The night after the chase was quieter, but it didn't feel safe. The city streets always had a rhythm, sometimes heavy like drums, sometimes soft like whispers, and that night it beat in a way Haruya could not ignore. Neon lights flickered over narrow alleys, washing the concrete with colors that looked too alive for such dead corners. Somewhere, a group of bikes roared by, their exhaust breaking the silence, leaving behind the scent of gasoline and smoke.
Haruya leaned against the cracked wall of an old convenience store, hands stuffed inside his hoodie's pocket, chewing on a lollipop stick like nothing in the world could bother him. Beside him, Kaito crouched, tying the laces of his sneakers again for the third time, his eyes glancing left and right with sharpness, as if every shadow could suddenly grow hands and knives.
"You know," Haruya spoke, his voice lazy, dragging the words, "for someone who always says we should stay low, you look way too much like a watchdog right now."
Kaito exhaled sharply, not even looking up. "Someone has to be awake. You? You'd probably laugh if Reiji's men cornered us right here."
"Depends," Haruya smirked, turning his head toward the streetlights above. "If they look ugly enough, I'd laugh. If not… maybe I'd run."
Kaito threw a pebble at him, not hard but annoyed. Haruya caught it easily, grinning, tossing it up and down like it was a game. There was something about him—no matter how close danger pressed, he never bent under it. He bent it instead, shaped it into something lighter, like he could carry it with jokes and smiles.
But Kaito knew better. He had seen the silence behind Haruya's eyes when no one else watched. That silence was heavier than the city itself.
"Anyway," Haruya finally said, straightening, "did you check the sketchbook?"
Kaito's brows furrowed. "Not here. Too open. Someone could—"
"Relax," Haruya cut him, pulling the worn-out book from his bag. He flipped through the pages with careless fingers, but his eyes lingered too long on every drawing. Streets they had never walked before. Buildings that didn't exist yet. Bridges over rivers that were still under construction. The lines looked shaky sometimes, as if drawn in a hurry, but the shapes were always right.
And then there was that one page—the strangest of all. A shrine on a hill, torii gates painted in fading red, surrounded by sakura trees blooming in a season they weren't supposed to. At the center of the page, a girl's shadow was drawn, faceless, nameless.
Kaito looked at it too, uneasy. "Still don't know who she is?"
"Nope." Haruya snapped the book closed, but he smiled like he had just remembered something funny. "Maybe she's my future girlfriend. Cute, right? I draw them before I meet them."
Kaito rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. "You're impossible."
Their conversation was cut short by the sudden screech of tires at the corner. Both boys turned, instincts quick—Kaito already reaching for the knife hidden in his jacket, Haruya slipping the sketchbook back like nothing unusual was happening. Three motorcycles slowed down near them, headlights stabbing through the dark. The riders wore the unmistakable jackets marked with red symbols—Reiji's gang.
"Well, well," one of them called out, voice loud and mocking. "Look what we found. The little artist and his watchdog."
Haruya stretched his arms as if just waking from a nap, grinning wide. "Ohh, how sweet. You came all the way here just to see me?"
The men dismounted, cracking knuckles and laughing among themselves. The alley suddenly shrank, air tightening. Kaito stepped forward, his body tense, ready to protect, but Haruya placed a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back.
"Let me handle this," Haruya whispered.
"Handle? You can't even take things seriously."
"Exactly." Haruya winked.
The first thug rushed forward, and Haruya dodged without even trying, moving like water, like the fight was just another dance. He chuckled as the man stumbled past him, hitting the wall.
"See, Kaito?" he called out mid-dodge, "people really should watch where they're going. Streets are dangerous these days."
The gang roared, charging all at once, but Haruya's laughter carried through the blows, through the chaos. He wasn't stronger, not by a wide margin, but he was faster, unpredictable. He fought like someone who didn't care about rules, who didn't even care about winning—only surviving with style.
Kaito couldn't help it. Even in this madness, a smile tugged at his lips. Haruya was ridiculous. Infuriating. And yet… something about him always turned darkness into something you could breathe through.
Minutes later, the red-marked jackets scrambled back to their bikes, bruised and cursing, promising revenge. The alley grew quiet again, the only sound their fading engines.
Kaito sighed, leaning against the wall, wiping sweat. "One day, Haruya, your jokes will get you killed."
Haruya popped another lollipop into his mouth, grinning with teeth stained red from candy. "Maybe. But not today."
He pulled the sketchbook out once more, flipping back to the shrine drawing. The faceless girl in the picture seemed to watch him, even without eyes.
"Kaito," Haruya said suddenly, softer now, almost serious. "What if she's the key? What if this drawing… isn't just a drawing?"
Kaito frowned, stepping closer. The lines on the paper looked darker now, like they had been drawn not with ink, but with something heavier. Something alive.
Before either could speak more, a gust of wind blew down the alley, scattering loose pages Haruya had tucked inside the book. One page landed near Kaito's foot. He bent, picking it up—another drawing, one he hadn't seen before.
This time it wasn't a shrine. It was their own faces. Haruya and Kaito, drawn standing on a rooftop, surrounded by flames, the city burning below them.
Kaito's throat tightened. "When did you draw this?"
Haruya looked at it, his smile fading for the first time that night. "I didn't."
The alley seemed to hold its breath.