Shota ran his hand through his wet black curly hair, and it seemed that only now he noticed a girl among the people, watching large drops fall from the roof and smash onto the asphalt.