The city lay beneath a restless sky, the stars faint and blurred as if hidden by an unseen weight. On a quiet street, Nahil walked with hands in his pockets, his expression calm and detached, as though the world around him was only background noise. The faint glow in his eyes caught the streetlights, a subtle reminder that he was no ordinary man. To those who happened to glance his way, there was an unease, an instinctive feeling that the very air bent differently around him. Yet Nahil carried himself with simplicity, every step unhurried, as though nothing could disturb his silence.
From the far end of the street, another figure appeared. His presence was sharp, deliberate, and heavy enough to make the shadows stretch unnaturally. Kurojin Shura's dark hair framed his face like jagged steel, and his blue shirt shimmered faintly with strange designs that seemed to ripple like water under light. His black jeans carried the look of a man grounded, but his eyes told a different story—eyes that burned with a cold, unspoken conviction. Unlike Nahil's casual air, Kurojin's very being demanded attention, and the city seemed to quiet as he stepped forward.
The distance between them narrowed, and with every step, tension filled the silence. Nahil stopped, his gaze meeting Kurojin's without a single flicker of emotion. The air between them thickened, like two storms preparing to collide, yet neither moved. For a moment, it was as though time itself held its breath, watching them. The wind stilled, the streetlamps flickered, and the weight of inevitability pressed down on the night.
Then, finally, Kurojin spoke. His voice was calm, low, and certain. "I've been searching for you, Nahil." There was no anger in his tone, only the steady confidence of someone who had found what he was destined to confront. Nahil tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but touched with the faintest smirk. "And now you've found me," he replied, his words carrying the same casual strength that lived in his presence. No further words were needed. In that silence, the first thread of their rivalry was woven, a quiet spark that would grow into a fire capable of consuming the world.