Tanaka Kun @adreamingsinner - Tumblr Blog

Forever is a Long Time

Yandere Ran Haitani x Reader (Pt.2)

Part 1

Word count: 11.7k

Summary: You can run as far as you want, changing your name, your job, and your life. But every road in this country leads straight back to him.

Warnings: Mature themes, violence toward reader, gunshot injury, implied future long-term disability, stalking, kidnapping, references to prostitution (reader doesn't get involved in the industry), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Author's Notes: Took place in Bonten timeline.

Three men in suits. They only show up at the nightclub once in a very long while.

You always knew they were here because of your boss. Normally, he strutted around like the biggest guy in the room. But the second those tailored suits glided past, he completely shrank. You watched him, your hands full of empty glassware collected from the VIP booths. He'd sweat right through his crisp collar, eyes darting everywhere to avoid looking them in the face, fingers trembling so violently that the keys to the private lounge clinked like cheap plastic against his hip.

At first, you couldn't help but chuckle to yourself. Wiping down vinyl booths and scrubbing vomit off bathroom tiles got mind-numbing after a while, so watching your loud-mouthed boss turn into a terrified dog on a short leash was a welcome distraction.

But the amusement didn't last long. It was hard not to notice the weird bookkeeping after that—the endless trail of shell companies stamped across invoices, and there was an unusually large amount of cash coming through the registers. The numbers didn't add up for a venue that was rarely even half full.

But what really got under your skin, though, was one of those men.

He couldn't have been much older than you. He had his hair slicked neatly back, striking violet eyes, and a suit that clearly cost more than you'd make in a year.

Every time he walked in, there was a strange prickling sensation settled at the base of your neck. For some reason, you couldn't place the feeling you'd seen him before. Like recognizing someone from a dream you'd forgotten the moment you woke up.

In the end, you just brushed it off.

As a busser—though "runner" sounded much more professional when management wanted extra work done—you weren't exactly rolling in luxury. However, it was still the best paycheck you'd earned since arriving in Tokyo. Ever since the day you packed your entire life into a single duffel bag after a screaming match with your family, cut the SIM card out of your phone, and vanished without saying a single word to your boyfriend, Ran.

For a long time, you'd wondered whether he'd been angry. Eventually, you stopped wondering altogether.

People moved on.

That was what everyone said.

Since then, you have bounced between a dozen different dead-end jobs, but none of them ever lasted very long. Then you landed here. Sure, a high-end nightclub in the heart of Tokyo didn't hand fat envelopes of cash to a high school dropout out of the goodness of its heart. But for someone without a college degree to their name, the money was simply too good to pass up, so you buried your doubts and decided to stick around.

After all, you had a future to build and a clean life to live. Asking questions didn't put money in your pocket, while keeping your head down and keeping your mouth shut did.

_

Routine is a drug. Better than alcohol, better than a cigarette snuck on the fire escape at three in the morning. You could give up the cash, swear off the canned iced coffee that kept your heart racing through four-a.m. closes, but you could never give up the sweet, predictable numbness of a routine. Because how else are you supposed to view a boring late night when your entire existence is built on keeping things as utterly uneventful as possible?

Your shift had officially ended five minutes ago. Up on the main floor, the heavy bass from the subwoofers had finally dialed down, thrumming through the floorboards, vibrating right up through the thin rubber soles of your worn sneakers.

You unpinned the plastic nametag and tossed it onto the cold metal bench beside your duffel. You were just pulling a hoodie over your head when the door swung open, and one of your coworkers dragged himself inside, his apron slouched so low it practically trailed on the floor, looking thoroughly defeated.

"If I have to wipe down one more sticky table, I am going to throw myself off the balcony," Kenzo groaned, collapsing onto the bench next to your bag with a dramatic flop. "I'm serious. I'll do it. You ever think about just quit?"

"Yeah, every shift," you answered, zipping up your hoodie as you leaned back against the cool metal of the lockers.

"Same." He wheezed, sitting up and rubbing his face. "Then payday rolls around and suddenly I remember why I'm still here. Funny how that works."

"Stockholm syndrome, probably," you smirked, playfully.

"Pretty sure that's not what that means."

"Close enough."

The lighthearted banter filled the room; he was one of the few perks of working in a place like this.

You shoved your hands into your hoodie pockets, ready to call it a night. But Kenzo didn't move. He didn't bother unbuttoning his vest or ditching his apron yet. Instead, he stayed put on the narrow metal bench, nervously picking at a loose thread near his hip. His fidgeting immediately set off alarm bells in the back of your mind.

"Hey," he started softly, looking up through his bangs. "Are you... heading straight home?"

"Why?"

"Well, I was just thinking..." Kenzo rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing an embarrassed pink. "We've been working together for a few months now, and you're really cool. Like, really cool. And I was wondering if maybe... you'd want to get breakfast with me sometime? Or grab a drink on our night off? As a date, I mean."

He offered a hopeful little smile. "I've liked you for a while now."

In an instant, the atmosphere in the room became thick and charged, as if the very air had lost its substance.

It wasn't that Kenzo wasn't cute. He was. He was attentive and kind too, embodying everything one could want in a friend or partner. But the moment the word date left his mouth, the ghost of a violet-eyed glare immediately settled right in the back of your mind, making your heart claw its way back up your throat.

You couldn't do this. You couldn't. The idea of letting anyone that close again—of running the risk of finding out someone else had a hidden side—made your stomach turn into a tight knot. You knew, even if the sweet boy standing in front of you had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the person you were before.

"Kenzo, I... I'm really flattered," you said, forcing a polite smile onto your face before the silence could stretch into something weird. "You're great, and you always make this place bearable. But I'm really not in a place to date anyone right now. I've just got... a lot of personal stuff I'm dealing with."

Kenzo's eyes widened, and he instantly held up both hands, regret washing over his face.

"Oh, man—no, hey, say no more," he said quickly, his posture slumping back in visible relief that he hadn't made a total mess of things. "I am so sorry if I made things weird! You don't owe me an explanation at all."

He rubbed his forehead, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. "My bad. I just thought I'd throw it out there, but we are totally cool, I promise."

"Thanks for understanding, Kenzo," you offered him a softer, more real smile.

"Of course," he said, as he finally stood up to head toward his own locker. "Get home safe, alright? See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder and stepping out of the locker room.

Somehow, that interaction left an unexpected ache somewhere in your chest. Not because you'd rejected him. More like it reminded you how ordinary people were supposed to fall in love.

Ask. Accept rejection. Feel embarrassed. Move on.

It shouldn't feel remarkable. Yet somehow... it did.

"Hey."

You had barely taken two steps out of the locker room when the manager's voice snapped through the hallway.

He jabbed a finger toward a tray someone had abandoned on a nearby counter. "You blind? Take care of that before you leave."

"...That's not mine," you mumbled.

"Do I look like I care?" he said, looking up long enough to glare.

You bit back a smart-ass response sitting on your tongue, picked up the tray, and carried it away. As you walked, you let out a long, shuddering breath, trying to shake off the lingering phantom chill of the past that Kenzo's sudden confession had accidentally dragged back to the surface. You told yourself you were safe. You were just a busser in a noisy club, leaving another late shift behind, walking toward the quiet exit.

After eight hours inside the muffled thump of the club, stepping onto the street was like walking straight into a fever dream.

Rain had slicked the narrow alleyways, turning the asphalt into a dark mirror that reflected the endless barrage of glaring red, pink, and yellow signs hanging overhead. As you turned onto the next street, one of the club promoters was speaking to a girl who couldn't have been older than eighteen. She clutched a suitcase in one hand and nodded eagerly at everything he said.

"You'll make more in one night than most office workers make all week," he said, handing her a business card. "All you need to do is just pour drinks and smile."

She smiled back with obvious relief. As you walk past, you wonder how long it took before she figured it out.

Walking through the crowded veins of Kabukicho meant running a nightly gauntlet of men—foreign tourists lined up like cattle outside the shady parlors, happily fueling the illegal prostitution rings that ran rampant through Tokyo's underbelly. Rich tourists and businessmen who openly bragged on the street about their upcoming flights to the Philippines or Thailand next month, genuinely believing that a fat wallet gave them a right to buy anyone they wanted for a night. To do whatever sick thing popped into their heads, even complain about local laws getting in the way.

God, how you loathed them. The scum who ran those operations, and the men who paid them.

You turned the corner into a quieter alleyway that served as a shortcut to the subway entrance, stepping around a puddle of spilled liquor as a group of intoxicated men stumbled out of a nearby club. Sometimes, you felt small and stupid and utterly trapped by the choices that brought you there.

You kept your chin tucked, eyes glued to the pavement.

Down here, Kabukicho was a graveyard of abandoned things. Tonight, your eyes caught a sun-bleached concert poster from three years ago, plastered right next to a bright yellow municipal sign warning against illegal dumping, though someone had already sprayed a streak of silver paint right across the fine print. Poor artist, getting buried under city ordinances.

Maybe they should've picked a better wall.

_

Back then, if anyone had asked you what Ran was like, you probably would have hesitated.

Because the answer depended entirely on who was asking, to your classmates, he was the infamous delinquent who skipped classes whenever he pleased, constantly getting into fights and attracting rumors the way neon signs attracted moths. To teachers, he and his brother were a huge pain in the ass. To strangers, he looked like the kind of boy parents warned their daughters about.

To you...

He was the idiot who complained about carrying your schoolbag while refusing to hand it back. The one who insisted motorcycles were perfectly safe, even while driving like he had a personal vendetta against speed limits and municipal traffic laws. The one who—somehow, against your better judgment—managed to make you laugh every single day.

You never really knew what he did after school. Sure, he was in a gang. They probably got into fights. He never volunteered details, and you never asked very hard. Because ignorance was clean. Ignorance let you pretend.

Looking back now, dating Ran Haitani had been like holding a lit match over an open gas line.

At the time, though, being eighteen had a remarkable way of convincing you that love was somehow immune to inconvenient questions.

You remembered one afternoon in particular.

It had been near the end of your final year, and the forecast had promised a light shower. Instead, the sky had split wide open, hammering rain against the school courtyard until the world outside the awning was blurred into gray watercolor smudges.

Half the students had already surrendered, making phone calls to parents or cramming three people beneath umbrellas designed for one.

You simply stood beneath the awning with your backpack hugged against your chest, determined not to text Ran for a ride. You were perfectly capable of surviving one rainy afternoon on your own; you didn't need a boyfriend catering to your every minor inconvenience.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

As the rain only grew heavier, you were beginning to wonder whether swimming home counted as a viable commute when a familiar motorcycle rolled to a stop in front of the school gates.

Ran climbed off first, he was already completely soaked.

His braids clung to the sides of his face, water dripping from the ends onto his jacket. In one hand, he held a completely transparent convenience-store umbrella with a bright yellow price sticker still attached to the handle.

"I knew you would forget," he said, swung his leg over the bike, and stepped into the pouring rain without a care in the world.

You glanced at the umbrella, then at him. "Where did you even get that? You didn't have it when you drove up."

"Stole it," he said without missing a beat. "Off some salaryman outside the convenience store. I told him it was an emergency."

"Ran! You can't just rob middle-aged men of their umbrellas!"

"Tomato, tomahto."

He looked genuinely offended that the sight made a laugh bubble right up out of your chest; he then held the umbrella over your head before you could argue further. The rest of him remained entirely outside its protection.

And that was the thing about Ran back then, wasn't it? He could be reckless, absurd, completely unbothered by the rules everyone else lived by. But when it came to you, he'd stand in the storm and make sure not a single drop touched your clothes.

"...Move closer." You frowned immediately. "The umbrella is supposed to cover both of us. You're getting soaked."

"I already am soaked," he replied, grinning so broadly.

The walk back to your house was absurd. Ran held the umbrella over you so meticulously that not a single drop of rain touched your clothes, which meant he was getting progressively soaked to the bone. Every time you tried to push the handle toward him so he could share, he would just push it right back over your head.

"Ran, stop it, you are completely ridiculous," you huffed, trying to grab his wrist.

"And you are entirely ungrateful," he shot back. "I am ruining a very expensive pair of shoes for you right now. The least you could do is hold my hand."

You rolled your eyes, but you slipped your fingers into his wet palm anyway.

"Seriously, you're going to catch pneumonia, Ran."

By the time your house came into view, your shoes squelched with every step.

The umbrella had somehow become even less effective over the course of the walk. You suspected it had something to do with Ran repeatedly spinning it like a baton every time he got bored.

When you finally reached your front porch, you stepped under the roof and turned around to face him. He closed the umbrella, shaking off the excess water, standing a step below you on the concrete stairs so he was almost at eye level. Water was dripping on his face, his violet eyes dark and bright against the gray afternoon light.

He reached out, his fingers surprisingly warm despite the weather, and gently brushed a few damp strands of hair away from your face, tucking them behind your ear.

"You look so cute," he said, his thumb resting against your cheekbone. "I don't think I'd ever let anyone else see you with your hair mess like this."

You laughed, rolling your eyes. "What, because I'd embarrass you?"

"Nah, I'd just rather keep this to myself."

You opened your mouth to make another joke. Then his hand tightened so much that it actually hurt, his fingers locked into the damp strands, holding your head in place. The playful warmth in his face hadn't disappeared, but the smile on his lips had gone completely still.

His violet eyes were entirely flat.

"I'm serious," he murmured.

For reasons you couldn't name—reasons you wouldn't dare admit to yourself until years later—the rain pouring off the porch roof suddenly felt like ice against your skin.

And then, just as quickly as the vice had closed, he let go.

You stood on your porch for a long time, staring at him, your scalp still tingling from the pressure of his hand. Until he ruffled your hair instead, ruining whatever neatness he'd just created.

"You literally just fixed it," you groaned, forcing the annoyance back into your voice, forcing your hands to stay at your sides instead of checking where his fingers had bruised your scalp.

"I changed my mind," he beamed.

"You are the worst."

You shoved his shoulder, and he laughed.

The strange little moment disappeared beneath the familiar rhythm of your bickering, washed away as easily as rainwater running into the street.

At least...

That's what you told yourself back then.

_

Your apartment was typical for a cheap Tokyo rental.

Running away sounded much more romantic before you actually did it. In reality, it mostly consisted of glorified shoeboxes with paper-thin walls, convenience store dinners, counting coins before grocery shopping, and pretending you weren't homesick every time you passed families eating together through restaurant windows.

As you lay stretched out on your futon, scrolling mindlessly through your phone until your eyes burned, the muffled soundtrack of the building bled straight through the plaster. Above you, the thump-thump of the upstairs neighbor pacing in his slippers. You paused your scrolling, casually turning your head to listen; it was a nosy habit born out of living in such close quarters. You knew exactly when the university student next door overslept because he'd come barreling down the hallway every morning. The elderly couple across the landing always turned their television to the news right after dinner. And every Thursday without fail, someone two floors below practiced the trumpet with the confidence of a professional and the talent of an injured goose.

To keep the exorbitant Tokyo rent from completely eating your wages, you shared the tiny two-room unit with a girl named Mayu, who worked as a hostess at a high-end lounge a few blocks away.

Mayu pushed open the thin sliding door to your room. She pulled out a tub of cleansing balm and began aggressively wiping off her heavy night makeup while the television played some late-night variety show neither of you was paying attention to.

"I thought my feet were going to fall off tonight," she grumbled, rubbing a cotton pad over her eye. "Some middle-aged salaryman kept making me stand up to pour his whiskey just so he could stare at my legs!"

"You get paid triple what I do for that," you replied, not looking up from your screen. "Suck it up."

"Yeah, yeah." She tossed a used cotton pad toward the tiny trash bin, missing completely. "Though... speaking of high-rollers, one of my regulars was shitting his pants tonight."

That caught your attention. "Why? Did his wife catch him?"

"Worse," Mayu lowered her voice, though she didn't really need to, the thin plaster walls meant anyone in the hallway could hear her anyway. "He handles some of the logistics for the venue owners around here. Apparently, some executives from Bonten were in the area tonight, doing surprise audits and checking the books."

You didn't need to ask who or what Bonten was. Anyone living in Japan knew the name. They were Japan's most ruthless criminal syndicate—that had absorbed every major gang in the country and turned it into a multi-billion-yen corporate organization. From high-stakes gambling and drug trafficking to prostitution to the very money-laundering front that paid your rent, Bonten owned the city from the top down. The police didn't go near them, politicians took their money, and normal people like you just prayed that they would never ever cross your path.

Your thumb paused over your phone screen for a second at the name, but your face remain totally blank.

Mayu leaned in a little closer, her face half-cleansed, looking thoroughly entertained by the drama. "He said if Bonten finds even a single yen missing, someone gets a bullet in the head. Plain and simple."

A small, dry laugh bubbled up in your throat. You tossed your phone onto the blanket and rolled onto your side to face her. "Maybe don't get involved with syndicate freaks like that if he doesn't have a death wish."

"Right?" Mayu giggled, applying a layer of night cream. "I told him to just drink and shut up, but the guy could barely hold his glass."

She kept chatting for a moment. You waited until Mayu finished capping her skincare jars, watching her wipe her hands on a small towel, before you allowed yourself to shift the mood.

"Anyway," you sighed, letting out an exaggerated groan as you buried half your face in the pillow. "Enough about pathetic old men. I have actual important news."

Mayu paused mid-rub, blinking through her bangs. "Like what?"

"The trailer just dropped," you said, a small, genuine smirk finally breaking through the tension in your jaw.

"Really. For our show?" Her eyes lit up immediately, the poor bastard was already forgotten. That was Mayu for you.

"Yep! On Friday next week. Since we both have the night off, we're bingeing the whole thing."

"Deal," she smiled. "I'll handle the snacks."

You exhaled—a rare, unburdened thing—and closed your eyes, letting the ambient hum filter through the paper-thin windowpane. Next door, the university kid was probably already asleep, bracing for another morning of running late to class.

Because you believed, deeper down, in that naive part of yourself you kept safe that as long as you stayed small, as long as you minded your own business, names like Bonten were just stories that would stay as something above your head. You had no inkling that in just a few days, Friday night would come and go, and those silly little plans would mean absolutely nothing.

_

A week slipped by without incident.

You slept through bright afternoons and spent most nights weaving between strangers who would forget your face before sunrise, collecting abandoned bottles, clearing ashtrays no matter how many times management insisted smoking wasn't allowed indoors anymore, delivering drinks upstairs when the cocktail servers became overwhelmed.

Life, for the most part, resumed exactly as it always did.

Then the black sedans returned.

It wasn't entirely shocking that they showed up without a warning or a schedule; no one ever knew when they were coming. Sometimes they vanished for an entire season before showing up again as though they'd never left. Other times they appeared twice within the same week, completely without warning.

The moment your manager spotted them through the front entrance, every trace of confidence evaporated as usual.

He was already damn unraveling. He'd already barked at a bartender for polishing the wrong glasses and snapped at one of the DJs because a speaker cable was (god forbid) two centimeters out of place. By the time the front doors quietly opened to admit the suited visitors, there was enough sweat on his forehead that you wondered whether he ought to see a doctor.

Men like him—petty tyrants on short leashes—never handle real fear well. When their own knees start knocking, they do the only thing they know how to do: they look around for someone smaller to kick.

And tonight, the lottery ticket fell on you.

Spotting you wiping down a nearby tray station, he barked, "You! Bring a fresh pitcher of ice water to the VIP booth right now!"

You glanced around, there were at least four other employees standing closer than you were. Apparently, fate had decided your face annoyed him the least.

"...Yes, boss," you said.

He didn't stick around to check if you moved, already scrambling off toward the velvet ropes so fast he nearly tripped over the edge of the entryway carpet.

You kept your face completely expressionless and quickly filled a glass pitcher with ice and water. You knew better than to make him ask twice when he was in a mood like this.

You placed it onto a silver tray alongside three untouched crystal tumblers before making your way upstairs. The music dulled into a distant heartbeat with every step. The VIP corridor remained as immaculate as ever, even the security staff stationed outside the doors stood a little straighter than usual.

One of the VIP room doors remained open just enough for you to step inside after a quick knock.

Eyes down. Always eyes down. You navigated through the velvet ropes into the central lounge. Still... curiosity was free, wasn't it?

"—the numbers from the shell holding accounts don't match the front-end receipts," a voice said. "If they comes knocking, this venue's legitimate revenue needs to swallow the extra capital cleanly. That's the entire reason your name is on the registration, isn't it?"

"O-Of course, sir! It was just a minor delay in transferring—" your manager stammered, wringing his hands.

"I don't care about your excuses," the main voice interrupted.

Your gaze drifted upward just enough to take in the room and the three men.

The manager was talking to a long-haired man with white hair, wearing a vibrant red jacket paired with two long golden earrings. The undercut shaved clean along the left side of his head, with someone had carved an intricate emblem into the exposed hairline, resembling a Hanafuda full moon card.

It wasn't subtle. Then again, you suspected subtlety had never particularly interested men at the very top of the food chain.

Subtlety was for people like you.

To his right stood a man with a distinctive pinkish-purple mullet, quietly observing the room without speaking much. Beside him was the third man, and just like the mullet hair, he hadn't spoken once since you'd entered. Both of them wore tailored suits, and etched directly onto the front of their necks was the exact same stylized logo shaved into the white-haired man's head.

It didn't take a genius to figure that the nightclub wasn't your manager's. Not really.

It's running some massive money laundering shit for someone way higher. You were certain of it. The club is legally registered under the manager's name—a detail you stumbled across on a stray tax document in the back office—which meant the poor bastard was nothing more than a glorified human shield to rot in a cell the second the police finally decided to smash down the doors.

So he talked.

And shuffled his feet.

And talked.

The white-haired man didn't even glance your way as you approached. He just leaned back into the plush leather sofa, lazily swirling a glass of amber liquor between his fingers. While every few moments the manager would laugh nervously.

You reached across the low mahogany table to set down the tumbler. Suddenly, the manager stepped back in his bowing shuffle.

His elbow clipped your forearm.

Ice, water, and dark amber liquor splashed across the dark wood, pooling instantly over the edge of the table and dripping straight onto the polished leather shoe of the man with the slicked-back hair.

A gasp died in the manager's throat. You froze, your pulse spiking into a deafening roar in your ears. No. No, no, no. If you kept your head down, carried the trays, and did your job, they would never bat an eye at you earning chump change. But now, you had drawn a direct line of sight straight to yourself.

Slowly, the man with the slicked-back hair looked down at his soaked shoe, then raised his eyes to yours.

He blinked once, as though only now realizing there had been another person standing beside the table all along.

His eyes lingered for the smallest fraction of a second longer than politeness required, slowly drifting over the nametag pinned crookedly to your vest, the loose strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail, the tiny scar near your wrist from years of bussing tables.

"...Have we...?"

"Me?" You looked up, confused.

He didn't finish the sentence, holding your gaze for another heartbeat. Then, imperceptibly, the tension in his expression dissolved. The corners of his mouth lifted into an apologetic smile, and he gave the faintest shake of his head.

"Nothing." He let out a soft chuckle. "For a second, I thought you reminded me of someone."

You tried to process the strange chill of his voice, staring at the sharp line of his jaw, the neat slick of his hair. Did you know him? Did you pass him on a train? Had he been one of those customers at the diner you worked at three jobs ago?

Or was it something else? Something from the before?

Suddenly, your manager's voice cut through; his face lost what little color remained.

"You utter idiot!" the manager shrieked, grabbing a napkin. "What is wrong with you?! I am so sorry—please forgive them, they're completely incompetent, I'll fire them right now, I'll—"

"It's alright."

The slicked-back hair man raised a single hand, stopping the manager in his tracks.

He leaned forward, picking up a cloth from the tray, and turned his full attention to you. His face softened into an easy expression that felt shockingly strange from someone with a tattoo displayed so openly across his neck.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and you flinched at the way he did; it sounded an inch too familiar.

"...Sorry?"

He gestured toward the floor. "You didn't get cut by any broken glass, did you?"

"I—no. No, I'm fine. I'm so sorry," you stammered, entirely thrown off balance by his sudden gentle demeanor.

He let out a chuckle, waving a hand dismissively at his ruined shoe as he dabbed at the spill. "Don't apologize. Honestly, it's a relief—I've been looking for an excuse to throw these shoes away anyway. They were a gift from my brother, and his taste in leather is questionable at best."

Beside him, the man with the mullet scoffed softly, rolling his eyes with an irritated twitch of his jaw.

Meanwhile, the man with the white hair slowly folded his arms, leaning back against the leather booth with a mocking smile stretching across his face. He eyed his colleague up and down.

"Look at you. What brought on the suddenly generous mood?" he said, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"Ignore him," the slicked-back man murmured to you with a smooth wave of his hand, as he reached out to help you pick up the fallen tray and wipe down the edge of the booth. "Here, let me give you a hand with that."

Your manager looked horrified. "S-Sir, please, we'll clean that immediately."

"I've got hands. They're working fine."

The manager forced out an awkward chuckle that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. The poor man somehow looked even more anxious.

You found yourself awkwardly kneeling opposite the slick-haired stranger, carefully gathering the larger shards onto a folded napkin.

"I'm so sorry—"

"You've just been apologizing, dear. Relax a little." He tilted his head, watching the way you kept your head ducked, your focus strictly glued to the floor tiles. "Do you work here every night?"

You told him because you didn't see any harm in that.

As he worked alongside you for a brief, surreal moment, he made small talk—asking how long you'd been working here, complaining lightheartedly about how this venue is a bit too loud, how hard it was to have a decent conversation over that bass downstairs. Certainly, you nodded to be polite, and agreed that it was much nicer when it's quiet. Meanwhile, he acted for all the world like a charming patron enjoying a night out. Keep up the hard work. They'll be seeing you around.

When you reached for another shard, you happened to look up to check where his hands were—and your eyes caught the second man in the room.

The man with the pinkish-purple mullet wasn't watching the broken glass.

He was watching you.

Specifically, he was watching the slick-haired man watching you. Neither of them spoke and simply exchanged a look, a strangely familiar one. It was so brief, so razor-thin, you almost convinced yourself your mind had invented it entirely. Just the faintest, imperceptible twitch of an eyebrow from the mulleted man, answered by the subtle shift in the other's jaw.

Then both of them looked away as though nothing had happened; a strange feeling settled somewhere in the back of your mind.

You tied off the towel around the broken crystal. Apologized once more, and then excused yourself from the room.

"Thanks," you said quietly.

"Of course."

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his suit trousers before stepping aside to let you pass. "Have a safe shift."

"You too."

The words left your mouth, and halfway through the doorway, you realized how ridiculous that sounded.

"I'll certainly try." He smiled a little wider.

You stepped clear of the threshold and back into the hallway, your breath catching in your throat as your shoulder nearly brushed fabric.

Standing right beside the frame—so close to the entrance he had been completely swallowed by the alcove's shadows when you first walked in—was a towering man in a dark suit. He stood dead still, hands folded low over his belt like a gargoyle guarding a vault. Must be a bodyguard, then.

He hadn't been there when you walked down the hall earlier. Or... had he?

How the hell did you miss a man the size of a refrigerator?

You didn't look up at his face. You knew better than to make eye contact with the muscle of whatever syndicate was currently occupying that room. You kept your eyes glued to the floor, clutching the tray of broken glass against your ribs, and hurried past him before the door clicked shut behind you. Behind you, the manager resumed discussing figures in a voice still trembling from nerves.

Later that night, while throwing away the trash bag, you caught a glimpse of one of the newer girls standing outside.

She was leaning against the wall, her shoulders trembling, the edges of her heavy eyeliner ready to dissolve in a fresh wave of tears. Before you had the chance to ask whether she was alright, she noticed you looking. She wiped her eyes with a flick of her thumb and flashed you a bright, yet, entirely hollow smile.

You smiled back out of habit and kept dragging the trash bag toward the bin. You turned your back on her and went right back to doing what you were paid to do.

Because there wasn't a thing you could do for her.

But that memory stayed with you far longer than you expected on the train ride home after your shift. Maybe because she looked so painfully young. Then again, most of these girls were so young, arriving in Tokyo full of life and desperate for a shortcut to a comfortable paycheck, only to realize too late that the industry didn't let go once it had its teeth in you. Some of them came here hoping for an easy ride; others were backed into a corner by debts or circumstances that forced it on them, bad luck had a funny way of disguising itself as opportunity. But regardless of how they arrived, very few ever made it to the top as high-earning hostesses. Most just had their youth chewed up and spit out, carrying a ruined reputation.

Strange as it sounded, you couldn't help but feel relief.

You were glad you had only stumbled into this red-light district venue older and thoroughly disillusioned by the world. If you had been a few years younger, this industry would have easily swallowed you whole. You would have been just like her, crying behind the building before the next client called your number.

_

The next evening, you woke up in an unusually good mood.

Certainly not because you had developed a newfound appreciation for mopping spilled champagne off marble floors.

No, it was because your favorite television series was finally releasing its newest season.

You weren't even supposed to be working the late shift tonight, if not for your manager suddenly called you in. It was originally slated as your night off, and your calendar—if you actually kept one instead of scrawling reminders on the backs of crumpled receipts—was packed with the kind of aggressive relaxing only a thoroughly exhausted twenty-something could appreciate.

You had spent the last two weeks trying (and failing) not to think about it. You and your roommate had spent the entire week planning around the show. She had already bought snacks, and the second your shift ended at two in the morning, you would be sprinting to the convenience store for drinks and fried chicken. Though if she catches you bringing home yet another can of melon soda instead of the green tea she asked for, she was bound to yank a couch cushion off the futon and hurl it directly at your face. But c'mon. It wasn't your fault that the machine was half-empty and you were prone to picking whatever flavor gave you a hit of nostalgia.

Neither of you intended to answer texts, phone calls, or the front door until every episode had been consumed. There was a very real possibility you'd both be functioning on three hours of sleep tomorrow. But it would absolutely be worth it.

That singular thought carried you all the way through getting dressed.

The train ride.

The familiar walk toward Kabukicho.

Tokyo looked strangely charming whenever you had something to look forward to. You practically skipped past a group of sketchy promoters shouting at passersby, silently wishing them a lovely evening in your head. Even the local crackhead picking violently at his own arms and screaming at a lamppost wasn't a public menace to you—he was just a passionate street performer tragically born without a stage.

There was a moment that you caught yourself looking around and thinking that, from a distance, the place almost resembled one of those movie montages about chasing dreams in Tokyo. Even Kabukicho itself somehow managed to seem... endearing.

(if you squinted hard enough.)

By the time you pushed through the staff entrance, you were humming the opening theme from the show under your breath.

The manager was standing by the tray station. The moment his eyes landed on you, his usual scowl contorted into a horrifyingly wide smile, that you briefly wondered whether someone was threatening him just outside your field of vision.

"Ah! There you are!" he chirped, the buttery tone that made the hair on the back of your neck stand straight up. "I was just waiting for you!"

You instinctively glanced behind yourself, there was nobody, just you.

"...Evening, boss?" you answered cautiously. Had he developed a fever? "Is... something wrong?"

"Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?" He practically glided over to you, patting your shoulder with an unsettling touch that felt completely wrong coming from a man who had screamed at you for spilling water last night. "I just wanted to make sure you were feeling okay after yesterday! That spill was a complete accident, of course. I hope you didn't take my little outburst to heart. You're one of our best runners here, you know that, right?"

"I... thank you?"

He nodded, then stepped aside to let you pass first. He never voluntarily let you through a doorway before.

Something was wrong.

You continued toward the staff room. A minute later, he appeared beside you carrying a fresh stack of polished glasses.

"I already assigned someone else to clean the hallway," he said. "In fact, why don't you take it a little easy tonight?" he continued, waving a hand dismissively as if bestowing a royal blessing upon you. "No heavy lifting! Just handle the light glassware in the back, okay? If you need a break, just take one!"

There it was.

Definitely a fever.

Or a concussion.

Take last week, for example, he called you an incompetent dropout who was good for nothing. And somehow this bothered you far more than if he'd simply yelled at you instead.

"...Really."

"Of course." He nodded enthusiastically. "If anyone ever asks, you'll tell them I treat everyone here like family, alright? "

"...Who's asking?" you asked, narrowing your eyes.

His smile twitched.

"No one."

Then why would anyone ask?

Before you could press him about it, he patted your arm one last time, flashed that uncanny sweet smile, and turned on his heel to hurry toward his office, leaving you standing alone in the hallway.

"...Huh."

A cold, prickly sensation spread across your skin, drowning out all the excitement you had felt just five minutes ago. The manager wasn't nice. He didn't care about his staff, he didn't forgive mistakes out of the goodness of his heart, and he certainly didn't hand out special treatment for free. Something was definitely off tonight, you just couldn't figure out what.

You raised your eyes to the tiny black dome of the security camera mounted in the corner of the hallway, the display monitor was probably mounted somewhere that mirrored the feed.

Ah, perfect, you thought, channeling your best deadpan internal monologue. Maybe the manager finally realized your so-majestic talent for carrying six empty beer mugs at once and decided to crown me employee of the month.

"If he gives you one more break tonight, I am going to throw myself off the roof," a voice muttered from behind you.

You turned to see Kenzo dragging a heavy bin of clinking glass bottles, his face flushed red with exertion and bitterness. He dumped the bin onto the staging table with a loud clatter and slumped against the wall. It took you a while to get over the other day, but you both are cool now.

"I swear, the guy has completely lost it. He's dumping all the floor work on me!" Kenzo complained, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

You offered him an albeit helpless, grimace. "I swear, something feels weird."

"Yeah, well, his mood isn't the only weird thing tonight," Kenzo sighed, lowering his voice as he leaned in closer. "Those guys are back."

You blinked, your thumb pausing over the edge of your apron. "What guys?"

"The suit guys." Kenzo shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair. "The ones everyone acts weird around."

Your stomach did an uneasy flip. "That doesn't make any sense. They never show up two days in a row."

"Tell me about it," Kenzo said, picking up a fresh stack of linen napkins. "Maybe they're really into our cocktails."

He meant it as a joke. But you didn't laugh. And he didn't seem to notice it, at least he didn't voice any concern.

Meanwhile, you just stood there, let the noise of the venue wash over you, and sat in the strangeness of it all. You stared at the scuffed tiles beneath your worn sneakers, watching a stray drop of condensation run down the side of a glass bottle on the staging table. It probably just money-laundering stuff. It has nothing to do with you.

You were always doing this—overanalyzing, picking apart every shift in the air, measuring the space between yourself and the nearest exit like a feral dog that had spent too long on a leash. It was exhausting. It made you paranoid, hyper-vigilant, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop while everyone else around you just... lived. Kenzo was probably going to go home after this, fry up some instant ramen, and sleep for ten hours.

Before you could fully digest the sudden creeping dread, heavy footsteps echoed down the tiled corridor.

The manager rounded the corner, his face pale and slick with a fresh sheen of sweat. The overly polite demeanor he had worn earlier was entirely gone, replaced by a high-strung panic that made his hands twitch at his sides. He completely ignored Kenzo, his eyes locking directly onto you.

"You," the manager gasped. "I need you upstairs immediately."

You stiffened slightly. "Upstairs? But I thought—"

"The VIP room needs a quick wipe-down," he snapped. "Some glasses left over from earlier. Go ahead and clear the table, okay?"

Kenzo shot you a confused look from behind the manager's back, but you just swallowed down the sudden lump in your throat. There was no point in arguing or overthinking it. Cleaning up dirty glassware in the VIP lounge was literally what you were paid to do. It was just another table. Just another five minutes of work standing between you and your night off.

"Understood," you said. "I'll handle it right away."

You grabbed an empty tray, pushed open the swing doors, and headed down the dimly lit corridor toward the private room at the very end of the hall. The muffled bass from downstairs barely reached this far.

You stopped outside one of the VIP rooms. The door stood slightly open. You knocked lightly. No response.

Assuming the guests had already cleared out and left the mess for you to deal with, you placed your palm against the wood and pushed it open.

Sitting in the center of the plush leather booth were those two men from yesterday—the white-haired man was swirling a drink, while the one with the slicked-back hair sat beside him, his long legs crossed comfortably over the other. While the third one, the man with the pinkish-purple mullet, was nowhere to be seen.

You froze, the heavy tray slipping an inch in your grip.

Click.

Behind your back, the door swung shut, and the heavy brass lock slid firmly into place.

For one long second, your thoughts simply stopped, then they came back all at once.

You were such an idiot.

You'd spent months telling yourself to keep your head down, not ask questions, not wander into situations that didn't concern you, and the one time you ignored your own advice, you managed to lock yourself inside a VIP room with the people who made your manager look like he was awaiting sentencing. You had been set up, handed over like a piece of property wrapped in a ribbon. How could you have been so unbelievably gullible? Why on earth would a high-ranking executive from a ruthless syndicate—a man who owned half the district—ever be nice to a dropout busser who spilled a drink on his shoes?

"So."

Behind you, a voice broke the silence.

The white-haired man leaned back comfortably on the leather sofa, studying you with open curiosity before glancing toward the slick-haired man beside him.

"...Is that the one?"

"Yeah," the other man didn't hesitate.

"Huh." A crooked smile spread across the white-haired man's face. He looked you up and down without the slightest hint of subtlety. "You've got terrible taste."

Hearing that, the slick-haired man laughed under his breath. "I've been told."

They sounded almost... amused.

Like two old friends teasing each other over something completely ordinary.

"I'm..." Slowly, you turned back around. Your throat felt dry. "I'm sorry, but I think there's been a misunderstanding."

Neither man interrupted.

So you continued. "I-I'm not one of the work girls. They must've sent the wrong person."

Your eyes darted around the lounge, searching for anyone. The white-haired man watched you with the same bored expression as yesterday. Only then did you properly notice the third figure, a man dressed in a dark suit stood silently beside the wall near the entrance; you couldn't even remember seeing him when you'd first walked inside.

The realization made your stomach sink even further.

"I really don't..." you blurted out, panicking, making the words spill together. "I don't do... those kinds of services. I'd be terrible at it and I'd honestly just make everything awkward. I'm serious."

The slicked-back man let out an amused huff at that.

For the first time since you'd entered, he actually laughed. A genuine one. It felt horribly out of place.

"I know."

"...You... do?"

You looked up, the simple answer caught you completely off guard.

"Believe me, I'm not asking you to do anything like that. If that's what I wanted, I wouldn't have gone through all this trouble," he continued in the same calm tone someone might use while offering tea, and then gestured calmly toward the empty chair opposite the sofa.

"Come sit," he said.

You didn't move. And frankly, you'd better stand.

"Well, suit yourself," he shrugged, his tone remaining remarkably relaxed. "I'm not going to force you into the chair."

Hearing that should've made you feel better, yet, your heartbeat refused to slow.

He sighed softly, pressing his lips together as though suppressing a smile of his own. "I only wanted to have a heartfelt talk, really."

"...Talk?" you asked, looking helplessly between the locked door and the bodyguard. "I don't understand. Who are you?"

"You really don't recognize me?" He blinked, taking in your wide, terrified eyes and the white-knuckle grip you had on your empty tray.

You stared blankly at him, and he didn't seem offended.

"I'm sorry. Should I?"

"...That's disappointing." He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head to himself. "Well, I suppose it's been a long time. I was hoping we'd have a nicer reunion than this."

Your eyebrows drew together, a knot of confusion twisting tight in your gut. "...Did we... know each other?"

"Mhm, I'd certainly hope so."

He uncrossed his long legs, leaning his elbows on his knees as he looked up at you. "You disappeared before we even finished high school, [Name]."

You blinked.

...No...

No.

There were only a handful of people who even knew you'd disappeared before graduation.

Your pulse started to roar so loud in your head, drowned out the bass, and every nerve ending in your body is screaming at you to run, run, run. In real life, it was not the daydreams but your worst nightmares that come true: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still—even this far down the line) where he finds you, where he proves that no matter how far you run, you are still standing in his shadow.

Only now, years of distance was collapsing in on itself, the image of a Bonten executive overlapping with a memory you'd buried so deep you had almost convinced yourself it was dead.

"...Ran?"

"There you are, I was beginning to wonder whether you'd forgotten me entirely," he smiled a little wider, deepening the lines around his eyes.

You stared at him, at the slicked-back hair, the older face, the broader shoulders, and his violet eyes were darker, colder, stripped of whatever childish mischief they used to hold. You'd spent so long remembering him as the eighteen-year-old boy who showed up outside your school gates that you'd never once considered what eighteen years old eventually became.

You wished he had died years ago. You wished he had died as a foolish teenager in some nameless street fight on the asphalt of Roppongi. You tried to reason with yourself, tried to justify the wretchness, so terrible of the thought—as cruel as that wish was, the man sitting in front of you right now was infinitely more cruel than death.

Before either of you could say anything else, the white-haired man rose from the sofa with a dramatic sigh.

"Well," he said, checking a heavy gold watch on his wrist. "I've officially become the third wheel. Guess I'll go have the car brought around."

"Leaving already?" Only then did Ran finally look away from you.

Kokonoi looked between the two of you before clicking his tongue. "Well, you've got catching up to do."

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he walked toward the rear exit hidden behind one of the decorative wall panels. Halfway there, he looked back over one shoulder.

"And don't ever say I haven't done anything nice for you, Ran."

"I would never," Ran hummed back.

The concealed door opened soundlessly.

The bodyguard immediately stepped away from the main entrance and followed Kokonoi without a word, disappearing through the back passage behind him. The panel slid shut again.

Now it was only you and Ran.

After all these years.

"You know," Ran's voice breaks the silence, carrying that soft cadence from your teenage years, "I was really mad at you for a very long time. You just changed your number and ghosted me entirely. I figured you had your reasons, of course. You always were overly dramatic when you panicked. But I really hated not knowing what those reasons were."

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a black smartphone and tapping the screen a few times. A pale glow illuminated his face as he casually scrolled.

"It was also impressive, really. How thoroughly you hid yourself," he hummed. "Though, finding out you were working in one of Koko's little front operations last night was a hilarious stroke of luck. I spent the whole night reading up on what you've been up to. "You've had... quite the employment history."

"I wasn't exactly building a career," you muttered, looking down at your hands. Heat crept up your neck, hot and embarrassing.

But what else were you supposed to say? That you spent the last few years sprinting from one dead-end shift to the next, constantly looking over your shoulder?

"I noticed, you never stayed anywhere very long," he said, counting lazily on his fingers. "You quit the café after eight days. Bouncing around from diner to warehouse every few months, splitting rent with a hostess. Was it really worth it?"

"It was my choice," you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the muffled thump of the bass from the floor below.

"And look where it got you."

You can't even offer a defense because your brain is screaming that any wrong word could be your last.

He tilts his head, his violet eyes narrowing just a fraction with curiosity.

"...One thing surprised me, though. You never dated again, did you?"

The terror locking your jaw forced out the truth before you could even calculate if it's the right answer. You shook your head frantically. "No. I didn't."

"No?"

"No."

He searched your face for any sign you were lying, and finding none...

"That's good," he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if you had just given him the best gift in the world. "Because if you did, I would have had to hunt the bastard down and kill him then."

He paused, resting his cheek against his knuckles as a thought seemed to strike him. "Actually, that reminds me... that runner working with you earlier tonight. Kenzo, was it? He was standing a little too close to you by the tray station, wasn't he?"

"He's just a coworker," you said quickly, keeping your tone as flat and detached as humanly possible, trying to steer the conversation entirely away from him. "He means nothing. We just clear tables."

You couldn't defend Kenzo—not outright, in a way that would draw more attention to him or make Ran suspect he meant anything to you. You knew better than to be reckless with a man like this.

Still, Ran wasn't an idiot either. He caught the subtle shift in your posture the moment a name was brought into the room.

"Relax, I haven't done anything to your little coworker. Yet."

Without thinking, you took half a step backward. He chuckled softly at that, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his crystal glass. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?" You stared down at the tray.

"Looking at me like I'm about to hurt you."

"I don't know what you're going to do to me anymore, Ran," you blurted out. The words escaped before you could stop them, and Ran's smile disappeared entirely.

Almost... disappointed.

It was the same look he gave you back in high school when you refused to let him carry your bag, or when you didn't laugh at one of his terrible jokes—a look that feigned hurt, except this time, beneath the polished suit and the tattoo etched across his neck, there was a strange stillness to it that made your stomach turn inside out.

He stared at you for a long moment, taking in the way you cowered. Then exhaled.

"...I suppose that's fair."

Ran smoothed down the front of his tailored suit jacket, stepping out into the open space of the room, slowly closing the distance between you. His jaw set when you flinched away from his touch.

"I haven't really decided what I'm going to do with you yet, to be honest," he admitted, stopping barely two feet away. "Part of me wanted to tear your life apart the second I found you, just to teach you a lesson for running. But now that you're standing right here in front of me..."

"...I'm realizing I kind of missed having you around."

It was supposed to sound sweet. In some sick, twisted reality, maybe it was. The way he reached out, his fingers hovering mere inches from your cheek.

If you were smart—if you had an ounce of sense left in your skull—you'd drop to your knees, apologize until your voice gave out, and let him take you back. Instead, your eyes drifted past his shoulder to the back exit—the door the white-haired man and the bodyguard had walked through just minutes ago. It wasn't locked from the inside. It was a private exit, a clear shot to the service corridor.

Ran noticed your eyes move; his own flicked briefly toward the door, then back to you.

He didn't even acknowledge it. The silence stretched, and you realized if he was going to stop you, it had to be now.

Instead, he simply watched.

You didn't calculate the odds and swung the heavy metal tray, slamming it straight into Ran's chest, and bolted.

The chair beside you toppled over as you sprinted across the room, fingers fumbling desperately for the edge of the sliding panel. The cool air of the back corridor hit your face, and relief—blinding relief—surged through your veins.

You stole one brief, instinctive glance back over your shoulder, expecting to see Ran lunging after you.

He still hadn't moved an inch.

Ran was still standing right where you left him, casually brushing off his jacket where the tray had clipped him. He was looking at you with a pitying smile, as if watching a child try to run through a brick wall.

Before your mind could even process the horror of why he wasn't chasing you, instantly, a pair of arms clamped around your chest and shoulders like a steel vise. The massive bodyguard hadn't left; he was standing right outside the frame. It happened so quickly your brain struggled to catch up. Before you could even scream, he yanked you backward into the VIP suite, slamming your knees down onto the hardwood floor near the doorway. He twisted your arms behind your back, pinning you completely motionless.

Your forehead hit the edge of the low coffee table, the sharp shock of pain ringing through your skull as the guard held you completely pinned. Gasping for air, your chest heaving, you looked back into the room.

Ran was still standing in the center of the lounge, then raised those flat, dead violet eyes to yours.

Slowly, without a single trace of hurry or emotion, he reached inside his tailored suit jacket, the motion was so calm that it took you a while to register.

Then you heard a metallic click.

"Ran—" you choked out at the sight of Ran withdrawing a compact black pistol. "Ran, please. I'm sorry."

"I believe you, [Name]."

A pause.

"But actions have consequences."

His fingers closed around the pistol grip.

Pain didn't register immediately. First came the violent force that nearly tore you out of the bodyguard's grip, followed by a blinding, white-hot numbness in your left thigh. Then, a second later, the numbness detonated into a searing fire that made your vision bleed completely red, drowning out every thought, every memory, every breath.

You shrieked, a raw, guttural sound tore from your throat as you collapsed sideways against the floor.

Ran raised his left hand, making a flick of his wrist.

The bodyguard instantly let go, dropping your weight like a sack of dead lead. You hit the carpet hard, clutching violently at your bleeding leg, your breath coming in ragged, hyperventilating gasps as tears overflowed down your cheeks. Blood, dark and thick, was already soaking through your trousers, staining the plush carpet beneath you.

Ran calmly stepped forward, he crouched down right in front of you, bringing his face inches from yours while you gasped and sobbed, writhing in the suffocating heat of the wound.

"Look what you made me do," Ran said, reaching out and gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You always push me to these extremes."

He smoothed down his suit jacket, his expression completely undisturbed by the agonizing screams echoing off the soundproofed walls.

"You should be grateful that I like you as much as I do," he continued, his thumb tracing the tear spilling down your cheek. "No one has ever disrespected me the way you just did and lived to tell anyone about it."

He watched you for another moment before slipping the pistol back beneath his suit jacket. The room fell quiet again, he lifted his wrist toward his face.

You flinched violently, squeezing your eyes shut, fully expecting him to draw the gun again to finish what he started.

Instead, the soft tick of a second hand was the only sound in the room.

After several seconds, you slowly opened your eyes. Ran wasn't reaching for the gun, he was simply checking the time. He noticed, and the realization settled over his face with an imperceptible flicker of guilt.

"...Sorry," he murmured. "I didn't think about that. Koko should have the car waiting at the curb by now."

Before you could process his words, he leaned down. His arms slipped effortlessly beneath your back and the crook of your knees, hoisting you off the blood-stained carpet into a bridal carry.

The sudden movement jarred your shattered leg. Your hand instinctively grabbed the front of his jacket, and a pathetic whimper ripped from your chest as white-hot agony flared straight up your spine. Tears spilled hot and fast down your cheeks, your body shaking uncontrollably against his chest.

Ran paused mid-stride, looking down at you.

"...Does it hurt?" he asked, adjusting his grip so your head rested against his shoulder.

You could only stare at him through the blur of your tears, your jaw trembling so hard your teeth clicked together. The question was so utterly insane, that for a second your voice completely failed you.

"I-Is that... a joke?" you choked out.

He stepped out through the open back door and into the service corridor. "I really am sorry about the shot. I just couldn't risk you trying to run off again."

You didn't respond as he navigated the narrow hallway with unhurried steps. The club sounded different back here. The music became little more than a distant pulse behind thick walls.

"Though... I suppose I should apologize if the bullet nicked anything vital," he continued, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Sanzu was lecturing me the other day about the quadriceps—something about the femoral branches and nerve pathways. He said deep trauma there can cause permanent muscle weakness or even paralysis."

Your heart stopped. The realization that your leg might never work the same way again hit you like a physical blow, sending a fresh wave of panic through the blinding pain.

Ran must have felt the terror locking up your frame, because his grip on you was tightening, as if to comfort you.

"But don't worry about any of that," he said, pressing a reassuring kiss against the crown of your head. "I'm not going to abandon you just because you can't walk properly anymore. Honestly... it makes things a lot easier for both of us."

You closed your eyes, clutching weakly at his suit jacket, completely paralyzed by the horrifying reality of his words.

Ran adjusted his grip ever so slightly, careful not to jostle your leg more than necessary, and pushed through the heavy metal crash-doors at the end of the service hall, stepping out into the back alleyway. Just as you turned the corner toward the street where a black sedan sat idling in the shadows, its tinted windows reflecting the garish neon lights of Kabukicho.

Your vision was swimming in hazes of red and gray, but you were still able to register that a man stumbled out from the side entrance of a neighboring bar.

He was obviously drunk, with a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. Probably another customer who'd wandered into the wrong place after too many drinks. He bumped heavily against the wall, taking a staggering step before his foggy eyes landed on the scene unfolding right in front of him.

You forced your eyes open, locking your tear-filled gaze with his.

The man looked at your bleeding leg, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Ran's.

Ran didn't stop walking. He merely stared down the hallway with flat, ice-cold violet eyes, his expression utterly void of emotion. The tattoo etched into the side of his neck stood out under the dim overhead fluorescent strip.

The drunk man's face went entirely slack, his skin draining of color in a matter of seconds. The slight swagger vanished from his posture. Without saying a word, he abruptly turned his head away, deliberately staring at a grease-stained section of the brick wall as if he were suddenly fascinated by the masonry. He took a heavy step backward, pressing his spine flat against the wall to make as much room as possible for Ran to pass, his eyes fixed firmly on his own shoes.

How pathetic you were. How utterly, laughably naive.

Why would you plead for help from a stranger who didn't know you, who owed you nothing?

At the side of the idling sedan, Kokonoi was already leaning against the passenger door, checking something on his phone. Beside him stood the pinkish-purple-haired man from the VIP room, one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other idly spinning a set of car keys around his finger.

"There you are." Rindo looked up first, his eyes flicked briefly toward you before returning to Ran. "What took you so long? Koko's been checking his watch every thirty seconds."

Kokonoi lifted his brows without looking up from his phone, as if to confirm that.

"I had a small situation to handle," Ran replied, completely unbothered, as he merely adjusted his hold on you, resting his chin gently against the top of your head. His arms held you close as his men opened the rear passenger door from the inside.

"A situation?" Rindo repeated, letting out a quiet huff of air. "You mean you managed to shoot them within five minutes of getting them in a room?"

Kokonoi got in the car first, and Rindo followed him, finally flicking his eyes toward the blood soaking through your trousers. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it casually onto your lap.

"Guess I should introduce myself properly," he said. "I'm Rindo. Ran's younger brother. Though I'm sure you already remembered that much."

Rindo, you realized. Back then, wherever Ran was, his younger brother was never far behind.

You squeezed your eyes shut, too terrified and in too much pain to form a proper response.

Rindo rolled his eyes at your silence, turning his gaze back to Ran. "Unbelievable. You've been talking my ear off about finding them, going on and on about how you were going to handle it, and the moment you actually get your hands on them, you go and ruin my fresh car seats."

"It's just a little blood, Rindo," Ran said, reaching down to gently hold your wrists in a loose grip as the driver shifted the car into drive and pulled smoothly away from the curb. "Besides... they're not going anywhere now."

"Whatever. Just make sure Koko pays for the detailing," Rindo muttered, leaning his head back against the leather headrest with a bored sigh.

The car glided out of the dark alley, merging into the endless stream of Tokyo traffic. You lay slumped against the leather, your chest still hitching with helpless sobs, watching the glowing neon signs of the city fade into blurry streaks of light through the heavily tinted glass. Tonight was supposed to be Friday. You were supposed to be back in your tiny shoebox apartment by now, huddled under a blanket, binge-watching the show with Mayu while she complains about her feet.

Maybe she'd probably microwave the fried chicken because she was convinced you'd just missed the last train again.

Maybe she was texting you.

But you weren't going home tonight. Not now or ever.

Tears flooded your eyes, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. You felt so stupid, like an absolute idiot for crying over a missed TV show while a bullet hole bled through your leg.

Your hands, slick with cold sweat and trembling uncontrollably, reached up and clutched the lapels of Ran's ridiculously expensive tailored suit jacket. You buried your face directly into the crook of his neck and, weeping violently, wrinkling what probably cost more than three months of your rent.

You cried until you couldn't breathe properly. Until your nose was clogged. Until you were embarrassingly aware that you'd probably gotten tears, and quite possibly snot all over the suit, but you couldn't care less. You pressed your face harder into the fabric, weeping bitter, helpless tears. He deserved worse. He deserved infinitely worse than a ruined suit for what he was taking from you.

But Ran never once tried to pull away.

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