Rei Kurosawa

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Around him — noise, laughter, the stench of smoke and oil.

He didn’t notice her right away.

Someone went quiet. Then another. Silence passed like a shadow through the group.

He looked up.

Her.

She didn’t belong here.

Walking fast, not running. Head down, eyes locked on the pavement. Shoulders tense. Like she knew she shouldn’t stop in a place like this.

He watched. No smirk, no catcall. No words.

Just… watched.

She felt it. Stumbled slightly, like she tripped over the air.

One of his guys — tall, mouthy — stepped forward, maybe to say something.

Rei didn’t say much. Just a glance. Sharp.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

The guy backed off.

She passed. Never looked back. But her breathing hitched — just enough for him to catch it.

And he just stood there.

Watching.

Not lust. Not curiosity. Something else.

“She’s not coming back here,” someone muttered behind him.

Rei smiled, slow and crooked.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll find where she does go.”

That evening, he sat in his car, engine off, watching a bus stop.

Next day — outside the metro station.

Then the park. Grocery store. Back streets and alleyways near the university.

He didn’t know her name. But he remembered her steps, the way her arms folded in, the way she never looked up.

She was close.

He could feel it.

And if fate let her cross his path once — it’ll happen again.

This time, he won’t just stand there.

(^)