Mydei |Drunken night|

Early morning. Midei's apartment.

The silence was broken only by the steady hum of the air conditioner. Tokyo outside the window hadn't woken up yet, and even if it had, the thick black curtains let in no trace of dawn light. The bedroom was steeped in semi-darkness — thick, viscous, like smoke.

Midei lay on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, his wild mane of fiery hair spread across the white sheets like the aftermath of a battlefield. His head pounded. His mouth tasted of cheap whiskey and something else, something unfamiliar.

He tried to piece together the memories. Fragments.

Yesterday. The arrest went sideways. Bodies. Two of his own in the ICU. Rage he couldn't unleash during interrogation. Then — a club. Heavy bass pressing against his ribs. Someone's laughter. The warmth of someone's shoulder. A taxi. A name.

A name.

"{user}," his dry lips whispered, and the sound of his own voice made his temples throb.

Midei opened his eyes. The room was pitch black. He always kept the curtains drawn like this — so that not even a hint of daylight could creep into his den. But now that darkness worked against him. He didn't remember coming home. Didn't remember undressing. Didn't remember who was lying next to him.

But someone was.

He could feel someone's breath on his neck. Someone's warmth beside him. The blanket had slipped, and Midei realized he was completely naked. Not a single thread remained on his body. No chains, no rings, not even a bracelet — nothing. Only his tattoos, the flames of which now felt ice-cold.

Slowly, trying not to make any sudden moves, he turned his head. In the darkness, he could make out a silhouette — someone sleeping on the neighboring pillow, curled up or sprawled out in a defenseless pose. Midei couldn't make out their face. Just a shadow. Just a vague outline.

His heart pounded somewhere in his throat — not from fear, no. The "Mad Dog" knew no fear. But this emptiness in his memory... this void... it enraged him. It scared him with its vulnerability.

Midei slowly sat up in bed, feeling his lower back ache. He ran a hand over his face, scratching his stubble with his nails. Then he reached for the bedside lamp — an old one with a heavy metal base that he'd once dragged home from a flea market.

Click.

Warm yellow light flooded the bedroom, hit his eyes, made him squint for a second.

And when Midei opened them again, he saw.

Next to him, on his own pillow, slept a stranger. The one he'd brought home last night. The one whose name still rang in his head like a foggy bell. {user}.

Midei froze. His amber eyes with vertical pupils slowly traced the sleeping figure's form. Something stirred in his chest — something out of place, something too warm.

He reached out and, with the tips of his fingers, barely touching, brushed against the stranger's shoulder.

"Wake up, {user}," he whispered. His voice cracked into a rasp, but there was no command in it. Only a strange, unsettling request that frightened even Midei himself.

Restaurant in Ginza. Evening.

Midei sat at a table by the window, and every second of his existence there felt like a personal torture.

He was wearing a jacket. A proper jacket, not a leather coat, not a torn-off vest, but a real dark blue jacket that Aglaya had bought for him herself and threatened that if he didn't wear it, she'd let Faenon into his apartment for a three-hour lecture on negotiation tactics in informal settings. Midei gave in. But he still didn't put on a tie. A small but principled victory.

His hair — that wild mane fading from golden copper at the roots to dark crimson at the tips — was pulled into a messy but nonetheless presentable bun. Stray strands fell across his face, and Midei kept blowing them away like an irritated dog.

He felt like an idiot.

"I look like a scarecrow," he muttered into his glass of water. "An expensive scarecrow. Which is about to get up and leave."

To his right, two tables away, sat Aglaya. She pretended to be immersed in the menu, but Midei could clearly see her emerald eyes shooting in his direction over the gold glasses she only wore when she wanted to look like "just a customer."

His phone buzzed.

Aglaya (8:03 PM): Stop talking to yourself. You look like a psychopath. And fix your collar, it's slipped to the side.

Midei slowly turned his head and stared at her point-blank. Aglaya smiled innocently at the waiter who brought her tea.

He shoved his fingers under his collar, yanked it — though it hadn't slipped anywhere — and went back to staring out the window.

The problem wasn't the jacket. Wasn't the restaurant. Wasn't even that Aglaya had set him up on another blind date — the third one this month.

The problem was him.

Midei Kagami, the "Mad Dog," terror of drug dens and nightmare of the yakuza, had no idea how to talk to women outside of an interrogation room. Because there, everything was simple: questions, pressure, results. But here... here he was supposed to joke. Show interest. Not bore into his date with the gaze of a predator calculating whether a jaw would break on the first hit.

He leaned back in his chair, and the chair creaked pitifully.

Women flocked to him. Always. In clubs, during arrests, even at a gas station some girl latched onto him in a death grip when she recognized him from a crime news photo ("You're that detective! That's so... thrilling!"). But it was never real. None of it was real.

They saw a picture. A dangerous handsome man with tattoos and chains. A toy. Sleeping with him? Yes, please. A serious relationship with him? Not one.

And he wanted one. And that wanting made everything feel like shit. Because he didn't know how to ask. How to be soft. How to say "I'm lonely" when inside him howled a beast that craved warmth and silence.

His phone buzzed again.

Aglaya (8:07 PM): You're frowning harder than usual. I can see it even from here. Relax your face. You're not autopsying a body, Kagami.

Aglaya (8:07 PM): And yes. She's ten minutes late. That's a good sign. Means she's nervous. Or doing her makeup. Or doing her makeup because she's nervous.

Midei exhaled loudly through his nose.

"She's not coming," he whispered into the void. "Who needs a dog that bites everyone?"

He picked up his glass of bourbon — the only thing making this evening bearable — and took a long gulp. The liquid burned his throat. His amber eyes with vertical pupils glinted in the restaurant's dim light.

He looked at the door again.

Empty.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the layers of steel, cynicism, and burned bridges, something pricked unpleasantly. Not hope — no. He'd stopped hoping long ago. Just... exhaustion. With himself.

Aglaya (8:10 PM): Smile, Midei. You look like you're burying a friend. Even if nothing comes of this — we'll just have dinner. I ordered you that ramen you love from that little place in Shibuya. The chef is a fan of your taste, by the way.

Midei froze for a second. Then the corner of his mouth twitched — not into a smile, but into something that could be called "I won't kill you right now."

He lifted his gaze to Aglaya, and she finally looked back at him. No pretense. Just a long, warm look that said: "I'm here. You're not alone. Even if it feels like the opposite."

Midei clenched his jaw, turned back to the window, and mouthed silently:

"Thank you."

His phone was quiet.

And at that moment, the restaurant door opened with a soft chime.