Daniel
San Francisco rain didn't fall. It hung in the air like a decision that hadn't been made. Damp sidewalks glistened with orange light from the streetlamps, and a faint fog drifted low across the crosswalks—slipping between trash bins and fire hydrants like smoke with nowhere to go.
Daniel Zhou adjusted his gym bag across his shoulder and stepped out of the dojo, hoodie pulled low over his brow. The door behind him shut with a metallic clunk, the sound oddly final for a Tuesday night. He walked with quiet purpose, each step practiced—not stiff, but efficient. That was how his Sifu always described him. "Efficient. Like a blade that doesn't know it's sharp."
The blend of movement styles came naturally to him. Southern Chinese forms had taught him roots. Korean taekwondo sharpened his footwork. Krav Maga—violence distilled into utility—taught him how to finish things. And now engineering classes were teaching him how everything broke, eventually.
He didn't mind the rain. It gave the city a kind of dignity.
Across the street, standing beneath a cracked green awning, was Sophie.
He spotted her immediately—how could you not? Blonde hair soaked to her collarbone, long legs in tight jeans, hands shoved into a powder-blue coat two sizes too big. Her face was a little flushed, her lips slightly parted in irritation. She was probably trying to remember how to navigate Muni again.
He jogged across the street and called her name.
She turned, blinked once, then lit up. "Daniel! Mon dieu, I thought I missed the last bus."
"You did," he said. "But the second-to-last one should be here in ten."
Sophie laughed—short, bright, and as fluid as the water sliding down her sleeves. She huddled under his hood without asking. He didn't stop her.
They walked side by side, their boots splashing in the shallow curb water. The buzz of wet electricity in the overhead lines pulsed above them, and she talked—about the lecture, the terrible sandwich she had for lunch, her roommate's emotional collapse over a boy in Sweden.
Daniel didn't say much. He didn't have to. Sophie filled space effortlessly, and she wasn't trying to impress anyone. That's what made her dangerous.
When they reached the bus shelter, she flopped onto the metal bench like it owed her rent and sighed.
Daniel remained standing. He wasn't nervous—he just didn't trust public seating. His bag rested beside her.
"This city," she muttered, stretching her arms behind her head. "It's cold. Wet. Cranky. I love it."
He smiled. "That's one way to describe it."
She turned her head and looked up at him. "You're always so serious, you know that? Like a professor who moonlights as a secret agent."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Do professors do that?"
"Maybe in France."
They sat there, the rain pattering steadily against the shelter's plastic awning, the lights above flickering now and then as if unsure whether to stay on.
Sophie's voice softened. "You ever think about going back? To China, I mean."
"I've never been," he said. "My father died before I was born. Mom's from here. Chinatown was as far as we ever got."
She frowned. "That's sad."
He shrugged. "Not really. You don't miss what you never had."
But he did wonder sometimes—about language slipping through his mother's lips when she was half-asleep, about the strange old talismans hung in the dojo's back hallway, about the scroll tucked in his bag that no one could translate quite right.
"Still," Sophie said, "I think you would like it there. They would like you."
Daniel glanced sideways. "Would you?"
She froze. For half a second, the usual glow in her eyes dimmed—just a flicker—and she didn't answer.
Then she laughed, quick and deflecting. "I'm French. We like wine, cheese, and bad decisions. What do I know?"
The moment passed. Daniel let it.
The rain picked up, growing thicker, more purposeful. It stopped drifting and started falling.
Daniel sat down beside her.
He rarely let himself get this close—Sophie had a gravitational pull, and he didn't trust himself not to fall. But the night felt quieter than usual. Too still. The wind wasn't blowing. The rain fell straight down, like pins into cloth.
Sophie leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand. "Can I ask you something?"
He nodded.
"Why haven't you asked me out?"
Daniel stared at the opposite sidewalk. A laundromat with blue-tinted windows flickered behind the glass. A neon sign buzzed overhead. He could hear the distant rumble of a bus still several blocks away.
"I guess," he said slowly, "because I figured I'd screw it up."
"That's sweet," she replied, "and very dumb."
She smiled again—soft this time, almost shy. But her eyes drifted upward, suddenly unfocused.
"Did you see that?"
Daniel looked. The streetlights buzzed. The air looked like it was… shimmering?
His ears popped.
The air grew thick, syrupy. His vision blurred, tunneled. His body jerked back involuntarily, like being pulled from the inside out.
Sophie reached for him. "Daniel?"
He tried to answer, but the word never made it out. A pressure hit him in the chest—like diving too deep, too fast. His heart stuttered. His spine locked. For an instant, the world tore open like a curtain pulled from its rod.
Then everything turned white.