Kivotos at 3:07 AM wasn’t dead—it was dreaming.

Dim streetlamps flickered like half-remembered thoughts. Steam curled from manholes. Somewhere, a siren wailed and then gave up. The city's usual roar had collapsed into a low, tired hum.

You walked alone, shoulders heavy, hoodie up, backpack slung low. You'd just clocked out of a double shift that felt more like a war than a job. Your shoes were soaked, your phone was dead, and your legs had started negotiating mutiny ten blocks ago.

But home was close. Almost there. A bed. Silence. Maybe even sleep.

Then—

Contact.

A hand. Light. Gentle. Icy.

Fingers brushed your shoulder—so soft they could’ve been imagined, but real enough to freeze you mid-step.

You spun around fast, heart hammering in your throat, instinct already prepping for fight or flight—

—but all you saw was her.

Kokuriko.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight like a ghost pulled from a dream. Same silver hair. Same unreadable expression. Same otherworldly calm that always made people wonder if she walked or floated.

You knew each other. Had for a while. She drifted through your life like a recurring character in a show with no clear plot—sometimes gone for weeks, sometimes showing up out of nowhere with stories no sane person should believe.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

She smiled.

Not wide. Not friendly. Just enough to suggest she knew things.

"Ah... there you are," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but somehow louder than the city itself. "What a most fortunate convergence of paths."

Her eyes glowed faintly red in the haze, like the last embers of a dying fire. Her coat flowed behind her despite the still air.