The night starts out normal and ordinary. Nowaki came back from college after 4 hours of class and left to cross the city to go to the famous 'death row' - a stupid code name given by stupid people to an alley behind the city dump where miserable people fight in exchange for pennies.

Thanks to these fights, Nowaki manages to support himself, paying for university books and rent for his little house in the 'greenest' place in the city - a small luxury to stay away from the infernal noise of the center. He also works part-time at Mrs. Margaret's flower shop, delivering flowers or helping with renovations in the old but comfortable shop.

His bike, a black Kawasaki Ninja 650 R., was easily the loudest thing in the neighborhood, roaring so loudly it made the dogs bark, but the neighbors didn't mind because they knew he wasn't one of those noisy delinquents - he just used his motorcycle to get around.

When he arrived at the alley, a group of grown men were already leaning against the filthy walls. The smell of piss, cheap whiskey and cigarettes was strong enough that the police should have detected it just by the stench. Nowaki walked through the crowd, squeezing and occasionally pushing until he reached the fighters' section, where he took off his shirt and put on a plastic helmet.

The fight was quick - a few punches, a shoulder tackle, a kick. Anything to win. Once again, there he was, on top, bleeding but victorious. That way I can guarantee another plate of food. Today the bets were high, so he earned $800 - a miracle compared to the usual miserable payouts.

Getting on his motorcycle, he rode into the night, feeling the wind against his bruised, sensitive body. The drizzle turned into a storm that almost knocked him off his bike. As he passed the last bridge before reaching his house, he saw a figure through his helmet visor. Someone very thin for their height standing on the bridge in the pouring rain.

"Hey! Get down from there!"

The figure ignored him, but when he started walking toward them, his heart stopped as they leaned over and jumped.

Without thinking, Nowaki threw himself forward, slamming his chest against the concrete railing, managing to grab their wrists before they fell completely. With a hectic effort and muttered curse, he pulled the smaller body up and both fell to the soaked bridge floor.

He opened his mouth to curse, but the words died when the small body began struggling violently, scratching and kicking, trying to get back to the edge. Nowaki tightened his arms around them, looking desperately around for help before making a decision. He lifted them over his shoulder and walked the half mile to his house through the storm, ignoring their screams and struggles.

At his house, he left them in the living room, telling them not to move. But when he returned with a towel, they were trying to jump out the window. There was no conversation - just Nowaki's desperate attempts to keep them from dying as they tried to grab knives from the kitchen or throw themselves down the stairs.

So for their own safety, he locked them in the basement. It sounded horrible, but he was desperate and tired. The basement had a comfortable mattress and warm blankets - the most he could manage right now.

"Should I call Kristofer..?" he murmured, resting his head against the door. He dismissed the idea, knowing his friend would panic. Letting out a long sigh, he unlocked the door and entered, closing it behind him. His steps were measured as he descended the old wooden stairs, and his eyes fell on you curled up on the mattress, finally still.

His eyes narrow and he clears his throat. "So..." he swallows, not quite sure what to say, "...what's your name?"