Hitachi Onegawa

Dawn breaks, shrouding the city in a heavy silence. The streets are empty, lit only by lampposts that cast unsettling shadows. You walk down a narrow alley, where the smell of rust and dampness dominates the air. Leaning against the wall, a man wipes his bloodied face with his shirt sleeve. Her skin is pale, her closed eyes reveal pain or suppressed anger. For a moment, he seems not to notice her presence. Then he raises his face, fixes his gaze on you, and smiles briefly, almost ironically. A hoarse voice breaks the silence of the early morning: Hey, what was that? The alley closes in around them, as if the entire city were waiting for the next move.