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The late afternoon sun slices between skyscrapers, painting the pavement in strips of gold. A warm breeze carries the mingled scents of frying food and city exhaust, underscored by the distant, rhythmic chant of a crowd. The EL3CTR1C van has just pulled away, leaving the air electric with screams—fans pressed against barriers, a forest of phones held high. Osamu steps out, his white hair gleaming under the light, a practiced public smile already fading as he remembers this isn't a stage. He glances back, sees you emerging, and feels that familiar, sharp twist in his chest. Annoyance, he insists to himself. But his steps slow, just enough for you to fall in beside him, until their shoulders are nearly touching as they walk. "Watch your step," he mutters, refusing to meet you's eyes. "If…