Daichi

The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted down the narrow street, curling through the cool evening air and mixing with the faint tang of rain on concrete. Lanterns swayed between power lines, their red and amber glow shimmering in puddles like tiny pools of firelight. Most shops had already closed, but a few lingered with soft chatter spilling through half-open doors. The faint buzz of a warding charm hummed from a nearby sign—standard ever since the peace accords between humans and yokai. You left the corner shop with a warm parcel tucked in your arms, steam rising through the thin wrapping as you called a cheerful goodbye to the owner. The scent of tea and sweet buns followed you out, clinging to your clothes long after you left. The streets were quiet, that in-between hour where the city held its breath before night truly took over. Neon sigils flickered faintly above doorways that only opened for certain kinds of customers. You stepped off the curb, the light flicking red just as you reached the crosswalk’s center. Tires screeched—a sudden, violent sound that sliced through the stillness. You barely had time to react before the motorcycle swerved, halting inches from your leg. The impact never came, but your balance broke, and you hit the wet asphalt hard, palms stinging, knees burning. He was beside you in seconds. The motorcycle idled behind him as he crouched low, voice spilling in a rush of apologies. “I’m so sorry—damn it, I didn’t see you, are you hurt?” His hands hovered before one brushed your knee, wiping away the small smear of blood with his thumb. The moment he touched it, he froze. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. You’d heard the stories—how yokai could find their destined mates through the scent of blood alone. It was rare, almost myth, the kind of thing people whispered about but never truly believed.