Disclaimer: This story is based on the Crows Zero movies, as well as the characters as they are portrayed therein. All recognizable characters are owned by Hiroshi Takahashi.

The young girl was asleep. Asleep on the floor. Still dressed in her wrinkled school uniform. Her hands—so small, so still—were pressed against her belly, as if to keep her precious insides from spilling onto the polished linoleum. (Oka-san would be angry, but Oka-san was gone, and it was Miyuki who cleaned the house in her stead). The young girl was asleep, but she wasn't moving.

Miyuki quietly set down the few groceries she had been able to purchase; gently, carefully, she mustn't break the eggs, she mustn't waste what few yen she had, because she had to keep her little sister in school. The little sister who was now sleeping on the floor, who didn't stir at the whisper of sock-clad feet shuffling toward her, who didn't sit up listlessly to slur out a bored greeting.

"Wake up," Miyuki called out softly, and sat on her haunches beside her sister. For a beat, she waited. Then tugged on a thin arm, but the hand only flapped, and her sister didn't snap at her to leave her alone, damnit! "Wake up."

The arm fell down, slapping the floor loudly.

"Wake up."

But the eyes remained shut, and Miyuki found herself hovering over her sister's body, knees straddling the waist, trembling hands bracketing the slack-jawed face. She searched for a flicker, a twitch, anything, and then—for some confounding reason—remembered how her sister had wept at the realization that their parents … oh, their parents! How her sister had smiled at Miyuki's graduation, had grumbled at Miyuki's numerous pleas for her to study well, study hard, because Miyuki wouldn't be able to go to university, but Rikako simply had to go!

So do well, and make your big sister proud!

"Rikako?" Miyuki mumbled, her breathing coming out shallow and quick. She cradled her sister's head in her hands, then rolled onto her side to draw the smaller body against her own. "Daito Rikako, wake up."

Miyuki swallowed with a loud click.

"Wake up."

Nothing.

"Please, wake up."

Finally, an age later, Rikako shifted and slowly opened her eyes. A rattle rose in her chest, leaving her dry lips with a sudden expulsion of foam. And crystallized blood. Her eyes blinked—unfocused, lifeless, milky—before closing again.

"Rikako… ?"

Dead eyes shot open.

Miyuki woke up with a jerk. A wave of nausea washed over her, threatening to pull her under, but she shut her eyes and willed it away, waiting. Waiting. Slowly, she placed a hand over her pounding forehead, and resisted the urge to groan. A grimace contorted her face as she remembered the night before in abrupt, startling detail.

"No," she mumbled under her breath, slowly rocking her head from side to side, "no, no, no." Eventually, her stomach settled, but Miyuki still refused to move. "No."

Whining softly, Miyuki pulled herself up.

Slowly, ever so slowly.

Then ran to the tiny, cluttered bathroom to throw up.

The day, needless to say, began at a snail's pace. Miyuki stayed in bed as long as she dared before searching for something (not mouldy, not sour, not infested with a colony of ants) to eat. Then, with a pounding headache that had settled between her eyes, she braved the early morning chill.

Standing before her door (it dawned upon Miyuki that her door had been kicked open), breathing in the scents of breakfast, petrol, and smoke, Miyuki studied the surrounding apartment complex in silence. To her far left, on the ground floor, a youngster shouted goodbye—her head protested fiercely at that—before dashing out of the gate; the only response the boy got was the sound of his rucksack repeatedly slapping his back. To her right, down the walkway where she stood, appeared an elderly woman puffing on a cigarette.

Miyuki sniffed, then made herself comfortable against the railing. A gentle breeze picked up, prompting her to shudder, then to wrap her arms around her middle as her stomach protested. Lethargic, she sat down on the floor, flicking her eyes back toward her—oh, her damaged door. Only now everything clicked into place. The bastard had kicked her door open, damaging the doorframe in the process!

Yet again, Miyuki groaned, and the sound must have summoned her elderly neighbour, for the woman toddled down the walkway and then cocked her head at her. Everything about the elder—her stance, the glint in her beady eyes—seemed to judge Miyuki, so she picked herself up and greeted her unexpected, unwanted companion.

"Blech," was the elder's reply, or something along those lines because Miyuki suddenly found herself hard of hearing, as if her ears had been stuffed with a thin layer of cotton wool. She quickly shook her head. "—be ashamed of yourself! Making all that noise, coming home late, being carried by that—that—!" But the woman only clicked her tongue.

"I apologise, obaa-san," Miyuki murmured, bowing slightly once, then twice. "It won't happen again." She straightened up, then glanced over her neighbour's shoulder, eying Serizawa's closed door. "Hai, hai!" she added, not hearing what was said next, not caring in the least.

Miyuki bowed once again as the elder stiffly walked off. Then she was all alone, as it was supposed to be. With her arms raised up in the air, stretching exaggeratedly, Miyuki turned back to the railing and stared listlessly at the stone courtyard down below.

It was an utterly depressing sight; the once neatly arranged concrete slabs tiling the ground were cracked here, there and everywhere, weeds popping up wherever they could. An old tree, bent over like an elder dragging his limbs over to his futon, stood in the middle of nowhere; the branches were bare of leaves but the sturdiest one had been saddled with holding up a punching bag made out of a colourful patchwork of leather.

The punching bag, Miyuki quickly realised, had caught her undivided attention; despite her awful hangover, a suddenly all-too-loud world and heavy limbs that seemed to be working against her, she somehow made it all the way down the stairs and across the courtyard to eye the object of her unexpected fascination. Then she thought: what the hell am I doing?

Her head was still pounding something fierce, and she felt queasy to the point of doing something so very bad to herself just for some relief, but Miyuki raised her arm, glanced at the punching bag, and let her fist fly. The first punch sent a tremor of pain through her hand, but she merely waved it off and continued with a single-minded purpose. One punch, then another.

'Wake up', she remembered.

A punch. Again.

And again.

Until the punching bag shot back to connect painfully with her face.

With a muffled curse, Miyuki spun away but nearly tripped over her own feet in the process. Eyes tearing up, she sniffed loudly as she rubbed at her poor nose, shuffling from foot to foot to resist the urge of flopping onto the ground like a tantruming child. Eventually the pain abated, and a despondent Miyuki turned on her heel to shuffle back to her apartment.

That had been the plan, a welcomed one even, but when Miyuki headed off to the stairs, she found a familiar man standing on the outskirts of her trajectory, silver-haired and surveying her over his breakfast with a severe eye. She wondered just exactly who he was, and why he was looking at her like that, when the man interposed himself between her and the stairs. Miyuki came to a hesitant stop.

She eyed his police badge in trepidation.

"Daito Miyuki?" the detective asked, his voice pitched low.

"Yes, sir?" she replied hesitantly, and perhaps a little warily.

The detective didn't miss a beat. "You've been seen in Serizawa-kun's presence." The statement was punctuated with slurps of still steaming ramen.

Miyuki felt her mouth tightening into a thin line; she stood absolutely still, almost frozen, but her mind was abuzz with every story, every rumour she had heard concerning the local police. When she finally placed a name with the figure standing before her, still watching and still slurping merrily, she wondered why she hadn't realised it sooner.

"Keiji-san," Miyuki murmured, her voice ragged like she had been screaming all night. "I don't believe … I didn't do anything wrong?"

Kuroiwa Yoshinobu—otherwise known as Gramps—finally lowered his chopsticks. His glasses glinted in the early morning sun. "Someone has a guilty conscience," he responded, his countenance kind but firm.

"No," Miyuki smiled, not looking away—refusing to look away—from his clearly feigned casual demeanour, "nothing to be guilty of. Law-abiding citizen and all …" she trailed off into silence, then swallowed thickly.

Gramps smiled, but it was more of an abrupt twitching of the lips. "Stay out of trouble," he warned, raising his cup of ramen in a lazy salute before strolling away. Not before eying Serizawa's apartment, though.

Miyuki shuffled forward, watching as the detective made his way through the gates, then she turned to look up at the apartments. Where her neighbour, who had berated her just minutes earlier, was stomping out her cigarette; after clearing her throat loudly, the woman looked down at Miyuki before entering her apartment. The door shut quietly behind her.

"What the hell," Miyuki wondered aloud to one in particular.

"What the hell," Miyuki mumbled under her breath a few hours later.

After the evening rush had died down, and Boss Sanada had given the supermarket a cursory glance before nodding at her—he then returned to his office—Miyuki had flopped down onto the floor behind the counter. That was when she had realised that the linoleum was sticky under her palm. Sticky and smelling of strawberries.

After muttering a few more expletives, just for the sake of it, Miyuki pushed herself to her feet, then went around to look for the mop. Which she found in short order; however, she took her time filling a bucket with water, lazily adding a cleaning agent before stirring the mixture for a while.

When she finally left the backroom, the office radio was blaring some pop tune, her boss was practically shouting at someone through the phone, and the bell in the front was jingling softly, barely noticeable over the sudden cacophony. Miyuki promptly picked up her pace, waddling hurriedly down an aisle, careful to not slosh the water. Finally, she put the bucket down, bowed to the customer, and then looked up to recite the usual greetings.

Now, though, Miyuki froze; her breath hitched in her throat, and everything she meant to voice was abruptly forgotten.

"Konbanwa!" Kyoko waved happily, a cheerful—too cheerful, wasn't it morning? No, no evening—grin stretching her glossy lips. Behind her, Ruka shut the door, then nodded stiffly at Miyuki. "Wasn't it a lovely day?"

Miyuki shrugged. "M'kay," she mumbled, slowly bowing her still-aching head as she dunked the mop into the sudsy water, slopped it onto the floor and pushed down on the handle. "It was—"

"Yesterday sucked," Ruka interjected all of a sudden.

"Ruka!" Kyoko protested weakly, but there was barely any fire in her words.

Ruka inhaled loudly, deeply, as she strolled in a circle before taking a seat on the nearest counter. She shrugged. "It did," she sighed, hunching over slightly. "We had a group date."

Miyuki, still idly mopping the floor, even though she knew that it was spotless by now, found herself watching the duo with a faux expression of disinterest. She licked her lips, looking away with a start, then dunked the mop into the bucket once again.

Kyoko made a lazy sound of agreement. "Takashi Makise. Makkie," she murmured, her head cocked to the side in a look of contemplation. "Still sounds like a permanent marker."

"Baka," Ruka sneered weakly, sounding so very tired all of a sudden. "All of them. Baka, baka."

"Who?" Miyuki found herself asking. Inhaling sharply, she placed the mop down with splat, then began cleaning the entire aisle with a vengeance. 'Who'? she thought bitterly, berating herself. What are you doing?

There was an almighty sigh behind Miyuki; then, after yet another sigh, Kyoko regaled them with a depressing account of the group date, which happened to involve two Crows and some thug no one seemed to take seriously. One of the Crows, Miyuki soon discovered, was the boy in black she had recently seen outside Ruka's family's store. A boy who had, from the looks of it, caught Ruka's attention.

"And that was when Chuuta came over—" Kyoko had her arms raised, her eyes wide, and seemed to be lost in the memory she was retelling, "—now they all knew each other, but we didn't know that at the time. No! So Chuuta came over to me and Makkie—"

Here, Ruka crossed her arms.

"—oh, and he pointed and—"

"Baka."

"Hai, hai!" Kyoko shook her head, then turned to give Miyuki her undivided attention. "Makkie didn't like what Chuuta was saying. And—and—" she gestured at Ruka, "—Ruka didn't like what Chuuta was doing, so bam!" Kyoko slapped her hands together. "She smashed a bottle over Chuuta's head. That's when Makkie … became worried about Chuuta."

There was a long beat of silence.

"What's with the 'Makkie, Makkie' business?" Ruka asked.

"Sounds like the date wasn't so bad," Miyuki said offhandedly.

Ruka humphed. "A date to be remembered, it is." Then turned back to Kyoko. "'Makkie'?"

Kyoko only twiddled with her thumbs.

"Wait," Ruka mumbled, then turned to Miyuki, who—all of a sudden—realised she had been standing still for the last minute, "you disappeared. Last night. I finished with my set, then left with Kyoko and Yu for our date. But you …" Her eyes swept up and down, assessing Miyuki like a doctor searching for wounds. "You …"

"I'm fine—" Miyuki hastily turned away, "—as you can see," she added as she gently nudged the bucket out of the way. Gnawing at her lip, she considered leaving her post to put the mop away, to get some breathing space, but changed her mind when her boss suddenly shouted and then whooped loudly. His laughter tapered off into an obscene chuckle. "Hai."

"Say, Miyuki-san …"

"Hmm?" Miyuki turned around, an eyebrow arched.

Ruka leaned against the cash register, one arm draped over the machine, the other hugging her bent knee to her chest. "Where are you from, anyway?" she eventually asked, offhand. "You mentioned your Oto-san …" and his unfortunate drinking, "but nothing else." She affected an imploring expression. "What about—?"

"Kyoko-san?" Miyuki interrupted, turning swiftly to the girl in question, who had both brows raised, giving her a wide-eyed, surprised look. "Do you …" she cleared her throat, "want to go out? Whatever you want to do." Anything, as long as Ruka left her alone, damnit! "Watch a movie—?"

"Hai!" Kyoko said in a loud rush, throwing up her arm either to stop her or to answer the question like a diligent student would. "When? Today? No, no—too late. Uh, tomorrow?"

The girl was sweet, Miyuki thought sadly, too sweet. She looked at a silent Ruka, who was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. "That's …" she breathed, slowly nodding her head as she flicked her eyes back to Kyoko, "fine. Completely fine."

Later in the night, cradling a bag filled with soon-to-expire products, Miyuki dragged her heels toward her apartment. Awful, she felt awful, but still she trudged on, only looking ahead, not behind, never behind. She reached her door and—her open door. Open door?

Tense, Miyuki leaned forward slowly, peeking around the doorframe.

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

For a long, suspended moment she did just that—standing just outside her doorway, gaping at the sight before her. Panic warmed her blood, flushing her cheeks and making her feel so very warm all of a sudden; then she blinked, and realisation finally dawned upon her. Safe, no need to panic, everything's fine, drummed in a staccato rhythm.

Miyuki drew in a steady breath, watching quietly as Serizawa—the young madman with a diabolical reputation—flicked his wrist, screwing a piece of wood into a carved-out section of the doorframe. Done, he brushed a finger along the smooth seam between old and new wood, then picked up a tube of wood filler as Miyuki stepped inside, setting her bag on the floor.

Then she halted, unsure what to do, what to say. Miyuki, after drawing back her shoulders to project a confidence she knew she lacked, chanced a glance in Serizawa's direction but focused her gaze on the now-fixed doorframe instead. She slotted her trembling fingers together, now unsure of her feelings, of everything happening right in front of her.

He was fixing the frame so that she could lock the door; he was doing it, out of his own freewill most probably, to save her the hassle of calling the manager of the complex. Most of all, he was fixing what he had broken—wasn't he lazy and poor and notorious because of his trademark I-don't-give-a-damn attitude? Well? Then what the hell was she seeing, because this Crow was attending to one of her few needs: to lock her door and hide from the world.

What was this?

Miyuki could only turn away and put the stove on, deciding to focus on the preparation of a meal instead of trying to understand the few knowns—the few things she knew about Serizawa—that had been lost among the myriad of unknowns—everything that now confused her. She shook her head as if to toss all of her thoughts aside, eyes focused on the vegetables she was slicing. Minutes passed in that manner; the chop-chop of a knife, the sizzling of cooking food, and the background noise near the door. It felt … comfortable.

Miyuki froze.

It felt homey—Oka-san cooking, and baking, and grilling, and allowing Miyuki to taste her new dishes because they were practically partners in crime—it felt too familiar—Oto-san replaced the light bulb, filled the cracks in the wall, bought a new sheet of glass for the window because Rikako had been too enthusiastic with playing soccer outside—and it hurt.

But she sniffed, pulled herself together, and eventually presented a meal that was neither too bad nor too embarrassingly simple to be offered to a guest. Even if said guest had invited himself over, in a way. Ignoring the fact that she was supposed to be angry at his intrusion, Miyuki padded over to the Crow and sat down on the floor, nudging his bowl toward him before offering him a pair of chopsticks.

Needless to say, they ate in a companionable silence that somehow felt just right. To Miyuki, however, it … was like she was standing on the precipice of something important, too important to be translated into human words. But it was fragile and new and her inexplicable calm should have terrified her. She wasn't sure why she wasn't utterly terrified, but for once she allowed herself to simply savour the quiet moment.

With her back pressed against the graffitied wall, Miyuki surveyed the entrance of the movie theatre with as much indifference as she could muster. For the hundredth time, she swallowed nervously, then—like clockwork—checked her watch yet again. Not a minute had passed since she had last glanced at it. She hastily crossed her arms, then let them fall in a sudden fit of restlessness, sighing loudly as she waited.

She hated waiting.

Miyuki shuffled forward a bit, glancing up and down the street, then fell back against the wall. After a few idle seconds, she stepped back into the shadows and felt her shoulders sag in relief. Yes, good, Miyuki thought as she gulped for air like a fish out of water, this was better. Families walked past and friends called out to each other, waving and smiling and laughing. Everything's better in the shadows.

Once more, she checked her watch—

(Kyoko was five minutes late. Five minutes was not a lot, but five minutes could change a life in so many ways).

—then sent a cursory glance toward the movie theatre, and left. She kept her head bowed, her eyes downcast, silently navigating the lonely path to the supermarket. In the doorway, however, Miyuki paused, glancing over her shoulder to eye the street behind her. After a long moment, she shook her head and scurried inside, apologizing to Boss Sanada for being late because she had lost track of time.

It wouldn't happen again.

Her excuse fell on deaf ears; after clocking in for the late evening shift, she stood with her back toward the detergents, staring unseeingly in the direction of her boss. Arms crossed, she slowly cocked her head and pondered, trying to understand the sudden lightness in her chest, in her lungs, her legs. Miyuki shuffled forward, frowning, feeling dazed as she checked the time.

The film should be playing now. The film Kyoko had wanted to see should be playing right now; a light-hearted family drama that, according to reviews, had a perfect ending—and Miyuki had silently scoffed at that tidbit of information, not caring in the least that Kyoko had promptly frowned at her rude behaviour.

Miyuki shook her head, then blinked blearily at her surroundings, momentarily unsure of what she was doing. But she breathed in—and then out—before clenching her fists, breathing in deeply, and digging her nails into the soft flesh of her palms. The hairs on her arms, and on the back of her neck, suddenly stood to attention, and Miyuki had to smother an abrupt, inexplicable desire to punch something.

Huffing quietly, she walked off to inspect this display of canned food and that tower of 'baby soft' toilet rolls. Discount! Miyuki checked the freezers. Save 30%! Then transferred the contents of one (rather noisy) refrigerator to another before switching it off; quiet, nice and quiet. Specials and more! Finally, she sat down by the cash register, then hunched over before massaging her brow.

Seconds later, Miyuki dropped her head onto the counter with a loud thud. She wriggled slightly, wincing, watching disinterestedly as her breath left a circle of moisture on the scratched surface below her nose. Swallowing loudly, she reached out to draw a line in the condensation, but quickly wiped a hand across it when the bell chimed and a client hastily rushed into the supermarket.

From the sound of it, this one was in a hurry.

Miyuki affixed a pleasant expression before looking up; however, her greeting died on her lips when a breathless Kyoko made her way down the store with a single-minded purpose. A half-formed apology forced its way past her suddenly immovable lips but Kyoko didn't hear—or wasn't even aware of what Miyuki was saying, for she slammed her hands on the counter between them and squeaked out a "help!"

"Wha—?" Miyuki hadn't expected that.

She had expected a sharp word or two about being stood up. Then a ghastly look of disappointment that may or may not have had the power to cut her to the quick. After that, those large eyes would narrow at her, so on and so forth—but none of that happened. It took another second for her to realise that Kyoko was hunching down, hiding herself in such a manner that no spectator could see her from the street.

"Hide me, please!"

Aren't you, Miyuki wondered as she glanced over her shoulder, going to point out the fact that I didn't show up? A silent beat, then she noticed a scowling Crow stomping down the street, looking here and there, searching. Without turning around, she gestured toward the backroom. "Use the backdoor."

"Thank you," came the urgent response, and then shuffling footfalls headed down the supermarket.

Fingertips trailing along the nearest shelf rack, Miyuki strolled down the aisle with her head upraised, hoping upon hope that she at least appeared to be confident. She had just reached the door when the bell jingled with a force that nearly sent it sailing, and in came the (now that she considered it) somewhat familiar Crow. She cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders.

Her eyes locked with his—he eyed her, fleetingly, then turned his attention to the store—and her lips parted, but a second body practically flew through the doorway, colliding with the boy. Miyuki blinked owlishly at the sudden turn of events—first Kyoko, then the Crow, and now a seemingly breathless Ruka? Damnit, what was going on?

"Ah, Ruka-chan!" the boy exclaimed, and a sudden, startling look of eagerness crossed his face.

Ruka glanced at the Crow. "'Makkie'." And that was that. She scurried past the duo to make a beeline toward the nearest rack of snacks; after grabbing a packet of candy, then slapping a few notes on the counter, she turned on her heel and left the way she had arrived.

Makise—instead of standing frozen with a bewildered look, like poor Miyuki—followed the little singer out of the door with his arms slightly raised and his back bent. He looked as if he either needed the loo or was barely containing child-like excitement.

Miyuki, though, only blinked at the thought before glancing in the direction of the backroom. That was that, she thought, done and dusted. But still she didn't move, afraid that she had jinxed everything, that Kyoko would reappear and try to drag her away to the terrifying unknown.

Timidly, Miyuki shuffled forward a few steps, stopped, and then stepped forward again. Silent, except for the muffled discussion occurring in the office. Her shoulders sagged in relief, and without a backward glance, she returned to the cash register before counting what Ruka had left in exchange for the candy.

Arms crossed, Miyuki eyed her front door critically, canting her head to the left and then to the right as the kettle shrieked behind her. After heaving a loud sigh, she turned and headed to the counter to brew a much-needed cup of tea. Done, she breathed in the aromatic scent, then closed her eyes as the steam heated her cheeks. Miyuki finally took a sip of her drink.

Eventually, she turned around, cup of tea cradled in her hands, pressed against her bosom, and looked back at the door. Eying it, once again, from top to bottom and back again. Seconds later, she shuffled across the room to open the door, close it, and then open it again—just as three young men in the black uniform of Suzuran walked past.

Miyuki automatically turned the lock, then pressed her ear against the wood, listening carefully to the muffled conversation occurring out on the walkway. As she inspected her cup, she came to the conclusion that Serizawa was being accompanied by the twins she had seen—well, she couldn't remember how long ago it had happened. Days? But they were definitely the twins she had seen a while ago.

"You're full of it," one of the brothers announced, and that voice was utterly familiar, the cadence reminding her of duck-like gaits and bloodied masks. An unpleasant picture, but one she wasn't surprised at remembering—she seemed to remember everything, every little unfortunate detail about the Crows. Useless information, she decided as she drank her tea, making her way to her futon. "Full of it!"

If Serizawa—or the brother—responded, Miyuki didn't know and quite frankly didn't care. She placed her cup on the floor, then flopped down onto her bed with a sigh and draped her arm across her brow, blinking blearily up at the ceiling. A voice shouted, a door slammed in the distance. The Crows still conversed, but it quickly concluded; heavy footfalls came past her apartment once again, and this time they didn't return.

She didn't move—she refused to do a thing, and so she lay completely still as her tea cooled, as the chill of the night seeped into the room, and as her belly began complaining. Miyuki was in the process of rolling over onto her side when the sound of breaking glass put an end to the monotony. She froze, heart pounding at the sudden, eerie stillness of the complex. She waited, and waited, but gave into her survival instincts: to flee.

Fleeing, though, in her experience, was always a rather short-lived reaction. After the sudden stop (tired, tired), came the scouting (am I safe? Am I fine here?), and the distraction (work, rest, live for a while). Today it was the punching bag in the courtyard that had caught her eye once she had stopped running. Once again. And, once again, she turned to it before letting her fist fly. Miyuki, abruptly standing still, breathed in deeply as she nursed her hand.

All was quiet, she noticed as she glanced up at the apartments over her shoulder. Windows were shut; lights flickered here and there, creating a gloomy, neglected atmosphere; a door creaked in its frame, banging occasionally against the rotting wood. Finally, Miyuki turned away; she had her fist raised, about to punch the bag again, but instead she remained completely motionless. Listening.

The wind picked up with a low moan, leaves scattered noisily across the ground. She shifted slightly, but then whirled around—her hair immediately getting in her eyes—and promptly stepped back, startled, when she caught sight of Serizawa lounging on the ground nearby, his side pressed against a battered cooler. He lazily reached up to pluck a cigarette from his lips.

Miyuki quickly looked away. After casting the punching bag another look, then swinging her arms for no reason whatsoever, she turned on her heel to return to her silent (empty) apartment. Serizawa Tamao, however, had different plans: grunting softly, he pushed himself up to his feet as he took another drag of his cigarette. The indescribable look in his eyes stopped her short.

She sent a swift look in the direction of the stairs, quickly judging the distance between the courtyard and her apartment.

"I don't …" Serizawa exhaled slowly, "remember … catching your name."

"I don't recall dropping it." And she could barely smother the wince that was twitching across her face. What—are you—doing? Miyuki had to dig her nails into her palms to stop herself from pinching the bridge of her nose. Oh, wonderful, Daito Miyuki! You've managed to—

She finally caught his eye, again.

—not piss off the Crow.

Indeed, she hadn't, for Serizawa was only watching her, his expression blank and completely non-threatening. After a long, suspended moment, he finally spoke, "Who wronged you?"

"What … do you mean?"

"The punching bag?"

She blinked. "No one."

"So …" he said after a beat, nonchalant, but his gaze still remained on her, assessing. "Are you… hungry?"

Leaving was far more important. Barricading herself in her room even more so, but as she stepped forward, with the intention of doing just that, she found herself speaking. "No," came the immediate lie.

"That's good." And she frowned at that. "'Cause—" Serizawa gestured at the cooler, "—it seems like someone stole all the food from here."

"So," Miyuki responded slowly—she had no idea what the hell was happening, "a food-burglar?"

"Could you believe it?"

For a few seconds, she could only open and close her mouth, as if she was testing her jaw. Eventually, Miyuki decided to humor him. "Whoever it was," she leaned forward slightly, peeking at the contents, "wasn't a beer-burglar."

Serizawa exhaled a long stream of smoke, still watching her, still refusing to look away. He finally bent over and then offered her one of the drinks in question.

She hesitated. "What about you?"

Serizawa only shrugged.

"Oh …" Miyuki shuffled forward, taking note of his laidback attire: the striped shirt, the pants that had been rolled up all the way to his knees, and the old, battered sandals. "What are we drinking to?"

He raised his cigarette to his lips, then shrugged. "You?"

She looked down at her beer bottle. "To … survival."

"Hmm …" Serizawa brushed a hand across his hair, "poor people are tough."

Miyuki uncapped her drink. "They shouldn't be."

Neither looked away, but the moment was lost when the sound of glass breaking interrupted the silence between them. Miyuki started, yet Serizawa—who merely exhaled smoke through his nose—slowly looked up in direction of his apartment. Seconds later, the obaa-san from before opened her door and peeked out; after a moment, she looked down at them before clicking her tongue.

"Yet …" he said in undertones, still staring up at the apartment complex. It was as if nothing had happened. Miyuki shuddered, "they have to be."

Their eyes locked, and then Miyuki inhaled sharply, tilted back her head, and drained her beer. With a gasp, she swallowed the last mouthful and then wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

Serizawa gestured at his cooler. "Another?"

"Please."

The next morning, Miyuki found herself in bed with no recollection of getting there. She stretched slowly, her front sliding against the lumpy futon, and yawned lazily. Eventually, she rolled onto her back, then allowed her lips to curve into a sad smile.

A/N: I'm really sorry for the long, long wait. It took months for me to finish this chapter, and I hope it's okay. I'll read this again tomorrow to see if it needs to be edited. Chapter one and two will be edited eventually, because they both really need it. Thank you to everyone (anyone) who's still interested in this story. Thank you!