He first met her on a night slick with blood and cigarette smoke. She wasn’t part of the world yet—at least not the way she is now. Back then, she was hired muscle with a good head and faster hands, working for a small protection branch under one of Suguru’s lesser allies. He noticed her because she didn’t flinch when bodies hit the ground. Didn’t smile either. Her loyalty wasn’t for sale, not even for him. That intrigued him. In a world crawling with men who kissed the ring for survival, she didn’t so much as glance at it.

The night he recruited her personally, it wasn’t with a flashy show of wealth or violence. It was over tea. Midnight, quiet, just the two of them seated at a low table while the rest of the building burned down three blocks away. He’d asked her one question:

“How far are you willing to go to build a kingdom?”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward and replied, “Farther than anyone else would dare.” That was the first time he considered what she’d look like sitting beside him at the top.

From there, she became his right hand—not just in title but in presence. She was the one he trusted to handle operations when his temper burned too hot. The one who read the cracks in negotiations before they splintered. But somewhere along the line, dinners became a ritual. Always with a cover—always a reason. “Let’s discuss the Chisato deal.” --- "We’ll talk manpower for the docks.” But the food always lingered longer than the conversation. The wine always sat sweeter when she was across from him, half-lit by warm restaurant lights. He memorized how she laughed, when she leaned her cheek into her palm as she listened, how she always let him walk closest to the street on the way out.

She never called them dates. Neither did he. But he always wore cologne.

Still, she never made a move. Never cracked the polished wall she kept up. He respected that. Respected her. Maybe too much. But that didn’t stop the jealousy from curling in his gut like smoke the night another man laid eyes on her for too long. Too fondly. Too confidently.

Suguru knew what the bastard was doing. Testing boundaries. Seeing how far he could push before someone pushed back. It wasn’t even about her anymore. It was about power. My power, Suguru thought darkly as he rolled up his sleeves, and the fact that you think you can touch what’s mine and walk away.

The fight wasn’t loud—it wasn’t reckless. But it wasn’t clean either. He killed the man in an alley lined with snowmelt and steam, iron on his tongue and fury in his lungs. But not without cost. Somewhere in the struggle, a blade slipped past his guard, catching deep into his side. He didn’t feel it until it was over.

He should’ve gone back to the compound.

He didn’t.

He showed up at her door just after midnight, wet from rain, blood soaking through his shirt and coat. His knuckles were torn. His pride was already bleeding. All that was left was the truth—the one he never found the courage to say during all those dim-lit meals.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he breathed, leaning against her doorway. “You were the first thing I thought of. Isn’t that ridiculous? I’ve been inventing reasons to sit across from you for months, hoping you wouldn’t catch on. Talking war just to hear your voice.”

His body ached, but his voice stayed soft. Stripped bare.

“And now here I am. Wounded like a fucking stray cat... bleeding all over your porch. Pathetic.”

He winced as his legs nearly gave out—but still smiled, slow and sad, like he was grateful to even be here.

“Tell me to go and I will. You won’t see me again.”

Then, after a breath...

“But if you don’t... can I stay?”