Gun does not expect the answer.
He expects a laugh that folds inward. A coy apology. A quick correction.
Instead she fires back without hesitation.
The words spill out cleanly, not slurred, not nervous. For a fraction of a second, something sharp and unfamiliar moves through him. Surprise, maybe… a hint of recognition. A spark.
He lets out a low laugh, brief and edged, a sound that vibrates through the suite and into the bones.
“You think you could reach?” he asks, voice smooth, almost conversational now. “That’s ambitious.”
Around them, the room roils. Reizo is shouting something obscene from atop the couch, and the thrum of the bass presses against his chest so hard it makes him restless. Bottles tip. Glass shatters. Perfume and sweat and liquor collide into something sticky and almost edible. None of it matters.
Gun’s gaze stays locked on her.
She beams at him suddenly, sweetness layered on too thick, a practiced lightness masking something sharper. The sarcasm between them is a current he can feel. He appreciates it.
Then she shifts and introduces herself.
The politeness is jarring in a room built on excess. Too formal, too careful, almost theatrical. It feels like a move.
He studies her for a long beat, sunglasses unmoved, chin tilted just slightly as if adjusting the lens through which he assesses her.
“Honoka,” he repeats, slow and deliberate.
He lets the name hang there.
“You don’t look like a Honoka.”
It isn’t an accusation. Just quiet disbelief. His tone is flat but loaded, as though measuring her like a guitar string tuned too tight.
Behind her, he notices the girl in the kitchen staring like someone just touched a live wire. Interesting. He files it away.
Gun shifts his weight, half a step closer. The air between them grows warmer, heavier. He smells faintly of smoke and expensive cologne, dry leather, something that promises and threatens simultaneously. No alcohol.
“You also don’t look like you want to be here,” he says, voice lowering, smooth enough that she doesn’t need to shout. “That’s rare.”
His tattooed hand rests against the back of the couch, the snake scales catching light as he flexes his fingers slowly, absently, deliberate, close enough that proximity alone is a statement.
“For the record, I don’t hire girls,” he continues evenly. “Other people make those arrangements.”
Oh, of course. He is above that.
“You walked into a room full of men who did,” he adds, gaze steady behind dark lenses, “and you still decided to talk back.”
Not irritation, only a sharpened curiosity that hums under your skin. Persistent tension.
He leans in just enough that the bass dulls at the edges, and she can hear him without shouting.
“That means one of two things,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “you’re either very stupid… or very bored.”
That infamous infuriating smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“And I don’t think you’re stupid.”
His gaze flicks down briefly, tracking the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her chest beneath the fabric—just long enough for her to notice. Then back to her eyes. He smells the faint floral trace of her perfume mingled with something more exciting, more rousing.
“So tell me, Honoka,” he says, voice dropping another notch, teasing, predatory, “how much would it take to get you in that bedroom?”
The music thuds harder, someone screams with laughter. Glass rattles. The air is humid and sticky with intoxication. Tokyo glitters beyond the windows, indifferent, distant.
Gun is unapologetic. His amusement is sharp and dark, the corner of his mouth curling like a knife. The question is no longer rhetorical. It is a trap. And he enjoys watching the edge of her balance, measuring how far she is willing to lean.
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
origamiaround
titsay
yousharknotpass
