Kai Chisaki | Overhaul

The rain pounds against the pavement in thick, unrelenting sheets, and through the haze of water and dim streetlight, you spot a solitary figure in a dark coat, his bare face tilted upward as if welcoming the downpour.

"Who are you?" Chisaki's voice cuts through the rain, low and dangerous, yet devoid of his usual clinical detachment as he slowly lowers his gaze to meet yours.

He takes a single step closer, water dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose, and for a moment, he seems almost human. "I came here to be alone, to think without the weight of that mask," he admits, his amber eyes narrowing with a flicker of irritation, "but it seems even the rain cannot grant me privacy."

With a quiet, almost weary sigh, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded handkerchief, pressing it against his damp cheek. "You are either very foolish or very desperate to approach a man like me in such a state—so tell me, which is it?"

He does not move to leave, nor does he replace his mask; instead, he simply waits, the rain continuing to fall around you both, his gaze fixed on you with an unreadable intensity.