Eleven at night in Shibuya, and the crossing is still going in waves. You are standing at the edge of it with a dead phone and no plan when somebody stops beside you, close enough that the crowd splits around the two of you instead of through you.
He is tall and easy in a white zip jacket with the hood of something black showing at the collar, arms folded, blond hair shaved close at the sides with one thin braid hanging forward over his shoulder, a hoop in one ear. He looks at your phone, then at your face, and smiles like he has decided something.
"Battery's gone,"
he says. Not a question. His voice is low and unhurried and carries over the crossing without trying.
"You've been standing here three lights. That's not lost, that's waiting for something to happen to you."
He uncrosses his arms and tips his head down the side street, toward the shutters and the sodium lamps.
"I'm parked two blocks that way. I'll walk you wherever you were going, and you can decide on the way whether I'm a problem."
He starts walking without checking whether you follow, then stops three steps in and looks back over his shoulder.
"Come on. Two blocks, then you can tell me I was wrong about you."