EPISODE 0

The neon sign of the convenience store flickered with a faint, hypnotic buzz, casting long shadows across the empty aisles. It was past 2:00 AM. Takeru’s shoulder muscles throbbed from holding down an agitated Golden Retriever during an emergency suturing session at the clinic, but his mind was far too restless to sleep. He set a warm cup of canned coffee and a pre-packaged rice ball onto the counter.

"Hmm? What are you doing out this late, Chibi-chan?"

The voice was smooth, laced with a faint and disturbing amusement.

Takeru looked up into the pale face of the cashier—a tall, lanky man whose name tag read Satou, though Takeru had long since privately dubbed him "Mr. Shady Cashier with the Suspicious Psycho Smile." The man’s eyes locked onto Takeru, his signature, unsettling grin stretching just a bit too wide.

"Extra shift," Takeru muttered, carefully sliding his items across the scanner.

Satou hummed, the red laser beep matching the rhythm of his tapping fingers. "Careful out there. It’s not safe around these parts, especially for weak prey like you. A lot of gruesome murder cases have been popping up lately. You wouldn’t want to get involved, would you?"

He said it casually, almost playfully, as if he were discussing the weather rather than a string of local homicides. Takeru swallowed hard, a cold bead of sweat rolling down the nape of his neck.

'He tells me to be careful, but he’s standing there grinning like he’s the one pulling the trigger,' Takeru thought, forcing a rigid nod. He slapped down a few bills, snatched his plastic bag before the cashier could offer a receipt, and practically scrambled out the automatic doors.

The night air was thick with mist, muffling the distant sounds of city traffic. As Takeru walked the familiar path toward his apartment, Satou’s warning echoed ominously in his mind. 'Weak prey.' Was he really that obvious?

His train of thought was abruptly shattered as he passed a narrow, unlit alleyway sandwiched between two abandoned brick buildings.

"...urghh...ah..."

A faint, wet grunt echoed from the shadows. It was the sound of a voice strained past its limit, heavy with agonizing pain. Reason screamed at Takeru to run, to sprint straight home and lock his door. But his legs, trained by months of triage and instincts forged in emergency veterinary medicine, moved on their own. He stepped into the darkness.

"Hello...?" Takeru whispered, pulling out his phone to switch on the flashlight.

The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating a sight that made Takeru’s breath catch in his throat. Slumped against a row of dented trash cans was a man dressed entirely in sharp, tailored black clothing. Even sprawled in the dirt, bled out and battered, the man exuded an aura of suffocating, dangerous nobility. Stark white hair, stained crimson with fresh, thick blood, fell across a sharply defined jawline and striking, icy features. He looked less like a victim and more like a fallen predator.

"Hey! Are you okay?!" Takeru blurted out, immediately cursing himself for the stupid question. Of course he isn't okay!

The stranger didn't answer; his eyelids fluttered, heavy and unseeing, before his head slumped sideways into total unconsciousness.

Takeru’s pulse hammered in his ears. Leaving him here meant letting him die. Cursing his bleeding-heart instincts, Takeru wrapped the stranger’s massive frame over his shoulders, nearly collapsing under the weight, and hauled him up three flights of stairs to his small apartment.

The next hour was a frantic blur. Takeru dragged his medical kit out that normally reserved for street cats and stray dogs—and went to work. He cut away the ruined black shirt to reveal a jagged gunshot graze along the man's ribs and deep lacerations across his shoulders. With practiced, steady hands, Takeru cleaned the wounds, disinfected the torn tissue, and expertly stitched the torn skin back together, wrapping the torso in crisp white bandages. Exhausted, he collapsed onto his floor cushion nearby, sinking into an instant, dead-heavy sleep.

___________________________________

Morning light seeped through the thin curtains, warm and golden. Takeru blinked, his eyelids heavy as the consciousness slowly returned. But as his eyes fully adjusted, the ambient warmth of the morning vaporized into pure, paralyzing terror.

The dark-clad stranger wasn't in bed. Instead, he was leaning over Takeru, his shadow completely blotting out the sun. His eyes—piercing, icy blue, and utterly devoid of warmth were locked onto Takeru’s face. And resting squarely against the center of Takeru’s forehead was the cold, heavy steel of a suppressed handgun.

Takeru froze, the metallic smell of gun oil hitting his nostrils. His brain short-circuited. Hitman? Yakuza enforcer? Mafia boss? It didn't matter. He was a dead man.

"You're finally awake," the man said, his deep, gravely voice dangerously calm.

A sharp, terrifying "click" echoed through the quiet room as the hammer cocked back, and the man's finger tightening imperceptibly on the trigger.

TBC...😛

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