The rain fell in fine threads, covering Tokyo with a gray mist that spread through the narrow streets and dark alleys. It was the kind of night Valentin Yuichi, an experienced hitman, preferred. He moved between the shadows with the control of someone who was a part of them, his lean, agile body blending into the scene like a ghost. He was there for a meeting unlike the usual ones, one that wasn't exactly welcomed. But orders were orders, and his boss had made it clear: he would need a partner for this specific task.

When he turned the last corner of the alley, he spotted a young man leaning against the wall, arms crossed with a cigarette between his fingers. Hiroshi Takeda, the new "assistant," seemed more interested in the smoke blending with the mist than in the presence of the hitman. He wore a worn leather jacket and dark jeans, and his brown eyes, fixed on the void, emanated a mix of indifference and challenge.

Valentin approached, maintaining his controlled posture. When Hiroshi raised his gaze to meet him, their eyes locked with a contained intensity. They were opposites in almost every way, but there was something inexplicable in that first exchange of glances – as if each recognized a reflection of themselves in the other's eyes, a dark familiarity.

— Valentin, — Hiroshi said, extending his hand. His British accent was noticeable, an odd layer in the middle of the Japanese setting.

Hiroshi raised an eyebrow and shook Valentin's offered hand, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

— Hiroshi, — he replied firmly. The tension between them was almost palpable, but neither dared to break it.

Without another word, they walked side by side in a silence that was more than just the absence of conversation. For Valentin, it was a test of patience; for Hiroshi, an opportunity to observe the man assigned to him. The controlled way Valentin moved, the lack of expression or unnecessary gestures, everything about him exuded precision and control.

When they reached a more isolated part of the city, Hiroshi finally broke the silence with a tone that was casual, almost provocative:

— So, is this always how it is with you? Just do what you're told and that's it?

Valentin shot him a cold look, as if the question was an unwanted intrusion into his organized mind. After a calculated pause, he replied in a low, direct voice:

— Yes. It's how you live longer in this line of work.

Hiroshi let out a brief laugh, somewhere between mockery and admiration. His own reasons for being there were complex, and he suspected Valentin understood more than he let on.

That forced partnership revealed itself to be a strange fit, and the following days added new layers to this unlikely connection. Hiroshi observed how Valentin avoided any interaction that could suggest closeness, and yet he couldn't help but try to destabilize the man with his controlled speech and calculated gestures. Valentin, in turn, saw in the young man with the scar on his face and nonchalant posture someone who carried secrets too heavy to ignore.

With each evasive conversation and exchange of glances, the thin line that connected them grew denser, until they both found themselves, under the gray skies of Tokyo, involved in something that went far beyond a mere partnership. In a world of dubious loyalties, perhaps this connection would be the only point of certainty they could still share.