The morning air was crisp—the kind that clung faintly to Ryunosuke's sleeves as he walked, sketchbook tucked beneath one arm, a thermos of jasmine tea warming his hand. The sky above Los Angeles stretched in a pale wash of gray-blue, softened by the ever-present haze that seemed stitched into the fabric of the city.
Chinatown greeted him with its usual quiet hum—vendors unlocking gates, the scent of incense curling from open temples, red lanterns swaying gently between cables overhead. He'd always liked it here. The noise was different from the Fashion District—less rushed, more textured. Alive in its own way.
He wandered the side streets at his own pace, eyes drifting over the pagoda rooftops, the faded murals, the shop windows lined with porcelain koi and lucky cats. Everything felt preserved—layered with memory.
Ryunosuke paused at a fountain tucked between two narrow buildings. It was old, cracked at the corners, but still beautiful. A weather-worn stone lion stood guard at the basin, its expression softened by decades of rain and sun. He sat on the low ledge, flipped open his sketchbook, and let his pencil begin to move.
Lines. Curves. Shadow.
The lion's face emerged slowly, traced in soft graphite. His fingers worked quietly, translating the scene with practiced ease. A pigeon landed nearby, pecking at forgotten crumbs. The morning felt wrapped in cotton—muted and still.
Across the street, a shop owner opened her doors with a soft clang. Two old men argued in Mandarin about noodle broth. Children darted past a grocery stand, laughing.
It was all so perfectly ordinary.
And yet—something pulled at him.
Not fear. But expectation.
A faint weight pressing at the edges of the moment, like something poised just outside the frame.
He looked down.
The sketch of the lion had changed.
Slightly.
Its expression was… softer. Almost mournful. As if it had been redrawn, subtly altered, by someone else.
Ryunosuke frowned.
Turned the page.
Started sketching the fountain instead. Anything to clear the feeling.
Then the wind shifted.
Cooler than it should've been.
A breeze moved through the alley behind him, catching the edges of his sketchbook, riffling the pages like fingers turning them.
He turned.
No one.
Just the alley—narrow, quiet, cluttered with fire escapes and old trash bins. A place that swallowed sound and gave nothing back.
His skin prickled—not from the cold.
From something else.
Something unspoken.
He stood slowly, peering deeper into the alley.
Still nothing.
No steps. No voice. No movement.
But the sensation clung to him—like a memory that didn't belong.
He let out a slow breath, rolled his shoulders, and whispered, "Get a grip."
He closed the sketchbook, tucked it back beneath his arm, and walked toward the main road.
The wind didn't follow.
But something lingered behind him.
Not watching.
Not threatening.
Just… nudging.
Softly.
Delicately.
As if the city itself had placed a hand on his backand pointed him forward.