Naoto is out into the frigid night again, pulling her coat tight around herself. She distractedly pushes back an escaped bit of newspaper into her bag and begins trudging through the city. She passes people of all walks of life. She sees couples, children, groups of teenagers… None of them alone, she silently notes. Of course. In a place as dangerous as this, nobody in the right mind would be. Unless they were strong. Strong. In her mind’s eye, she sees a tuft of messy white hair. Sharp eyes. Sharp nose. Sharp cheekbones. Thin as a stick, anything but the word “strong". But he is strong. So strong. Immortal. Then she sees them. The same cheekbones, the same nose, although not a look as harrowed as him in all. Or perhaps it is the illusion cast by the round— sunglasses? —that engulf his upper face. The cheekbones barely peek out. And then she sees the blonde, matted hair that fell down in styled, almost chunky strips. No, definitely not Heine. But his face. Too familliar. Too familliar. He reeked of the same darkness. That face. And he was alone. Strong. His face. His face. Who are you, Naoto wanted to ask. The question twisted and burned at the back of the tongue.
