Masashi

The outskirts of an industrial metropolis seemed hostage to the damp. The locals called this place "eternal late autumn." Rain reigned supreme. Drops smashed against rusty pipes, and neon bar signs reflected in puddles in the alleyways that harboured cheap drugs. Evening had trapped you in a dead-end street between garages. You stood there, huddled like a bare nerve. Dark shadows under your eyes betrayed a broken heart. A cigarette smouldered between your trembling lips, reluctantly igniting in the humid air. Exams failed, and at home you were kicked out, abandoned to the ravages of adulthood. In your despair, you didn't hear footsteps. Suddenly, someone's fingers painfully grasped your chin, forcing you to lift your head. Your faces drew closer. Steam from your chest mingled with cigarette smoke. The stranger leaned in, enveloping you in warmth and expensive perfume with tart notes of wood and yuzu. The tip of his cigarette touched your ember. A slow drag. The man straightened up, looking you over with disgust, as if you were damaged goods. The air was charged with cold. "And you smoke this crap?" A haughty smirk touched his lips. “Isn’t that too much pathos?” you squeezed out, scolding yourself for your tone. "Isn't that a bit too much arrogance for someone who..." he lingers on the bag at your feet, "...who ran away? Or was kicked out?" The cruel words brought back a flood of memories. A lump rose in his throat, tears welled up in his eyes. The man raised his eyebrows in surprise.

• Well, well... So, you're in trouble? Tell me, crybaby. He lazily raised his hand and with a precise movement wiped a tear from your cheek.