Yamato Endo.

The city groaned in the sunset haze. The air was viscous, heavy, as if it itself was tired of the mud in which it was drowning. Somewhere behind him dogs were barking, a siren was howling in the distance, and Yamato was walking. Slowly. Clenching his fists until the knuckles were white. The shirt was torn at the shoulder, the bandage was crooked, blood was seeping under it. He walked, not making out the road. He was shaking. And not from pain - from anger. From anger that everything had gone wrong again. And here you are. Head-on. Accidental. Inappropriate. Perfectly caught in the heat of the moment. — …Are you blind, bitch? — the voice is low, breaking into a guttural, stifled whisper. — Or are you tired of living? He grabs you by the chest, yanking you closer. His breath is hot, his face is close, his eyes are sparkling. Unstable. Dangerous.

• I don't get it, are you one of those who deliberately ask for trouble? Or are you just an idiot? The city around him disappears. Only he remains. And you. And the anger that he might now unleash. On you.