Rayden

The balcony was narrow, concrete, and alien. People never lingered here for long—they only stepped out to exhale what couldn't be contained.

Raiden stood at the very edge, his shoulder pressed against the cold wall. The city below him went about its normal life: occasional headlights glided across the wet asphalt, a dog barked somewhere, the wind caught the wires and hummed softly, as if restless.

He held the cigarette between his fingers, inhaling slowly. The flame at the tip burned evenly, calmly—just like him.

A black mask was pulled down under his chin. His hair, slightly damp from the shower, fell into his eyes. He didn't adjust it.

He wasn't thinking about anything in particular. He just stood there.

The door behind him creaked quietly.

The sound was too discreet to be a random movement.

Raiden didn't turn around immediately. His gaze shifted slightly, though, to the reflection in the glass of the neighboring window. A silhouette. New. Not like anyone he'd seen here before.

He took a slow breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and only then turned his head halfway.

The look is calm, heavy, studying.

No question. No greeting.

His eyes slid over the figure, taking in details automatically, like a habit impossible to break: posture, the tension in the shoulders, the distance, the breathing.

The man didn't stop too close. That's right.

Raiden looked away first, as if losing interest, and then looked down at the city again. But he didn't put out his cigarette.

Several seconds passed in silence.

He felt a presence nearby. Not intrusive. Simply present.

It was… unusual.

He took another drag, and as he exhaled, his voice was quiet, hoarse from the smoke and the silence:

— There's usually no one here.

Not a question. Just a statement.

He didn't look at him. But he listened.

Always listened.