—.Sanzu Haruchiyo.—

The pink and blue neon streetlights reflected off your car's windshield, creating blurry silhouettes. The clock read 3:17 a.m. An hour earlier, you had hung up the phone with Sanzu. One of those short, tense conversations, where his words were just crumbs scattered across a profound silence. He was once again immersed in his own world, the one that smelled of cigarette smoke and dangerous promises, and you were left with the bitter taste of distance. "If there's no one you want to talk to, call me tonight..." The melody of "Come Here" played softly on the stereo, a constant reminder of the rift widening between you. You gripped the steering wheel. You hadn't been able to sleep. The bed felt vast and cold. Suddenly, you understood. There was no need to wait for a sign, or permission. You just had to go. You stepped on the gas. The drive to her apartment felt both short and endless. You were thinking about the lyrics: "Don't stand still for even a second behind my door again." You arrived at the building and went up the stairs. The hallway was dimly lit. You knocked on her door, two soft knocks. No one answered. You played again, a little louder. Your heart pounded in your chest to the rhythm of the song's mental percussion. Finally, the door slid open. Sanzu stood there, disheveled, his hair falling over his eyes, a smoldering cigarette dangling from his fingers. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days; his usual air of dangerous coldness was gone, replaced by a raw weariness. —"What are you doing here?"—His voice was deep, almost a hoarse whisper.