The street is almost empty.

It’s late — the kind of late where the city feels thinner, like it might disappear if you blink too long. Saiko walks home from his night shift with his jacket zipped up and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His feet hurt. His head hurts more.

He’s thinking about hospital bills. About numbers that don’t make sense anymore.

Then he hears it.

A sound that doesn’t belong.

Not footsteps. Not a car.

Something rolling — fast, uneven, getting closer.

Saiko stops.

He turns his head toward the side road.

It’s one of those narrow streets that slopes upward sideways, the kind that looks harmless during the day and dangerous at night. The streetlight at the top flickers.

And then he sees her.

A wheelchair.

Rolling downhill.

Too fast.

Her hands are gripping the wheels, trying — failing — to slow it down. Panic is written all over her face.

“MOVE—!” she screams. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

Saiko’s brain goes blank.

He doesn’t jump aside.

He doesn’t think.

He runs toward her.

He reaches out and grabs the side of the wheelchair just as it swerves.

The sudden stop throws everything off balance.

The chair jerks sideways.

She pitches forward.

Saiko barely has time to register her eyes widening before she falls into him, the force knocking them both off their feet.

They hit the road hard.

The wheelchair clatters away, spinning uselessly to the side.

Saiko lands on his back, the air punched out of his lungs.

She lands on top of him.

For a moment, everything is still.

Rain hasn’t started, but the pavement is cold. His ears ring. His arms are instinctively raised, bracing her so she doesn’t hit the ground again.

“…Are you—” he starts, breathless.

She shoves herself upright immediately, hands shaking, pride bruised worse than her body.

“Are you stupid?!” she snaps. “I told you to move!”

Saiko blinks up at her, chest tight, lungs burning.

“You were going to crash,” he says simply.

She freezes.

Looks past him — at the wheelchair lying uselessly a few feet away.

Her jaw tightens.

“…I had it under control.”

There’s a lie in her voice, sharp and obvious.

Saiko sits up slowly, ignoring the ache in his shoulder. He stands and walks over, brings the wheelchair back, careful not to touch her without permission.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I just—heard you.”

She doesn’t thank him.

She doesn’t apologize.

She just grips the armrests and looks away, embarrassed and angry and shaken all at once.

Silence settles between them.

The streetlight flickers again.

Neither of them knows it yet — but this moment, this accident, this collision born from exhaustion and fear —

Is the beginning of something neither of them asked for.

Saiko pushes himself up first, wincing as his shoulder protests. He reaches out without thinking — then pauses.

“…Can I?” he asks.

She hesitates, pride clearly fighting with reality. Then she nods once.

Saiko carefully helps her sit back into the wheelchair, steadying it while she grips the armrests. Her movements are sharp, embarrassed, like she’s mad at the world for watching.

“Thanks,” she mutters. It barely counts as a word.

He steps back immediately, hands up like he’s surrendering. “You’re welcome.”

There’s an awkward pause.

The night feels louder now.

Saiko glances at the slope of the road, then back at her. “…What were you doing out here this late?”

She looks away.

“I needed air,” she says. “The house feels like a cage sometimes.”

He nods. He understands that more than he wants to admit.

“I lost balance,” she adds quickly, defensive. “The road’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It really is.”

She turns the wheelchair around, heading toward the flatter road that leads downhill into the neighborhood.

“Go home,” she says without looking back. “I’m fine.”

She moves.

Saiko doesn’t.

He starts walking behind her.

After a few seconds, she notices.

“…Why are you still here?”

“It’s late,” he says. “That’s all.”

She stops abruptly and turns her chair halfway around.

“Are you following me?”

“No.”

“You are literally behind me.”

“I’m just… walking the same direction.”

She squints at him. “You don’t even live here.”

“You don’t know that.”

She stares.

“…Stalker.”

Saiko sighs. “I stopped a runaway wheelchair. That’s not stalker behavior.”

“That’s exactly how it starts,” she fires back. “First you save someone, next thing you know you’re narrating my life.”

“I don’t even like narration,” he says. “Too much pressure.”

She huffs and turns forward again. “Leave me alone.”

He keeps walking.

Not close. Not far. Just enough.

“You’re very bad at listening,” she says.

“You’re very bad at being alone at night,” he replies calmly.

She glares over her shoulder. “Did you just insult me?”

“I think that was concern.”

“…Rude concern.”

They reach a large gate.

Lights are on inside the property. Security cameras blink lazily.

She stops.

“This is my house,” she says. “You can go now.”

Saiko finally nods. “Okay.”

He turns to leave.

That’s when a car pulls in.

A sleek black one.

The door opens and a man steps out, phone pressed to his ear, tie loosened, clearly exhausted.

He pauses when he sees her.

“…Why are you outside?” her father asks.

She stiffens. “I went out for air.”

He notices the dirt on her sleeves. The scrape on the wheelchair.

“…What happened?”

“Nothing,” she says flatly.

His eyes flick briefly to Saiko.

“And who is this?”

“A stalker,” she says instantly.

Saiko winces. “I swear that’s not—”

Her father sighs, already distracted, glancing at his phone. “Whatever. Come inside. It’s late.”

No hug. No worry. No further questions.

Saiko watches as a staff member rushes over to take the wheelchair.

Something twists in his chest.

“Wait,” the man says suddenly, looking back at Saiko. “You.”

Saiko straightens.

“You helped her?”

“Yes.”

There’s a short silence.

Then, businesslike: “I need someone reliable. Someone who can be around her when I’m not.”

He names a number like it’s nothing.

One thousand dollars a week.

Saiko’s breath catches.

That’s more than his café job pays in a month.

“…To do what?” Saiko asks carefully.

“Be with her,” the man says. “Make sure she’s safe.”

She snaps her head up. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Her father doesn’t even look at her.

Saiko hesitates.

Hospital bills flash through his mind.

Monitors. White walls. His mother’s tired smile.

“I—” he starts.

She looks at him then. Really looks.

“…Don’t,” she says quietly.

Saiko swallows.

“I’m sorry,” he says — and he isn’t sure which of them it’s for.

The gate closes behind them.

And just like that…

A stranger becomes a job. A job becomes a responsibility. And a lonely night becomes the beginning of something neither of them wanted — but both of them needed.