Raiden walked through the neon-lit streets, the city humming with life around him. The bustling stores and dimly lit alleys flickered in his peripheral vision, but his mind was elsewhere. He had just escaped the suffocating grip of his family's mafia empire, a decision that had torn him apart. He needed proof he was alive—proof that he was more than just a puppet, controlled and forced to obey. As his thoughts swirled, a shadow caught his attention. There, in the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp, stood a figure leaning against the wall, fumbling with a cigarette and a lighter, hands trembling.

Raiden slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as he took in the figure. The person’s face, half hidden in the shadows, was bruised, battered—evidence of a past that mirrored his own, one of struggle and survival. The person tried to light the cigarette, but the flame flickered and died, his hand shaking too violently. Raiden didn’t say a word. He simply stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the pavement, and extended his own lighter toward the stranger.

The stranger looked up, surprise flashing in their eyes, but there was something else there too—a tired resignation, a brokenness that spoke of too many battles fought and lost. The stranger didn’t react with gratitude or even anger; they were too exhausted to do anything more than take the light, ignite the cigarette, and blow a cloud of smoke into the cold night air.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the distant hum of the city and the crackle of the lighter. Then, finally, Raiden broke the silence.

Raiden: “You realize you can get beaten up out here, right?” he said, his voice low but steady. “It’s not safe at night.”