Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This is not the amount we agreed on, Kei,” you snapped, the words laced with a dangerous calm. In your hand, a pathetic stack of yen.

It wasn’t even a stack, just a flimsy collection of bills that felt lighter than your temper.

Kei Ando, a man whose expensive suit looked out of place against the peeling paint of the wall behind him, offered a shrug that spoke volumes of his indifference. “The times are rough.”

“That they are,” you agreed, your voice deceptively soft. “Which is precisely why I need to be paid properly.”

His eyes narrowed with displeasure in the dim light. 

You mirrored the expression.

A silent challenge passed between you, a dance as old as commerce itself. 

His lips parted, a retort forming, but the shrill wail of a police siren sliced through the night. 

Both of you instinctively melted deeper into the shadows, becoming one with the refuse and forgotten corners of the alley. The blue and red strobes painted fleeting patterns on the brickwork as the patrol car cruised past, its siren fading into the distant hum of the city.

Once the coast was clear, you stepped forward again, your gaze unwavering. 

“You better pay me properly, Mr. Kei, or I’ll never sell to you again. And good luck finding anything this good elsewhere in this economy.”

Kei scoffed, a thin, humourless sound. “I will.”

Your patience, already stretched thin, began to fray. “Additionally,” you continued, a small smile playing on your lips, “I’ll of course have to inform my boss about this, too.”

The colour drained from his face, a flicker of genuine fear replacing his earlier bravado. Good. So there was some sense in him after all.

You let out a soft, amused huff. “Aye. I’ll tell him you ripped me off, Mr. Kei.” You tilted your head, your smile widening, though your eyes remained sharp. “Surely, such a transgression will anger him. He doesn’t like to be fooled. Hell, who will? Maybe he’ll pay a little visit to your shop. Or maybe… at Mashiko’s school.”

Kei stiffened, his entire posture going rigid. The casual mention of his son had struck a nerve.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper.

“Mm, I wouldn’t. That’s not part of my job,” you purred, stepping closer. “But someone else would.” Your gaze was a physical weight, pressing down on him.

His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The internal struggle was evident, a battle between pride and paternal fear. 

Pride lost. With a defeated sigh, he fumbled in his inner jacket pocket, pulling out a worn leather wallet.

You held up your palm, an almost predatory glint in your eyes, like a cat anticipating its cream.

He slammed the additional yen bills into your outstretched hand, the crisp paper a stark contrast to the rough skin of your palm.

You counted them swiftly, a satisfied nod acknowledging the correct amount. “Pleasure doing business with you, Kei.” You turned, the shadows swallowing you whole, leaving him alone in the alley, the distant city lights reflecting the dawning realisation of just how deeply he'd been outmanoeuvred.

Once you were far, far away from the oppressive alley, the neon glow of the main street a distant memory, you let out a long, shuddering breath. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the unsettling quiet. 

You hated those moments, the thinly veiled threats, the predatory gleam you forced into your eyes. Playing the big, bad drug dealer was a performance you detested.

It was all a facade, a carefully constructed illusion you'd, thankfully, learned to master in situations like these. Usually, you weren't the one dealing the drugs anyway. Your hands were more adept at crafting them. 

A bitter twist of irony, considering your biochemical degree.

Now, a reasonable person might wonder why on earth someone with a knack for biochemistry wasn’t in a proper lab, pursuing a legitimate career. An understandable question, and the short answer was brutally simple: you never actually got the degree.

Why? Because the world, society, and the economy had gone to absolute shit, especially in Japan. 

You couldn't afford to be a student, couldn't really get a job because there were no jobs. You needed a degree for the proper ones, but you needed a job to even think about getting the degree. It was a vicious, inescapable cycle.

Long story short, a whole cascade of bad choices, of doors slammed shut and opportunities vanished, had led you into the hands of the Tokyo Manji Gang.  

You were useful, able to cook up a whole batch of drugs for them to sell, and in return, you got your cut.

And if the city itself was a festering wound on the surface, its underbelly was a goddamn rotting cesspool.

It almost seemed like gangs and their leaders held the reins over society. The whole place was corrupted, wrong. It wasn't safe to go outside after the sun set, not safe to be in most parts of the city.

It was a brutal life at the bottom of the societal hierarchy. Survival of the fittest was the only rule that mattered. There were so many gangs that you had lost count, all fighting with each other or occasionally teaming up in fleeting alliances.

The most notorious of all were the Tokyo Manji Gang and Valhalla, of course. They had been beefing since the dawn of time, splitting Tokyo into two violent, unstable territories. 

You tried to stay out of it all.

Key word: tried.

｡ ⋆✩⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

With Kei’s illicit payment safely tucked into your backpack, you headed for the relative anonymity of the underground. 

You kept your head low, hands shoved deep in your pockets, headphones firmly in your ears, a barrier against the world. You weaved through the sparse crowd of late-shift workers and those heading to their second or third jobs, each face a testament to the relentless grind.

Graffiti, a vibrant defiance against the drab concrete, coated the walls of the subway station, illuminated by the flickering, sickly yellow glow of the overhead lamps. Smiles were a rare commodity at this hour, replaced by tired eyes and set jaws. 

It painted an awful picture, a tableau of a city teetering on the edge.

It wasn't all bad, though, you reminded yourself. This was just how things happened. Shit got worse, then it got better. Now was definitely the "worse" part again, but people were resilient. They learned to find joy in the little things. And there were joys in this life, even if they seemed to vanish with the setting sun.

You stood by the edge of the platform, the rumble of an approaching train vibrating through the concrete. You listened to your favourite tunes, a small act of defiance, and blended in, just another ghost in the machine of the sprawling city.

The blast of warm, stale air announced the train’s arrival before its screeching brakes did. 

You stepped into the packed carriage, immediately swallowed by the collective exhalation of a hundred tired bodies. The overhead lights hummed, casting a yellow glow on the faces around you.

A businessman in a rumpled suit dozed, his head lolling against the window. A group of giggling schoolgirls, their uniforms slightly dishevelled and dirty, whispered secrets. Further down, a young mother struggled to keep a sleeping child upright on her lap.

It might have been dangerous out, but people still tried to live their normal lives.

The air was thick with the faint scent of damp clothing, cheap cologne, and something undefinable, a city smell that seeped into everything. 

You leaned against the door, feeling the vibrations of the train deep in your bones as it accelerated, a metallic roar filling the space. The rhythmic clack of the wheels on the tracks was a strangely soothing lullaby, a counterpoint to the distant chatter and the almost imperceptible sway of the carriage. 

Each stop brought a fresh surge of humanity, pressing you closer to strangers, their silent narratives brushing against yours. You kept your gaze fixed on the reflection in the dark window, watching the blur of underground tunnels morph into distorted, fleeting images.

When your station finally arrived, the announcement was a muffled drone through your headphones, you pushed your way out, grateful for the sudden release from the confined space. 

The automatic doors hissed shut behind you. 

As you emerged from the station's sheltered entrance, the first drops hit your face. It wasn't a gentle drizzle; it was a determined, cold rain, already sheeting down, turning the grimy pavement into a slick, shimmering surface. 

The neon signs above seemed to weep colour onto the wet asphalt, their reflections stretching and twisting into elongated, watery ghosts. 

Tokyo, even in its quiet, rain-soaked moments, still hummed with a restless energy.

You pulled the hood further over your head, the damp fabric clinging to your hair, and headed down the street, your shoes splashing a rhythmic beat against the wet pavement. 

Familiar buildings and the muted glow of closed storefronts blurred past.

Figures huddled under awnings or just braving the downpour, cigarettes glowing like embers in the gloom, offered nods of acknowledgement as you passed. This was Toman’s territory, and you were a known, if enigmatic, fixture.

“Headin’ home?” Hisao Ike’s voice cut through the rain, surprisingly clear. 

He sat on the steps of his tattoo studio, a beer in hand, seemingly unbothered by the relentless drizzle.

“Yeah,” you replied, stopping briefly, the chill seeping into your bones. “The weather’s so bad again.”

“Good for the nature though,” he mused, taking a swig.

You managed a small smile. “True.”

“Have a good night, trickster,” he called out, his voice gruff but kind. “Stay safe.”

“Aye. Have a good night too, Hisao-san.”

He nodded, a silent benediction, and you continued your walk, the rain washing over everything, cleansing the day’s grime while simultaneously ushering in the murky uncertainties of the night.

The rhythm of your footsteps and the soft drumming of rain on your hood were almost meditative as you navigated the final few blocks. 

Your building, a squat concrete structure that blended seamlessly into the urban decay, was finally in sight. You could almost taste the lukewarm tea and the quiet solitude of your small apartment.

You were barely twenty feet from the entrance, about to pull your hand from your pocket for your keys, when a solid mass collided with you. 

A guttural grunt escaped your lips as the impact sent a jolt up your spine, knocking the breath from your lungs. 

Your headphones flew from your ears, clattering to the wet pavement, and your backpack twisted violently around your shoulder as you fell down onto your ass.

"What the fuck?!" you snarled, your anger a sudden, hot flash against the cold rain.

Standing over you, swaying slightly, was a man. 

He was heaving, clutching his stomach, his gaze distant and unfocused as he stared back down the street, clearly disoriented. 

“Hey, what the hell, dude?!” you spat, pushing yourself up.

Then, faint but unmistakable, shouts echoed from somewhere down one of the dark alleys. 

The man tensed, a ripple of alarm passing through his body. His face finally turned to you, gaze locking onto yours.

He was tall, obscenely so, his clothes plastered to his frame, completely drenched from the rain. His face, illuminated by the flickering streetlamp, was bone-white, almost translucent against the dark, stormy night. 

But it was his eyes that were the most striking thing – a light brown so pale they looked almost golden.

You hadn't even registered him moving before the cold, hard press of metal against your stomach. 

Your heart plummeted, a leaden weight in your chest.

“Open the door,” he ordered, his voice a ragged whisper, trembling with exhaustion and pain.

“Excuse me?” you managed, your voice barely a squeak.

He removed the safety, the click echoing in the sudden silence, and pushed you backwards with the head of the gun. “Open the door and go inside.”

With a shaky hand, fear and fury burning a volatile mix within you, you fumbled for the key in your pocket.

“Hurry!” he barked, his voice gaining a desperate edge.

Your hand trembled, feeling numb as you finally retrieved the key. 

He shoved you around, and you stumbled up the few steps to your building’s door. The key missed the lock a few times, your fingers clumsy, before you managed to slide it in and twist.

The moment the lock clicked, he all but shoved you inside the dim hallway, then slammed the door shut with a hurried thud. 

The gun was instantly against the back of your head as you stumbled up the stairs, your feet catching on every second step.

“What do you want?” you tried to ask, the words catching in your throat.

“Shut up,” he heaved, each breath a painful rasp.

You fumbled with the key to your apartment door, your mind racing, trying to process the impossible situation. 

Once you were finally inside your own space, he lowered the gun, still clutching his stomach with his other arm.

“I’m… sorry…” he heaved, collapsing against the closed door.

“Who are you?!” you demanded, a cocktail of shock, fear, and indignant rage bubbling to the surface.

His golden eyes began to go half-lidded, his lips parted with each harsh, shallow breath. 

“Help me,” were his last words before he slumped down the doorframe and onto the floor of your apartment, a silent, heavy heap.

Chapter Text

You stared at the man. 

The strange man, now a heavy slump against your apartment door, his gun lying innocently on the floor beside him. 

You blinked once, then again, your body completely frozen.

Finally, your muscles obeyed, and you took a tentative step closer. 

Then another, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, anticipating him to suddenly spring up, gun drawn. But he didn't move. 

He lay there, a pale, lifeless figure against the worn linoleum.

With a surge of adrenaline, you reached out with your foot and nudged the gun further away, sending it skittering across the floor until it bumped against the wall, out of immediate reach. 

Only then did your eyes truly register the grim reality of the situation: the dark, spreading stain of blood seeping through his clothes, a stark contrast against the pale fabric, and the sickeningly bright crimson staining his palm where he had clutched his wound.

You didn't recognise him. 

His black-yellow hair, a slightly curly mess, was plastered to his head, some strands sticking to his pale forehead. Black ink peeked from beneath his wet shirt at his neck, more snaking across his palms and fingers. A single golden earring dangled from one ear, glinting dully in the dim light.

And he was bleeding onto your floor.

"Okay... okay, okay, okay," you breathed, the words a desperate mantra. “Get a hold of yourself.”

You reached for your phone, your hand instinctively going to your pocket. 

It wasn't there. 

You patted your pants, then your backpack, a frantic search yielding nothing but empty fabric.

"No," you whispered, a cold wave of dread washing over you. 

Then the realisation hit: it must have dropped outside when the guy slammed into you. 

"Shit."

You forced yourself to take a few deep, shuddering breaths, the air burning in your lungs. 

Panic was a luxury you couldn't afford right now. 

Your phone was gone, and this bleeding stranger wasn't going to disappear on his own. You needed help.

Steeling yourself, you approached him again, carefully stepping around him. 

With a grunt of effort, you grabbed his shoulder, intending to push him away from the door so you could leave your apartment and figure out your next move.

But as your hand made contact, his eyes fluttered open. They were still that striking, almost golden brown, but now they were glazed with pain and confusion. 

Before you could react, his hand shot out and clamped around your wrist. His grip was weak, but firm enough to stop you. 

His pale lips parted, a guttural sound escaping him, an almost imperceptible whisper of a word you couldn't quite make out.

You jerked your hand away from his weak grip, stumbling back to put more distance between you and the man.

“No cops,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, his eyes still half-closed.

“I wasn’t about to get them,” you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended.

He looked at you weakly, his golden eyes still struggling to stay open. “No Toman… either.”

You scoffed, a humourless sound. “Who are you to demand anything? You threatened me with a gun.”

“And I’m… sorry ‘bout… that,” he rasped, the words punctuated by ragged breaths.

“Who are you?” you demanded, the mixture of fear and irritation simmering.

“Just someone… in the wrong… part of town.”

Your brows furrowed, unconvinced by his vague answer.

“Please… help… me…”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but his head slumped forward, chin resting on his chest, and he passed out again, leaving you alone with a bleeding stranger and a rapidly dwindling supply of options.

You hesitated, the cold, stark reality of the situation settling over you. 

His desperation, even in his fading state, seemed genuine. His face, pale and etched with pain, spoke volumes.

Okay. 

This was a man dying.

Perhaps a bad man, but a human being nonetheless. 

There was a chance he might have simply ended up in an impossible situation, with no other idea than to force himself into a strange woman’s apartment to hide. 

Hide from whom? You didn't know. 

You would ask questions later, but now, you needed to help him.

You scanned the apartment, your eyes darting from the man to your meagre possessions. A first-aid kit was tucked away in the bathroom cabinet. Though he needed real help, a hospital, but his desperate pleas against cops and Toman echoed in your mind.

You knelt beside him, your fingers brushing against the cold, clammy skin of his forehead. 

You'd dealt with injuries before, mostly your own minor cuts and scrapes from lab accidents, but a gunshot wound was a different league. 

However, the streets had taught you to improvise. 

You quickly gathered towels, rubbing alcohol, and the first-aid supplies you had. 

He was a stranger, a threat moments ago, but now he was simply a problem to be solved. You'd stabilise him, extract what information you could, and then get him out of your apartment.

With a grim determination, you knelt beside him again. 

His breathing was shallow, ragged. 

You carefully cut open his soaked shirt, wincing as the fabric peeled away from the still-oozing wound on his side. It was a nasty, ragged tear, clearly from a blade rather than a bullet, though the distinction offered little comfort. 

The sight of it made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to focus. This was simply a chemical reaction, a biological process gone wrong, and you needed to correct it. You had to work fast.

With a grimace, you pulled out rubbing alcohol and a few sterile cloths. 

The air in the small apartment grew thick with the metallic tang of blood. 

You dabbed carefully at the edges of the wound with an alcohol-soaked cloth, the man’s muscles twitching involuntarily even in his unconscious state.

His defined stomach and toned chest were a canvas of intricate black ink, swirling patterns of dragons and waves that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers and up towards his neck. It was a gang tattoo, you realised with a jolt, a full body suit of art. 

This was no ordinary thug.

Working quickly, you threaded a needle, your hands surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline thrumming through your veins. 

You began to stitch the wound shut, a crude but necessary repair, hoping your basic knowledge of biology would suffice. It would undoubtedly leave an ugly scar, a jagged line across his ribs, but hopefully, it would staunch the bleeding enough for him to survive. 

He’d lost a significant amount of blood, a terrifying crimson stain spreading across the floor, and you had no idea what to do about that. 

Hope for the best, you supposed, was all you had.

His pants were soaked through with rain water, and you weren't about to cut them off too; that felt like a line you weren't ready to cross with an unconscious, strange guy. 

So, you went to your bathroom to get your hairdryer, then rummaged in your bedroom for an extra power cord.

Returning to his side, you knelt and aimed the hairdryer at his trousers, blowing warm air over the soaked fabric. 

You hoped it would dry them enough to prevent him from catching a cold or developing hypothermia. The last thing you needed was to deal with a feverish stranger on top of everything else.

As you sat there, the hum of the hairdryer a monotonous drone, you couldn't help but reconsider every life choice that had led you to this bizarre moment. 

Despite working for Toman for a few years now, you rarely saw blood or gang violence up close. You didn't even know how to use a gun. 

Sighing deeply, you kept drying his pants until they were just slightly damp, the warmth from the hairdryer a strange comfort in the tense quiet.

Next, you pulled out the thickest blankets you owned, spreading them on the floor to create a makeshift bed. 

He was heavy, a dead weight, and you grunted with effort as you carefully started pulling him by his legs, inch by agonising inch, towards the blankets. 

Once he was close, you leveraged his shoulders, lifting his upper half onto the soft bedding, then manoeuvred his legs. 

You placed a pillow under his head and, almost on instinct, pulled a blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. It felt… humane.

Breathing heavily, your muscles tired, you finally slouched onto your worn couch, where you could see him. 

Even pale and unconscious, he was undeniably handsome. A sharp jawline, a long face, high cheekbones, and a tall nose dominated his features. His lips were full, eyes framed by dark brows, and a single golden earring still dangled from his ear.

Then a chilling thought sliced through your exhaustion. 

What if he woke up? 

You were alone, vulnerable, and he was a man who had, moments ago, held a gun to your head. 

Should you tie him? 

What if you fell asleep, exhausted as you were, and he regained consciousness? 

The questions hung heavy in the air, a new layer of dread settling over your apartment.

Your options were stark: force yourself to stay awake and watch him all night, or retreat to the relative safety of your bedroom.

You chose the latter. 

Tying him up felt like a dangerous gamble, an act that could incite extreme violence if he woke up or bother with his healing. 

Instead, you gathered his gun, all your kitchen knives, and any other potential weapons you could find, stashing them securely in your bedroom. 

Then, with a grunt of effort, you began to barricade the door. 

You pulled your bed and dresser against it, wedging them tightly between the wall and the doorframe, creating a makeshift fortress.

Despite your efforts, sleep was an insistent mistress. 

Though you fought it, exhaustion pulled you under. 

When you next opened your eyes, soft morning sun was peeking through your window, illuminating your room in a gentle, almost mocking glow. It took a disorienting moment for the previous night's events to crash back. 

As memory returned, you jerked upright, your hand instinctively going to the gun you'd wisely kept beside you.

You listened, every nerve alert, for any sounds beyond the bedroom door. But there was only the erratic beat of your own heart. 

Slowly, cautiously, you began to push the dresser aside, pausing every few seconds to listen again. Then you pulled the bed back just enough to allow the door to creak open.

With a deep breath and the gun shakily in your hand, you pushed the door wide. 

You held your breath, bracing for chaos, for your apartment to be a mess, or for the man to ambush you. But nothing happened. Everything seemed eerily normal.

You stepped out, blinking, scanning the living room-kitchen area. 

No man. 

Just the blankets and pillow on the floor were the only reminders of your overnight guest. 

You peered into the short hallway, then the bathroom. 

Nothing. Only the dark, dried bloodstain on the floor remained, a silent testament to the night’s strange, terrifying events.

You went through your tiny apartment one more time, just to be absolutely sure. 

Then you opened your apartment door and peeked outside into the quiet hallway. 

No one there either.

A long, shuddering breath escaped you, and the gun slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the floor. Your hands and legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing you to sink onto the cold floor, trying to gather your scattered wits. 

"Oh, Christ," you whispered, the words barely audible.

After a while, once your heart had stopped trying to beat its way out of your chest, you pulled yourself up. 

You slipped on your shoes and cautiously headed outside, scanning the street for any sign of the stranger, or whoever might have been after him. But the street was empty, still damp from the night's rain, reflecting the pale morning light.

You did find your phone. 

It lay face down on the wet pavement, its screen a spiderweb of cracks. 

When you tried to turn it on, it was just a pixelated mess, a kaleidoscope of shattered colours. 

"Fucking great," you muttered.

Annoyed, confused, and with a dead phone in your pocket, you headed back inside your apartment. 

It was probably late, and you needed to get to work.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

You couldn't even listen to any music on your way to the warehouse, a minor cruelty on a morning that felt anything but normal. 

Huffing and puffing, you walked down the familiar street, the urban sprawl already awake and bustling around you. 

The events of the night replayed in your mind, a surreal, violent dream that had left tangible bloodstains inside your head.

The Toman warehouse was an unassuming building from the outside, just another nondescript structure in a city full of them, but inside, it was your makeshift lab. 

You pushed open the heavy metal door, the familiar scent of various chemicals, both industrial and illicit, immediately filling your nostrils.

Inside, the atmosphere was already buzzing with the low hum of ventilation systems and the clinking of glassware. 

Your three colleagues were already there, a familiar sight. There was Rina, sharp-eyed and efficient, meticulously organising reagents. Kenji, the quiet, methodical one, was hunched over a work surface, carefully measuring out powders. And Aya, the most outwardly friendly of the group, was already pouring coffee.

You moved towards your station, the habit ingrained in you. 

You pulled on your lab coat, the thick fabric a comforting weight, then donned your gloves and the essential face mask that would protect you from the more noxious fumes. The act of preparation was a small anchor in the chaotic sea of your thoughts.

As you began to set up your equipment, the casual chatter of your colleagues filled the space around you. 

They talked about the usual things—the brutal weather, a new ramen shop, rumours from the street. 

You nodded along, offering grunts of agreement when expected, but you said nothing about the night. 

Not a word about the bleeding stranger, the gun, or the shattered phone. 

You weren't entirely sure why. 

Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of it all, or the lingering fear, or perhaps the strange, almost possessive feeling that this bizarre encounter was yours alone to process. 

The lab, with its precise measurements and predictable reactions, offered a welcome, if temporary, escape.

Although you did consider telling your boss about it.

“Are you listening?” Aya asked, her voice cutting through your thoughts.

You blinked. “Huh?”

She chuckled. “That answers it then.”

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“I just asked if you were okay. You’re quiet.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” you replied, trying for a nonchalant tone. “Just tired. Slept badly.”

“Stress?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You looked at the vial in your hand, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. “And I, uh, ran into some strange man last night—or moreso, he ran into me. I broke my phone in the collision.”

“What, really? Ran into you?” Aya's eyebrows shot up.

“He was running, and didn’t see me, I guess.”

“What an ass. Did he offer to pay for the fix?”

“I don’t think it can be fixed. I have to buy a new one. And no, he didn’t.”

“Well, he needs to. Who was he?”

You shook your head, the lie already forming on your tongue. “No idea.”

“What did you say to him? What did he say?”

You opened your mouth behind your mask, about to tell her everything—the gun, his desperation, the blood—but for some reason, the words wouldn't come. 

“He just kept running away.”

She scoffed. “These people.”

“Always a man,” Rina commented, having clearly been listening in on the conversation.

“Right?” Aya replied, shaking her head.

Your stomach twisted. You had no idea why you hadn't told the truth. Maybe it was the raw desperation you’d seen in the man’s eyes when he begged you to keep Toman out of it, or perhaps the sheer unlikelihood of ever seeing him again now that he'd vanished.

“So now I don’t have a phone,” you sighed, the practical problem bringing you back to earth. “Can’t afford a new one until my next paycheck either.”

“You could ask Mikey-san to pay beforehand?” Aya suggested, ever the pragmatist.

You shook your head. “Nah. I’ll just wait.”

“Three weeks?” Rina arched a brow, a hint of sympathy in her voice.

You grimaced. “Longest three weeks.”

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The following week settled into a mundane rhythm. 

Life as a drug cooker for Toman wasn't glamorous. Each day bled into the next, characterised by the same routine: the familiar walk to the warehouse, the comforting ritual of donning your lab coat and mask, the precise measurements, the controlled reactions, and the constant hum of the ventilation system. 

Rina, Kenji, and Aya were your constant companions, their chatter a low background noise to your work, their mundane conversations a welcome anchor in the surreal reality of your job.

Evenings were spent in the quiet solitude of your tiny apartment. 

The shattered screen was a reminder of that evening, but with each passing day, the memory faded slightly, replaced by the more immediate annoyances of phonelessness. 

You cooked simple meals, watched TV, read dog-eared books, and stared at the ceiling, the silence amplifying the city's distant hum. 

You found yourself subconsciously scanning the street when you left for work, a lingering unease preventing you from fully relaxing, but the stranger never reappeared. 

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚

The soft glow of the television flickered across your small living room, casting dancing shadows on the walls. 

You were curled on the couch, wrapped in your worn bathrobe after a much-needed hot shower, the steam still clinging to your skin. 

The mundane drone of a late-night variety show was a comforting background noise. You were just reaching for a half-eaten bag of chips when a sharp, insistent knock rattled your front door.

You frowned, confused. 

It was late, and no one ever visited. 

Hesitantly, you padded to the door, peering through the peephole. 

Your breath hitched.

Standing on your doorstep, looking even more dishevelled than a week ago, was the bleeding stranger. 

The view wasn’t the clearest, but clear enough for you to tell that it was, indeed, him.

You stared at him, body frozen.

“I know you’re there,” he said through the closed door, his voice raspy.

“And?! I’m not opening,” you retorted, your hand already on the lock.

“I need help again.”

You scoffed at his utter audacity. “Excuse me?! I’m not helping you!”

“Ya did a week ago.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you threatened me with a gun.”

"Not when I was unconscious, I didn't. Ya coulda easily smothered me then."

"I'm not a murderer!"

He sighed, turning his head to glance down the quiet hallway. “Yer neighbour’s a tiny old woman.”

You blinked, confused. “And?”

“She just left. Can’t be very far yet. Mighta have to… pay her a visit, if ya catch my drift.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re threatening to hurt my neighbour if I don’t help you?”

“Yup.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?!”

“Bleedin’ that’s who. Your shitty stitches opened.”

“Then go somewhere else to get better stitches.”

“Nah. Just let me in now.”

“No!”

He sighed again, a sound of utter boredom. “Right. Imma pay Mrs. Tanaka a visit then. Buh-bye.”

You froze, the blood draining from your face. What a sick man.

Adrenaline surged. 

You ran to your kitchen, yanked open a drawer, grabbed a knife, and darted back to the door. 

You wrenched it open a crack. “Don’t you dare to–”

Before you could crack it open more, his foot, shod in a black boot, jammed into the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Then, with a surprisingly fluid motion, he pushed it wide open.

“Stop!” you barked, pointing the knife at him.

He winced, a soft groan escaping his lips as he pressed a hand to his side. The fabric there was already darkening, a familiar, terrifying crimson spreading. 

Those gilded eyes, now framed with a pair of rounded, metallic-silver glasses you hadn’t noticed before, dropped to the knife. 

“A knife? Really?”

“Yes, really. Get out!”

He sighed deeply, a picture of weary impatience. 

Then, with an expertise that chilled you, he closed the door a bit, only to push it open again, shoving you off balance. Distracted, he grabbed your wrist, manoeuvring your arm in a swift motion that sent the knife clattering to the floor. He kicked it away and closed the door behind him.

You stumbled backwards, shocked. 

He held your gaze, still clutching his side. 

You looked at him, then at where the knife lay.

He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

You had the desperate urge to lunge for the knife. 

You took a small step back. 

He took a step forward, closing the distance.

“What do you want?” you asked, the words forced past your lips.

“What are you, deaf?” he asked, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

Your lips peeled back in a snarl. “I’m not stitching you up. You’re insane.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“You owe me a phone, asshole.”

That made him look genuinely confused. “Eh?”

“You broke it when you ran into me.”

“Ah.” Realisation slowly dawned on his pale face, replacing the confusion with a hint of sheepishness. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Your ‘sorry’s’ won’t exactly cut it,” you snapped, your voice sharp with annoyance. “Who the hell are you?”

That question made him pause, a momentary flicker of surprise crossing his face before he schooled his expression back to one of now familiar boredom. 

“Just someone passing by.”

You huffed, getting tired of this evasiveness. 

Your eyes quickly darted to the knife on the floor again, considering your increasingly limited choices. He was taller and stronger, although bleeding, but a better fighter than you, nonetheless.

“Will you try something?” you asked him, your gaze returning to his face.

He arched one perfect brow, a silent question.

“Are you planning to hurt me?” you clarified.

“Would I tell you if I were?” he countered, his lips twitching faintly. 

That made your stomach clench. 

He rolled his eyes, as if your question was utterly unreasonable. 

“Dontcha think I mighta already hurt ya, miss, if I wanted to?”

You eyed his blood-soaked shirt, a grim counterpoint to his casual tone. “You’re hurt now. You could try something afterwards.”

He chuckled then, a low, dark sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Little blood hasn’t stopped me before.” 

Blood drained from your face, leaving you cold. 

He sighed, a hint of genuine fatigue in the sound this time. “Don’t worry. I ain’t plannin’ to do anythin’.”

“You promise to leave me alone and never come back after I’ve helped you?” you pressed, a desperate plea in your voice.

“Aye. Pinky promise.” 

He actually offered you his pinky. 

Your brows furrowed in annoyance and disbelief, but he merely shrugged, dropping his hand.

“Sit on the couch,” you ordered, turning to retrieve the first aid kit.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He sauntered towards your couch, his movements surprisingly fluid despite his injury.

“No, wait,” you then said, throwing him a towel. “Put this on it first. Don’t want you ruining my couch, too.”

He caught it with one hand, a smirk playing on his lips. Then he slouched down, carefully propping himself against the armrest, still clutching his side. It was then you realised you were still only wearing your bathrobe, with nothing underneath.

“Wait a second,” you told him, disappearing into your bedroom and swiftly closing the door. 

You quickly pulled on underwear, baggy sweatpants, and an oversized sweatshirt.

When you opened the door again, he eyed your outfit, a faint amusement in his golden eyes. “Damn, such attire for me? You shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, grabbing the first aid kit.

“Grease-stained sweats really get me goin’,” he drawled, his lips twitching again.

You exhaled a long breath, forcing yourself to ignore him, and sat beside him. “Take off your shirt.”

He opened his mouth, a new retort clearly forming, but you cut him off. 

“Not a single joke about my command.”

“Wasn’t even ‘bout to,” he mumbled, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Please, I already heard it from your mind.”

His lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Heard what?”

“Something like: ‘damn, ya gotta buy a fella a drink first.’” You mimicked his deep voice and up-and-down pitch, a surprisingly accurate imitation.

He raised a brow. “You give me too much credit. I ain’t that quick with it.”

You huffed, opening the kit and pulling out fresh gloves.

He slid his fingers underneath the hem of his soaked shirt and lifted it over his head. 

Your eyes scanned his torso, the intricate tattoos rippling with the flex of his muscles, before quickly looking away, hoping he hadn't noticed your gaze.

He looked down at the leaking wound, the reopened stitches a jagged crimson line. 

“Why didn’t you go somewhere else? To someone who could actually do the job well?”

“I need no one to ask me questions.”

“Surely there are people able to do this who won’t ask questions.”

“Not in this part of the city.”

“Then go to the other side,” you suggested.

He hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Can’t really go there either.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He sucked his teeth. “I mean what I mean.”

You rolled your eyes, taking a fresh cloth. You pressed it against the wound, and his muscles twitched under your hand.

“And clearly ya don’t even know who I am, so this was the safest place for me,” he continued, a strange mix of arrogance and vulnerability in his voice.

“But not for me,” you countered, reaching for the antiseptic spray.

He groaned as if you were unreasonable for being afraid. “I ain’t going to hurt you, darlin’.”

You looked under the cloth, then grabbed the antiseptic spray. “You are a stranger, a man, who forced himself into my home with a gun. You threatened to hurt me and my neighbour. And obviously you are in a gang. So, none of this is safe for me.” 

You sprayed his wound liberally, making him twitch and hiss slightly. Good. You dabbed at it again.

“Did ya tell Toman?” he then asked, his voice low.

“I did,” you lied, reaching for the needle and thread again. You slid onto the floor beside the couch to get more eye level with the wound. “Turn your side more towards me.”

He obeyed, shifting carefully. “Did you, now?”

“Yes.” You dabbed the wound one last time before carefully inserting the needle.

“Liar.”

You paused, looking up at him, the needle hovering. 

He watched you, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips.

“Why would I lie?” you asked, your voice betraying none of your inner turmoil.

He smiled, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes. “If Toman knew I had been here, there would be their members keeping an eye on this place.”

“Oh, so you’re some big shot, huh?” you retorted, feigning disinterest.

“You really have no idea who I am, huh?”

“No,” you said, meeting his gaze squarely, “and I don’t care.”

He gave no reply, simply watching your careful movements as you started stitching. 

The silence stretched, broken only by the snip of the thread and his shallow breaths.

“Clearly you’re from Osaka, though,” you observed, aiming for a neutral tone. “Your accent is thick.”

“So I’ve heard,” he responded, his voice still a low rumble, but there was that undeniable sing-songy, high-and-low, Kansai pitch in his tone.

You focused on the needle, pushing it through the flesh, pulling the thread taut. 

The tattoo on his abdomen, a swirling dragon, seemed to writhe with the tension of the moment. His muscles, surprisingly defined beneath your touch, tensed and relaxed with each shallow breath. You could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, an unsettling intimacy in such a violent situation.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” he murmured, his voice closer than you expected. You hadn’t realised how much you’d leaned in.

You flinched back, nearly pricking yourself. “Just trying to get you out of my apartment.”

A low chuckle vibrated through his chest, a sound that, despite the circumstances, was undeniably attractive. “No need to get prickly. Just an observation.”

You kept your gaze fixed on the wound, your fingers working swiftly. 

The tension in the small apartment was palpable, a fragile wire stretched between fear and a reluctant, unsettling curiosity. 

Every now and then, his golden eyes would track your movements, a silent, unnerving scrutiny that made your skin prickle. 

"Are you done yet?" he asked, his voice softer now, a hint of genuine pain underlying the bravado. “I’m starting to think you’re enjoying hurtin’ me.”

You pulled the final knot tight. "Almost. Just need to bandage it." You grabbed the antiseptic spray, looking up at him. "This is going to sting. A lot."

He just watched you, a faint, challenging smirk playing on his lips. "Do your worst, darlin'."

You sprayed the antiseptic spray, watching his defined abs clench in a sudden spasm. Then you dabbed the wound clean and reached for a bandage.

“I assume you’ve had injuries before,” you said, eyeing the intricate web of scars that peeked out from beneath the solid black ink of his tattoos. “So you probably know how to treat this one.”

“Aye,” he replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Ain’t my first rodeo.”

You peeled the backing paper of the bandage and carefully placed it over the stitched wound, sliding your finger over it to ensure it stuck. “There.”

He looked down at your handiwork. “Thank you, miss.”

You huffed, a short, sharp sound. “Miss?”

He eyed the living room with a slow, appraising gaze. “Don’t think you’re a Mrs.” He looked back at you, a glint in his golden eyes. “Or are ya?”

You stood, and he looked up at you now, his head tilted slightly. “Not your business.” 

“So there’s no boyfriend, then? Or a girlfriend… I ain’t judging.”

“Not. Your. Business,” you reiterated, each word clipped and precise.

He simply smiled, amused by your defiance. 

You stepped back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Now, get out.”

“Not lettin’ me pay?” he asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

“I don’t want your money. I want you out.”

He tilted his head further, those unnervingly light eyes sweeping over your form, making you feel acutely aware of him. “I coulda pay in other ways, too.”

You blinked, utterly taken aback by the blatant suggestion. “No, thanks. Get out.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and stood too, holding his shirt in one hand. 

You had to crane your head back to meet his gaze.

“Fine work that,” he said, gesturing to his bandaged side. “Thank you, darlin’.”

“Out.”

“Gee, yer one bossy woman.” He finally pulled his shirt back over his head, the intricate tattoos disappearing. 

“And an impatient one, too. Now, leave.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “Yes, ma’am.”

You took a step back, creating more space between you and him, telling yourself it was purely for him to have room to pass you to the exit. 

That made his grin widen, as if he found your palpable fear amusing.

“Goodbye,” you said, your voice tight.

His gaze swept over you one last time, slow and unsettling. “Goodbye.”

Then, finally, he walked past you, towards the door. 

He reached for the doorknob, opened it, and paused on the threshold. “Sorry ‘bout the phone… and the gun.”

You gave no reply, just held his gaze, a stern, unwavering look that dared him to linger. 

He tilted his chin in a slight, almost deferential nod, his golden eyes dropping from yours for a moment. “Have a good night then.” 

And then, with a soft click, the door closed, leaving you alone.

You let out a breath you'd been holding, a long, shaky exhale that seemed to release all the tension that had coiled within you since he’d entered your apartment.

Chapter Text

You went to work the next day, trying to resume some semblance of normalcy. 

The absence of the stranger felt like both a relief and a nagging question mark. 

You eyed over your shoulder, instinctively scanning the street for the tall figure, but there was no sign of him. 

Soon, the sheer volume of problems at the lab managed to push him to the back of your mind.

Trouble brewed in Valhalla’s district. They had started cooking and selling α-Pyrrolidinopentiophenone, also known as flakka or gravel. It was part of the "bath salts" family, so to speak. This synthetic stimulant was tearing through the streets, turning users into gaunt, frenzied zombies. 

Despite its horrifying effects, the demand was soaring, and Mikey, ever the pragmatist, wanted Toman to get a piece of that market. He wanted you to start creating it too.

The news hit you like a punch to the gut. 

Flakka was notoriously unstable to produce, highly volatile, and the potential for a catastrophic accident in your makeshift lab was immense. Beyond the danger, the moral implications gnawed at you. The existing drugs you cooked, while illegal, rarely caused such immediate, visible devastation. 

This felt different, darker. 

The increased demand for flakka would also strain your already limited resources, demanding more raw materials, more intense purification processes, and a higher risk of impurities in the final product. Not to mention the sheer increase in workload, pushing you to the brink of exhaustion.

You almost slumped back home, feeling utterly stressed and defeated by the whole thing. 

Mikey might have seemed sweet, even charming, on the outside, but when it came to business, he was a cruel, terrifying man. 

And you needed the money from this job. You needed it desperately.

So you needed to find a way to make flakka. 

And just when you thought your day couldn’t get any worse, it did.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me,” you snapped, staring at the tall, handsome stranger. 

He was leaning against your apartment doorframe, looking too comfortable standing there in his all-black outfit.

“Sheesh. Thought you’d never show up,” he replied, bored.

“What do you want now?” you demanded, marching towards your door.

He held up a paper bag, offering it towards you as you reached your doorstep.

“I can only assume that’s the head of my neighbour Mrs. Tanaka,” you said, deadpan, your voice laced with acid.

He eyed the bag. “Nah, actually it’s her husband’s.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to gauge if he was serious. 

He just smiled, that unnerving, knowing smile on his full lips. 

”You’re kidding… right?”

”Obviously.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s a new phone.”

You blinked, surprised. “That you stole, I assume?”

“Just take it.”

You took the bag, peeking inside. 

There, nestled among some tissue paper, was a phone box.

“Didn’t know what brand ya had. That’s some new model, though,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, the word feeling foreign on your tongue.

He shrugged, a casual movement.

You eyed him, remembering his injured state. “How’s the wound?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t kill me.”

“Oh, the poison I put in takes forty-eight hours to kick in,” you retorted, a sardonic twist to your lips.

“Ah,” he breathed, his eyes widening slightly in mock understanding. “Thought I was feelin’ a bit funny.”

“Ha-ha,” you deadpanned, already unlocking your apartment door. You wanted him gone, the new phone a paltry trade for the fresh wave of dread he brought.

“Ya still haven’t told anyone ‘bout me then?” he asked, the casualness of his tone utterly at odds with the question's weight.

You paused, your hand on the doorknob. 

You turned to look at him again, your gaze travelling up, up to his eyes. “So you’re famous then?”

“Could say that.”

"What’s your name?"

His eyes narrowed playfully behind his glasses. "What’s yours?"

“Touché.”

He smiled, a flicker of genuine amusement.

You exhaled, a long, weary sigh. "I hope to never see you again. Have a nice evening."

He just nodded, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. "You too."

Then he turned, his tall frame disappearing down the hallway with a casual saunter that belied the danger he clearly represented.

“Christ,” you breathed, the word a weary release as you finally stepped into your apartment and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚

“How in the hell are we supposed to create this stuff?” Aya groaned, her voice echoing in the vastness of the Toman warehouse lab. 

The air, usually thick with the controlled scent of chemicals, now felt heavy with a new kind of dread.

While Flakka wasn't as structurally complex as LSD or fentanyl, its synthesis demanded precision and specialised conditions. It required access to highly controlled precursor chemicals like α-bromovalerophenone and pyrrolidine, not to mention finicky Grignard reagents that were exceptionally sensitive to air and moisture. 

Your current setup was hardly equipped for such delicate operations.

Beyond the precursors, you needed a full-blown organic synthesis setup: proper reflux equipment, vacuum filtration, sophisticated purification tools like a rotary evaporator, and meticulously dry lab conditions. The current lab, while functional for most of Toman's needs, was a far cry from that.

And then there were the other risks. 

As with so many illicit drugs, there was the terrifying possibility of accidentally producing toxic impurities, leading to increased overdoses or even widespread psychosis among users. Moreover, flakka synthesis demanded the use of highly flammable solvents and involved air-sensitive steps, turning the lab into a constant risk of explosions or fires.

Kenji had his forehead pressed against the cool surface of the metallic table. "This sucks ass."

“We’re not freaking magicians,” Aya added, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “We need more equipment for this, a lot more.”

The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air: getting that equipment would be expensive, draw unwanted attention, and setting it up would be a monumental, dangerous task.

"Does Valhalla seriously have proper labs somewhere?" Kenji asked, finally pushing himself upright from the table, a crease of frustration between his brows.

"Maybe they’re just making it with the risk of everything going to shit," Rina offered, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. She was always the most pragmatic, and often the most cynical.

"Would seem like their style," you commented, picturing the reckless abandon often associated with the rival gang.

The others hummed in agreement, the grim reality settling over the small team. Valhalla's disregard for safety and morals was legendary, and terrifyingly, often effective in their brutal world.

“Should we call Mitsuya-san?” Aya offered, ever the voice of reason, when a problem seemed insurmountable.

You smirked, a teasing glint in your eye. “Oh, you’re always so willing to call him.”

She snorted. “No, I’m not.”

Kenji and Rina exchanged knowing side-glances, a silent agreement passing between them.

“Stop that!” Aya snapped, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.

“We’re just teasing you,” you said, enjoying the moment of levity amidst the grim reality of your new assignment. “Let’s call him.”

A few hours later, the heavy metal door to the warehouse creaked open, admitting a sliver of the gloomy afternoon light and the familiar figure of Mitsuya Takashi. 

He walked with an easy confidence, his silver hair catching the dull overhead lights. He was dressed in a dark, simple jacket, not the intricate Toman uniform he sometimes wore. 

He was one of Mikey’s most trusted lieutenants, often the calm, strategic mind behind Toman’s operations, and, inconveniently, the one who oversaw the drug production.

He surveyed the lab with a keen eye, his gaze sweeping over the various equipment, the scattered notes, and the collective air of frustration. 

Aya, Kenji, and Rina straightened up, a respectful silence falling over the room.

"Problem?" Mitsuya asked, his voice calm but firm, cutting straight to the point as always. His presence alone seemed to inject a fragile sense of order into the burgeoning chaos.

Aya stepped forward. "Mitsuya-san, Mikey-san wants us to start making flakka."

Mitsuya's expression remained impassive, but a flicker of something unreadable crossed his eyes. He already knew the difficulties. "And the issue is?"

You spoke up, gesturing vaguely around the lab. "The issue is, we don't have the setup for it. Not safely, anyway. It's a high-risk synthesis, needs specific precursors, proper reflux, and dry conditions. And there's the risk of impurities, explosions, fires..."

Mitsuya walked closer to your station, picking up a vial of a raw chemical and examining it. "Valhalla is doing it."

"They're probably winging it, risking turning their entire district into a chemical waste zone," Rina interjected, her arms crossed. "Or they have a lab we don't know about."

Mitsuya set the vial down, his gaze shifting from the chemical to you. His eyes, usually so composed, held a hint of steel. "Mikey wants it. And he wants it by the end of the month." He paused, letting the deadline hang in the air. "Figure it out."

“Sir. We need better equipment then,” you stated, cutting through his finality.

"How much?" His question was direct, his gaze unwavering.

“Are you asking about the cost or how much equipment?”

“Cost.”

You threw your hands out in a gesture of exasperation. "We could be talking about way over one and a half million yen here." 

In dollars, that would be over ten thousand.

Mitsuya considered you, his expression unreadable.

"Could be even more," you added, pressing your point.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

“But, sir–”

“Dismissed, trickster,” he cut you off, his voice firm.

You huffed. They never used your name, always the nickname. Trickster, as in a magician, as in you created drugs – money – from nothing.

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving the four of you in the heavy silence that followed, the pressure of the new directive settling like a physical weight.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚

None of you heard from Mitsuya in days. 

The silence from above was almost as heavy as the new directive, leaving you and your colleagues in a frustrating limbo. 

So, you focused on the familiar, churning out batches of fentanyl as usual, while simultaneously experimenting with the treacherous properties of flakka in stolen moments.

Meanwhile, you also enjoyed your new phone. 

It was undeniably faster and boasted a better camera than your old one, making at least some good come from that strange, violent interaction with the tall man.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊

A few days later, you were dozing off in the small, closed-off area of the lab you used as a break room, the low hum of the ventilation system a comforting lullaby. 

Suddenly, the door burst open and Mitsuya stormed in, his presence immediately shattering the peaceful quiet.

“Wake up, trickster!” he barked, his voice sharp.

You startled, blinking groggily.

“Got a job for you.”

You blinked again, trying to clear the sleep from your head. “Wha—where?”

“Go to Kawasaki.”

“But that’s—”

“Valhalla’s district, I know.” His tone brooked no argument.

“So, why do I—”

“Go get a sample there.”

“Me?”

“Kenji will come with you.”

Your mind raced, the danger of the assignment immediately apparent. “But why me?”

“Because you’ll know if it’s the real shit and good, and no one knows either of you over there. You aren’t tattooed.”

Meaning that neither of you had the Tokyo Manji Gang symbol tattooed.

“But what if they’ll know?” you pressed, a knot forming in your stomach. The risks were immense.

“They won’t,” he sighed, irritation creeping into his voice.

You opened your mouth once more, a protest forming on your tongue.

“You do as you’re told to,” he added, his eyes hardening. “Am I being clear?”

You snapped your mouth shut, the annoyance warring with the cold dread of his authority. 

You nodded. 

“Good,” he replied.

You looked at Kenji, who now stood silently by the doorway, his face ashen. 

He shook his head slowly, looking every bit as apprehensive as you felt. 

This was a direct order, a suicide mission disguised as an errand.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩

"Why are you wearing glasses?" Kenji whispered, his voice barely audible above the subway car’s rumble. 

"For the reason that I actually don’t wear glasses," you whispered back, a hint of exasperation in your tone. The point was to look different, less recognisable.

"Do I need glasses?" he asked, suddenly looking concerned, as if an urgent fashion choice had been missed.

"No," you snapped, keeping your voice low. 

"Are you sure?" he persisted, his eyes darting around the packed train car as if expecting someone to point and laugh.

"Yes, Kenji, just focus," you insisted, pressing your lips into a thin line. 

The journey to Valhalla's territory felt longer with every passing second, the tension coiling tighter in your gut. Every face in the crowded train seemed to scrutinise you, every casual glance felt like a knowing stare. 

This was not your usual run, and the pit in your stomach grew with each stop, bringing you closer to enemy lines.

“Stop fidgeting,” you snapped at Kenji, his restless energy only amplifying your own tightly wound nerves.

He finally stopped his subtle shifting, but snapped back, "You look pretty damn nervous too."

You bit back a sharper retort. He wasn't wrong. Your hands were sweaty, and the hum of the subway was starting to feel like the buzzing in your ears. 

"Because we are nervous," you muttered, leaning closer to him, keeping your voice low. "If Valhalla catches wind of why we're there, we're dead. No questions asked."

Kenji swallowed hard, his gaze darting to the passing, blurred darkness outside the window. "You really think they'll recognise us, even without the symbols?" 

"It only takes one," you whispered, the cold truth a lead weight in your stomach. "One person who knows Toman faces. One mistake. Just keep your head down, and don't make eye contact with anyone."

The train slowed, grinding to a halt at a station. The doors hissed open, revealing a platform far less crowded than the ones on your side of the city. The air that wafted in was different here, too – a subtle shift, a grittier edge to the usual urban smells. This was it.

"Alright," you said, pushing off the pole you'd been leaning against. "Next stop. Doom."

The train doors hissed open at the next stop, and you both stepped out into a different world. The station itself was grungier, the advertising posters peeled and tagged with more aggressive graffiti. The air felt heavier, thicker with the smell of stale cigarettes, cheap ramen, and an underlying tension that made the hair on your arms stand up.

“Stay close,” you mumbled to Kenji, pulling your hood further over your face and adjusting your glasses. 

He nodded, his usual calm demeanour replaced by a rigid stiffness.

Outside the station, the change was even more pronounced. 

The bright, almost cheerful neon of Toman’s side of the city was replaced by a grittier, harsher glow here. Fewer people walked the streets, and those who did moved with a hurried, guarded pace. 

The shops were shuttered earlier, and the alleys seemed darker, deeper, more inviting to shadows. 

You could feel eyes on you, even when you saw no one, a prickling sensation that made every step feel exposed.

You led the way, your mind cataloguing details: the distinctive spray paint tags on walls, the knowing glances exchanged between loitering figures, the subtle shifts in the flow of foot traffic. This was a territory governed by different rules, a constant, low-level hum of aggression. 

Kenji walked a half-step behind you, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his posture coiled tight. 

You could hear his ragged breaths, matching your own.

The air grew colder as you ventured deeper, the sounds of the main road fading to be replaced by distant, muffled shouts and the occasional growl of a souped-up engine. 

This was the heart of it. 

This was where the business was being pushed, and where you were supposed to find a sample without becoming a sample yourself. 

Every shadow seemed to stretch and shift, every unexpected sound a potential threat. 

You kept your head down, focusing on the rhythm of your steps, trying to appear as insignificant as possible, just two more ghosts in a city full of them.

There was a bar further away, its grimy neon sign flickering erratically, casting a sickly green glow on the rain-slicked pavement. 

You gave Kenji a sharp nod, a silent directive.

He took a long, shaky inhale, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the bar, and nodded back. 

You let out a breath too, secretly shaky, the cold dread solidifying in your stomach. 

Then you pushed open the heavy, uninviting door.

The air inside was thick with stale cigarette smoke, cheap liquor, and a vaguely chemical scent you immediately recognised, making your stomach clench. 

The space was dim, lit by sporadic fairy lights and the sickly glow of a few neon signs. A handful of patrons, mostly men with hard faces and watchful eyes, were scattered at sticky tables. 

A blaring, distorted rap song pulsed from unseen speakers. 

The counter, sticky with spilt drinks, was tended by a woman with a bored expression, tattoos climbing her arms like ivy.

You walked straight to the bar, Kenji a silent shadow behind you. 

The woman barely looked up as you approached, wiping down the counter with a damp rag.

“What can I get for ya?” she drawled, her voice raspy, finally lifting her gaze to you.

“I came here to buy,” you replied, trying to sound confident, like you belonged.

“To buy? Ya came to the right place, then. Whatchu want. Beer, sake, whiskey?” Her eyes, sharp and assessing, moved over your clothes. A plain hoodie and jeans.

"Um," you replied, your voice faltering for a split second before you met her gaze. "Something stronger..." You looked at her pointedly, letting your eyes linger on hers, hoping she'd pick up on the unspoken meaning.

The woman eyed you for a moment, a slow, humourless laugh bubbling up from her chest.

"Drugs," Kenji clarified, his voice a little too loud in the dim bar, making you want to smack him.

"Flakka, to be exact," he added.

You shot him a sharp glance.

He shrugged sheepishly.

“Flakka, eh?” The bartender laughed again, a harsh, grating sound. “Neitha of ya look like yer usin’ that.”

“We are buyin’ for our friends,” Kenji said, quickly improvising, his explanation sounding just desperate enough. “We like to keep it with the milder shit.”

“That’s right," you replied, nodding in agreement, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Mm-hm,” she replied, her eyes narrowing as she finally put the rag down, her gaze now intensely focused on you both.

“We can go ask somewhere else if you don’t have any,” you added, pushing the barwoman.

She huffed, shaking her head. She glanced at a few rough-looking patrons at the far end of the bar before looking back at you. “Lemme make a quick call.”

You nodded, trying to seem indifferent. 

When she stepped away to the grimy rotary phone on the wall, you and Kenji exchanged a quick glance. 

So far, so good.

Then Kenji suddenly stilled, his eyes going wide at something behind you. 

You were about to turn when—

“Why are you here?” came an infuriatingly familiar voice from directly behind you, making you jump.

You spun around to face the tall stranger and his golden eyes. His black-and-yellow hair sat messily on the top of his head, a few curls falling over his forehead. Black ink kissed the sides of his neck above the white collar of his hoodie, and his round glasses sat on the high bridge of his nose.

He grabbed you by the arm, his grip surprisingly firm, and pulled you a bit further away from the bar.

“Hey, what—” you began, wrenching your arm free.

“Why are you here?” he asked again, his voice low and furious.

“Why are you here?” you snapped back. 

He didn’t look bored or amused like he had in your apartment. No, he looked genuinely, terrifyingly mad. 

“Ya need to leave. Now.”

You stared up, up, up at him, a sudden unease prickling your skin. 

He dipped his head down, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “If anyone ‘ere realises yer not Valhalla, it won’t be pretty.”

“They won’t,” you insisted, though your confidence wavered. “I’m leaving soon anyway.”

“Why are you even here?”

You hesitated, lowering your voice further, almost a whisper. “I, uh, came here to buy.”

His perfect brows narrowed. “Why?”

“None of your business,” you snapped, the annoyance pushing through the fear.

He scoffed. “Are you an idiot or just pretendin’ to be one?”

You huffed a breath. “Just fuck off, will you? No one will know we’re Toman,” you whispered. 

That made him laugh, a short, harsh bark. “Nah, that ain’t my first concern,” he whispered back. “The two of you look like fuckin’ undercover cops. With your fake glasses and shit.”

“They are not—”

“Haven’t ya noticed everyone watchin’ over the two of ya?” he cut you off, his gaze sweeping around the bar.

You paused, a cold realisation dawning on you. 

The lingering glances, the subtle shifts in conversation... he was right.

The guy looked at Kenji then, who still stood a bit further away, rigid and paler than before. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“What, no?!” you whisper-yelled, mortified. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway.”

Those golden eyes slid back to you. “You’re a damn idiot for comin’ in ‘ere.”

“Good thing then that we’re leaving,” you said, getting even more annoyed, though your voice lacked conviction.

He eyed the other patrons in the bar, his posture tight, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Then he exhaled a long breath, a sound of utter weariness. “Fucking tirin’.” He looked at you again, his voice dropping to a low, urgent rumble. “If you don’t wanna get yer brain shot outta your head, follow my lead.”

You opened your mouth, about to ask what the hell he was talking about, when he threw his arm over your shoulder, pulling you tightly into his side.

“Wanna get anythin’ to drink, darlin’?” he asked, his tone suddenly louder, smoother, and sickeningly smug, a public declaration.

You blinked, your body freezing up. 

“Oi, Yuki-chan, get us somethin’ nice,” he yelled to the bartender, who was just returning from her call.

Kenji stared at you, his eyes wide with confusion and alarm. 

You stared back at him, utterly unsure of what to do.

The bartender raised a brow, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “She's your girl, Shuji?”

Your muscles locked even further. Shuji?

The guy, Shuji, pulled you along with him as he sauntered to the bar. “Ya could say that.”

Your breath hitched. You wanted to smack him, hard. 

But the other patrons and even the formidable bartender seemed to visibly relax at his words, the tension in the room dissipating like smoke.

“She came askin’ me for flakka,” the bartender added, already pouring two glasses of something amber.

The guy chuckled, the vibration rumbling against your side where he held you close. “Did she now?”

“You know the guy too?” she asked, nodding towards Kenji.

Shuji glanced at Kenji, who looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Yeah… they cousins.”

The bartender hummed in understanding, then laughed, a harsh, knowing sound. “Shit. For a moment there, I thought they were Toman rats. Or fucking pigs.”

Shuji squeezed your shoulder tighter, a clear ‘I told you so’ in the pressure. 

But his easygoing grin fell, and he tilted his head, his eyes hardening. “Toman rat or a pig,” he echoed, his tone dangerously low, a menacing purr. “So, so disrespectful. You say that ‘bout my girl, eh?”

The bartender’s expression crumpled. 

The other patrons, who had just relaxed, now stilled, their eyes fixed on the scene.

“No, no, of course not,” she stuttered, her composure doing a complete 180. She looked genuinely terrified.

“It certainly did sound like that, no?” Shuji replied, his voice deceptively calm.

“No. No, it was nothing like that.”

“Ah, ya callin’ me deaf then?”

The bartender blinked, her eyes wide with fear. “Wh—I—”

“Stop that stutterin’, sweetheart, and speak your mind. Can’t understand shit yer sayin’.”

“I meant no disrespect, Hanma-san. I - I apologise if it seemed like that,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. 

And then the name clicked.

Hanma. 

Shuji.

Shuji Hanma.

Hanma Shuji.

You stopped breathing for a full minute. 

You didn’t move. 

Didn’t hear what the man, Hanma Shuji, replied. 

The man who you were currently pressed against, whose arm was around you, who had been in your home.

Hanma Shuji. 

Japan’s most notorious gang member. 

Valhalla’s acting leader.

One of the most dangerous men in all of Tokyo.

Oh, that’s why Kenji looked like he was about to piss himself, huh? Or maybe he already had…

You glanced up at Hanma Shuji beside you, his profile cold and vicious as he continued to intimidate the bartender. Shit. How hadn’t you realised it was him? 

To be honest, you hadn't thought it could even be him, or anyone that infamous. In the streets, he usually went by the nicknames Ghost or Zombie due to his unsettling fighting style. "Ghost" came from his uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere, never seen until it was too late. "Zombie" stemmed from his relentless resilience, his knack for getting back up no matter how many times he was knocked down. 

And to your defence, he usually wore a mask to cover his face, and you had never actually seen him in person, only heard the chilling stories that permeated the city.

The bar door suddenly opened, and more men entered, their expressions hard and expectant.

“False alarm,” the bartender stuttered, her voice thin.

The men who had just entered looked mad and confused.

“They’re with Hanma-san,” the bartender quickly explained, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “I was misunderstood.”

Hanma barked out a laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Ya called for backup? For these two?” He laughed again, louder this time. “That’s actually hilarious.”

The bartender was pale, her skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. “I honestly thought they weren’t Valhalla. Never seen ‘em before.”

“Damn.” Hanma ran his other hand through his black-and-yellow curls, while the one around your shoulders tightened. “Y’all have too much time on yer hands.” Then he squeezed you again, manoeuvring your body slightly. “Let’s go, darlin’. This shit’s gettin’ boring.”

You stumbled, your body feeling like lead, as he pulled you along beside him.

“Let’s go, cousin,” Hanma chimed to Kenji, who seemed to come alive at the command. 

Kenji’s eyes widened further, and he stumbled after you, a terrified shadow.

You remained under Hanma’s arm as he casually led you through the bar, past the staring patrons and the now-sheepish reinforcements, and then out into the empty, rain-slicked street.

As the door closed behind you, plunging you back into the relative quiet of the night, you acted on pure instinct. 

With all your strength, you punched him hard against his side, precisely where you knew his healing stab wound was.

His body folded immediately, a sharp groan escaping him as he recoiled, clutching his side. “Ow, what the fuck?!”

Then, without another thought, you grabbed Kenji’s wrist. “RUN!”

And you bolted, dragging Kenji with you, your own fight-or-flight response activating with a vengeance. 

Fortunately, Kenji came to his senses and started running fast too, his rigid stiffness translating into panicked speed. 

The two of you tore through the streets, not daring to look back, the image of Hanma Shuji’s shocked, pained face burned into your mind.

Chapter Text

The pounding of your feet on the wet pavement was a frantic drumbeat against the night's chill. Rain had started again, a fine, cold mist that plastered your hair to your face and soaked through your clothes, but you barely noticed. All that mattered was distance.

"Do you know him?!" Kenji gasped, his voice thin and strained as he struggled to keep pace beside you. "Do you know Hanma Shuji?!"

He was surprisingly fast, fuelled by the same primal fear that propelled you. 

You risked a quick glance back. 

Nothing. 

Just the dark, winding streets of Valhalla territory, now appearing even more menacing in the dim light.

"No!" you yelled back, though the lie felt hollow even to your own ears. You knew him enough to have stitched him up twice, enough to have been dragged into his orbit, enough to now be running for your life because of him.

"But—but he seemed to know you! And he said, 'my girl'!" Kenji stammered, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and confusion. 

He was clearly trying to process the impossible image of his quiet, unassuming colleague being casually claimed by one of the most feared gang leaders in Tokyo.

You didn't reply, simply pushing harder, your lungs burning, your legs aching. There was no time for explanations, not now. Every second counted. Every alley you passed, every flickering streetlight, was a potential trap. 

You needed to get out of Valhalla's territory, and you needed to do it fast. 

The realisation that Hanma Shuji had seen you, knew your name, and even had your phone number (how else would he have tracked you down twice?) twisted a knot of dread in your stomach. Or perhaps he had put a tracker on the phone?

You could practically feel his golden eyes on your back, even miles away. 

The "Ghost" indeed.

“Why did you hit him?!” Kenji managed to pant out, his voice a strained whisper as he ran beside you.

“I panicked!” you yelled back, the word tearing from your throat, raw and desperate. It was the truth, but it felt like a pathetic excuse.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t think anyone’s following us.”

“I’m not taking any risks,” you replied, grimly, keeping your eyes fixed on the path ahead, refusing to slow down. 

The fluorescent lights of the metro station felt blindingly bright after the oppressive gloom of Valhalla's streets. 

You didn't stop running until you were through the turnstiles and standing on the platform, waiting for a train. 

Your lungs burned, and your legs ached, but the relief was a cold, pure rush. 

Only then, with the distant rumble of an approaching train providing a fragile sense of security, did you dare to finally breathe out.

You and Kenji stood there, chests heaving, shoulders slumped. The adrenaline was slowly draining, leaving behind a profound exhaustion.

You exchanged a look with Kenji. 

His face was still pale, eyes wide and a bit glassy. Yours probably mirrored his. There was a long, awkward silence, punctuated only by your ragged breathing and the train pulling into the station.

Then, almost in unison, you both uttered the only words that seemed to fit the moment.

"Well...shit."

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The train ride back to Toman's district was a blur of nervous silence. You and Kenji exchanged only a handful of strained glances. The sheer audacity of what had just happened, of who you had just faced down (and punched), was too much to process.

When the train finally pulled into your station, the familiar territory felt like a fragile shield. 

You stepped out onto the platform, the familiar faces and less menacing atmosphere quite the contrast to the district you'd just fled.

"Well," Kenji started, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes still a bit dazed. "I guess... I'll see you tomorrow at the lab."

You nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. "Yeah. Stay safe, Kenji."

He offered a weak, uncertain smile, then turned and quickly melted into the crowd, leaving you alone with your churning thoughts.

You walked the familiar blocks to your apartment, the weight of the day settling heavily on your shoulders. The new phone felt like a ticking time bomb. 

As you reached your building, a grim determination set in. You needed to figure out if that bastard had put a tracker on it. You wouldn't put it past him.

You fumbled for your keys, and the street was quiet around you. The comforting thought of locking yourself in your apartment, of analysing the phone, of trying to reclaim some semblance of control, spurred you on.

You slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open, stepping inside your small, dim home.

And then you froze.

Lounging on your couch, as if he owned the place, was Hanma Shuji. 

His long legs were stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the cushion. He still had on the same clothes, a white hoodie, black military pants and boots, but his golden eyes, unmasked by glasses now, were fixed on you with an infuriatingly familiar, amused smirk.

"Took you long enough," he said as a greeting. "Thought you'd never get home."

Your phone slipped from your numb fingers, hitting the floor with a thud. 

Your heart, which had just begun to slow its frantic pace, lurched into a fresh gallop. 

He was here. Again. In your apartment.

"What the hell?!" you breathed, the shock stealing your voice, your carefully constructed facade of control crumbling to dust. Every muscle in your body tensed, ready to bolt, to fight, to scream.

Hanma simply observed you. 

He sat up slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours. "No need for hysterics. Just stoppin’ by for a chat."

"A chat?" you snarled, finding your voice. "You followed me! You broke into my apartment! And I just fucking punched you!"

He actually chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. 

He touched his side, a faint wince crossing his face, but the amusement in his eyes never wavered. "And you punch surprisingly hard for such a little thing."

You stared at him, aghast. "Are you insane?! Get out! Get out of my apartment now !" 

He stood up, unfolding his considerable height. 

You took a step back, your eyes darting around for anything, anything, to use as a weapon.

The room suddenly felt very small. 

"Relaaax, trickster," he said, his voice softer now, almost placating, but still laced with an unsettling undertone of command. "I ain’t here to hurt you." He gestured vaguely to your living room. "Just wanted to talk about our little arrangement."

"We don't have an arrangement!" you spat, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Oh, but we do," he countered, taking a slow step towards you. "You fix me up, I keep you safe.”

“I don’t need to be kept safe,” you snapped, taking a step back, your eyes darting around the small living room.

His golden eyes narrowed. "Why were you askin’ for flakka?"

“Not your business, asshole.”

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, a controlled release of frustration. "Once you entered my territory, it became my business, sweet thing. Now, tell me. Ain’t got all night."

You swallowed, the dry air scratching your throat. 

He wasn't going to leave until you told him. 

"Toman wants it," you admitted, the words tasting like ash. "Mikey wants us to produce it. But we don't have the equipment, the setup, the... expertise for that kind of scale and safety. It's too dangerous."

A slow smile spread across his face, a predator's grin. "So, you came to us for a sample, huh? To reverse-engineer Valhalla's recipe?" His eyes glinted with amusement. "Bold. Very bold."

"It wasn't my idea to come there," you retorted, feeling a fresh surge of indignation. "Mitsuya sent us. He said I'd know if it was 'the real shit'." You mimicked Mitsuya's tone, a defiant huff escaping you.

Hanma's chuckle was a low rumble in his chest. "Mitsuya, eh? Always thinking two steps ahead. But not quite enough, apparently." He took another step, closing the remaining distance. 

You stood rooted to the spot, torn between the urge to bolt and the realisation that he was too fast, too strong. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

"So, what's your proposition?" you asked, forcing the words out, trying to sound a lot more in control than you felt.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper, and the scent of rain and something musky, uniquely his, filled your senses. "I can get you what you need. The equipment, the precursors, even some pointers on how to handle the really tricky bits. Valhalla's got access to things Toman doesn't, especially when it comes to that particular blend." He gestured vaguely, his eyes never leaving yours. "In exchange... you keep patching me up when I need it. No questions. No cops. No Toman."

Your brows furrowed. “Surely there are people to patch you up in Valhalla’s district.”

“There are.”

“Then why do I have to?”

“Because you clearly don’t want to.” He just smiled, a flicker of pure amusement in his eyes.

"And you promise to leave me alone otherwise?"

He pulled back slightly. "Where's the fun in that, darlin'? We're practically partners now."

"We are not partners, you thick-headed idiot!" you hissed, your voice cracking.

"Oh, but we are," he countered, stepping closer again. "You're Toman's little chemist, and I'm Valhalla's... well, I'm me. And right now, we need each other. Don't we?" 

“You don’t need me,” you said. “You just want to… bully me.”

“Bully you?” He laughed, a genuine, almost surprised sound that filled your small apartment. “Cute. Haven’t been accused of that since school.”

“Well, you are now. I won’t be ordered around by some ‘notorious acting leader’.” You jabbed your finger into his chest, the motion bolder than you felt. “You can keep your flakka, and I’ll find a way to make it on my own. Now get out.”

He looked utterly unfazed. 

"And besides, what if your gang finds out you're helping the rival gang?" you countered, trying a different angle.

"One," he said, raising a single finger, "they won't. Second," he raised a second finger, a slow smile spreading across his face, "that'd be funny as hell if they did."

"You're seriously not right in the head."

"Well, duh."

You scowled at him, the infuriating nonchalance warring with the creeping dread of his presence.

"Now,” he sighed, “this foreplay has been fun and all, but I'm gettin' bored. Are we in agreement?"

"I don't give a damn if you are bored or not," you snapped, stepping forward, your resolve hardening. "You already owe me for the shit you've done so far, so fine, get me a sample of flakka but then we're even."

"That so?" His eyes glinted with amusement.

"Yes. Now, out!"

"Sheesh, fine," he replied, a low chuckle escaping him as he turned and sauntered towards your door without a care in the world, leaving you standing alone in your apartment, fuming.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The next week passed in a haze of restless nights and hyper-vigilant days. 

It was safe to say that you didn't sleep well, each creak of your apartment building, every distant siren, sending a jolt of terror through you. 

You were constantly braced, convinced that Hanma Shuji would reappear, a malevolent ghost in your doorway. But he didn't. Each morning, you woke to an empty apartment.

You didn't see him for the entire week. 

No looming figure in the hallway, no taunting grin on your doorstep. 

You remained on your toes each night, a knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach, convinced that this fragile peace was just the calm before another storm. 

He was out there, somewhere, and he knew where you lived and how to get inside. That alone was enough to ensure a constant, simmering dread.

You and Kenji recounted the failed mission to Valhalla's territory, the tension of your escape palpable in the telling. 

Everyone in the lab—Aya and Rina, even Mikey's stern gaze when you finally delivered the news—was intrigued and horrified by the sheer audacity of your encounter with Hanma Shuji. You emphasised the immediate danger, the quick thinking that saved you, and the chilling realisation of who he was.

What you didn't tell anyone was that he had been in your apartment afterwards, or that he had promised to get a sample of flakka for you. 

That secret, a dangerous, fragile thing, remained yours alone.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.

The mundane fluorescent hum of the grocery store echoed around you. 

You navigated the aisles, your basket held the usual meagre contents: instant noodles, a can of tuna, a few sad vegetables, cheap coffee. 

The banality of it all was almost a comfort after the relentless anxiety of the past week.

You reached for a carton of milk, mindlessly comparing expiration dates, when a shadow suddenly fell over you, plunging your small world into an unexpected dimness. 

The scent of rain, and that uniquely musky, dangerous fragrance, hit you a split second before you felt a presence at your back, too close, too familiar.

Your hand froze on the milk carton. Every muscle in your body locked. 

You didn't need to turn around. You already knew.

"Scared, darlin'?" Hanma Shuji's voice purred, low and entirely unbothered, directly behind your ear.

You spun around, milk carton still clutched in your hand, your heart trying to hammer its way out of your chest. 

He stood there, impossibly casual, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other idly playing with a packet of instant ramen he'd apparently plucked from a shelf. 

His golden eyes, framed by his usual bored expression, held a familiar, infuriating glint of amusement.

"Why is that, I wonder?" he mused, taking a slow step closer, forcing you to back up against the dairy display. "You're lookin' at me like I'm the Grim Reaper and you're about to trip over your own feet."

“Why are you here?” you demanded.

“At a grocery store? To get a damn haircut,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Your initial fear quickly morphed into a furious irritation. You glared up at him, your grip tightening on the milk carton. 

He just raised one smug brow. “Ain’t chemists supposed to be smart, eh?”

“This isn’t your side of town, asshole.”

He gazed around the brightly lit aisle, his expression one of feigned surprise. “It ain’t?”

“You’re following me,” you snapped, stating the obvious, the accusation laced with venom.

He looked down at you again, his smirk widening. “Ah, a bit slow, but eventually got there.”

Infuriated, you shoved past him, your shoulder bumping hard against his. 

He didn't even flinch. 

As you stalked away, you could feel him fall into step directly behind you. 

A couple in the next aisle, eyeing the notorious gang leader with horrified recognition, quickly looked at him, then at you, then back at him, their faces pale. 

You simply huffed, your annoyance bubbling over. 

“You’ll be recognised,” you snapped at him, low enough that only he would hear, but with a furious edge. 

The last thing you needed was a public scene with a gang leader in a grocery store.

“Concerned about me? I’m touched.” His tone was a theatrical drawl, utterly unbothered.

“Lord, give me mercy,” you whispered, rolling your eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck.

Hanma, however, matched your pace with infuriating ease. "So, about that sample," he said, his voice just loud enough to carry over the store's muzak. "I got it for ya."

You stopped in your tracks, nearly sending a jar of pickles tumbling beside you with your basket. "You what?"

He pulled a small, tightly sealed plastic baggie from his inner jacket pocket, holding it up for you to see. Inside was a small amount of crystalline powder.

"Told ya I'd get it," he said, his smirk back in full force. "Always a man of my word."

Your gaze darted from the baggie to his face, then quickly around the busy supermarket. People were starting to notice, to stare. This was not the place to be discussing illicit substances, especially with the acting leader of a rival gang.

"Put that away!" you hissed, grabbing his wrist and pushing his hand back into his pocket. "Are you insane?! Do you want to get caught?"

He chuckled, unbothered by your urgency. "Relax, darlin'. Nobody here knows what it is but us. Besides," he leaned in, "it's safer to hand it over here than at your apartment, wouldn't you say?" His eyes glinted, a silent reminder of his uninvited visits.

You glared at him, a myriad of emotions warring inside you: anger, fear, and a grudging, infuriating flicker of relief that he'd actually come through. "Fine. Give it to me and leave."

"Patience, trickster," he purred, pulling his hand away from your grasp. "This ain't for free. Remember our arrangement?"

“You’re sick in the head,” you snapped, your voice barely a whisper of fury.

“Thank you.” 

“What do you want from me?” you demanded, the flakka sample momentarily forgotten as a new wave of bewilderment washed over you.

He tilted his head, his golden eyes sparkling with an unsettling amusement. “Let me take you out.”

“WHAT?!” 

The word exploded from you, echoing far too loudly in the grocery store aisle. 

Heads turned, and a few shoppers paused, eyeing the tall, imposing figure next to you with wary curiosity.

Hanma merely chuckled, entirely unperturbed by the sudden attention. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping just enough so only you could hear. "A date, darlin'. Dinner. Maybe a movie. The usual. Unless you prefer something a little more... exciting ?" His golden eyes glinted, a promise and a threat rolled into one.

You stared at him, dumbfounded. The audacity was breathtaking. "Are you out of your mind?!" you hissed, trying to keep your voice down, acutely aware of the lingering stares. "You're a wanted gang leader, and I'm... I work for your rivals! This isn't a romantic comedy!"

"Details, details," he waved a dismissive hand, still holding the baggie of flakka in the other. "Look, I got what you need. And you're good at this whole stitch-up thing. Seems only fair we expand our little arrangement, eh? Besides, you might find I'm not so bad when I'm not covered in blood." He grinned, a flash of white teeth that did nothing to reassure you.

"No," you stated flatly, shaking your head. "Absolutely not. Give me the sample, and then you leave me alone. That was the deal."

"Was it?" he mused, tilting his head. "I thought the deal was I get something, you get something. And I haven't quite gotten what I want yet." His gaze lingered on you, possessive and unsettling. "Unless you'd rather explain to Mikey-san why his flakka supply is delayed? Or why Valhalla suddenly seems to know a lot about Toman's little chemist?"

Your stomach clenched. He had you, and he knew it. The implicit threat was clear: refuse him, and the consequences would be severe, likely involving both Toman's displeasure and Valhalla's retaliation.

"Fine," you ground out, barely able to speak through clenched teeth. "One. Just one. And then we're done. Completely done."

His grin widened, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Now that's what I call a productive grocery trip." He flicked the small baggie towards you. 

You snatched it out of the air, stuffing it deep into your coat pocket as if it would burn through the fabric.

"Now, about that dinner..." he began, already stepping around you.

You glared at him, clutching your wobbly grocery cart like a shield. "Fine," you bit out, the word tasting like defeat. "Early. Public. Neutral territory. Just food. Nothing else." You narrowed your eyes at him, daring him to argue.

He paused, considering your terms, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Early, public, neutral, just food," he repeated, as if savouring each condition. "You drive a hard bargain. Very well." His eyes glinted with amusement. "Any particular place in mind, or should I pick out a lovely spot for our... 'dinner'?"

“Why did you say it like that?” you pressed, your voice tight with suspicion.

“Like what?” he countered, his eyes wide and innocent, a performance you saw right through.

“Like ‘dinner’,” you articulated, putting exaggerated emphasis on the word.

“‘Cause it’s dinner,” he replied, mimicking your emphasis perfectly.

“I know. But you said it in a weird way, like you weren’t meaning it’s dinner but ‘ dinner ’.” You gestured vaguely in the air, frustrated by his deliberate obtuseness.

“I meant it as dinner.”

“You did it again!”

“Did what again?” His feigned confusion was infuriating.

“You said dinner and not dinner.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did!”

“Oh, you attackin’ my dialect, eh?” He raised a brow, a flicker of genuine amusement now in his eyes.

“No, I’m not. I’m pointing out your way of toning the word.”

“I ain’t toning anythin’.”

“Oh, yes, you were.”

“Nah.”

“Yeah.”

A passing woman pushing a cart of frozen goods looked at the two of you with a mix of confusion and alarm, clearly wondering if she'd stumbled into a lovers' quarrel or something far more bizarre.

“It’s just dinner,” you snapped, lowering your voice but no less annoyed. “A quick bite.”

His lips twitched. “I can be quick if you want.”

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?” His golden eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Insinuating like it’s about something else but food.”

“I ain’t insinuating anything,” he said, but his smirk told a different story.

“My god, you are infuriating.” You stormed past him, leaving him standing amidst the frozen pizzas, a low chuckle following you as you pushed towards the checkout.

“See ya on Friday!” he yelled after you, his voice echoing a little too loudly in the otherwise mundane grocery store. 

You didn't turn around, simply walked faster, the promise of an unwanted "date" hanging over your head like a dark cloud.

Chapter Text

The next day, back in the lab, the small baggie of crystals from Hanma was meticulously analysed. 

It was indeed flakka. 

The tests confirmed its potency and composition, providing a crucial starting point for your grim new assignment.

When questioned about how you acquired the sample, you spun a convincing lie. 

You claimed you'd bought a sample from ‘a guy who knew a guy’. 

No one, not even Mitsuya, pressed for more details, seemingly satisfied with the outcome and too focused on the next steps.

The team immediately shifted focus to replicating the sample. 

Discussions became intense, arguments erupted over methodology, and the grim reality of creating such a dangerous substance loomed large. The high-risk precursors and specialised equipment remained a significant hurdle, but now, at least, you had a blueprint.

As the week wore on, the upcoming "date" with Hanma became a nagging undercurrent to the lab's frantic pace. 

You'd almost convinced yourself he'd forgotten, or that it was just another one of his strange jokes.

Then, late on Thursday night, your new phone buzzed with an incoming message from an unknown number. 

You stared at the screen, a familiar dread coiling in your stomach.

The message was short and to the point:

"Friday. 7 PM. 'The Gilded Lily'. Don't be late. - S"

Your hands tightened on the phone. 

"The Gilded Lily" was a notoriously upscale, trendy restaurant on the edge of the neutral zone, far removed from the grimy underbelly of Valhalla's district. 

Hanma, it seemed, was serious. 

And he knew how to find you, even without needing to show up at your door. 

You didn’t bother replying to him, just left him on seen. 

The thought of engaging further, even over text, was exhausting. 

With a deep sigh, you slouched deeper into your bed.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The alarm blared, a jarring intrusion into the suffocating darkness of your room. 

You slapped at it, missing once, twice, before finally silencing its cheerful assault. 

Friday. 

A wave of dread, cold and immediate, washed over you as you slowly pushed yourself out of bed.

The morning was a blur of reluctant movements. 

You dragged yourself to the kitchen, the coffee machine’s gurgle a mournful accompaniment to your mood. 

Each sip of the bitter liquid tasted like reluctant acceptance. 

Getting ready for work felt like preparing for an execution. 

You pulled on your usual lab attire: black trousers, a comfortable, neutral-colored hoodie, and an oversized denim jacket. 

Nothing that screamed "date." Nothing that screamed "attractive." Just practical, forgettable clothing.

Work offered little respite. 

The pressure to crack the flakka synthesis weighed heavily, compounded by the constant, low hum of anxiety about the evening ahead. 

You moved through the lab, mixing chemicals, running tests, your mind half-present, half-dreading the approaching hours. 

Kenji and the others were engrossed in the problem, oblivious to the personal nightmare awaiting you.

As the afternoon crawled towards evening, the dread only intensified. 

The final hours at the lab stretched endlessly, each tick of the clock a countdown. 

When you finally locked up and started the walk home, the city lights blurred through the fine drizzle, reflecting your own hazy state of mind.

The walk back to your apartment felt like navigating a minefield. 

Could you just bail? Not go? Block his number and disappear? 

The thought was fleeting, immediately crushed by the grim reality of it all. 

One dinner. That's it, you told yourself. 

Just one, public, neutral dinner. 

Then it would be over. 

You tried to convince yourself it was a necessary evil, a transaction. 

A sample for an hour of your time. No big deal. Just food. Nothing else.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The underground carriage rattled, the familiar rhythm doing little to soothe your frayed nerves. 

You got off a few stops early, opting to walk the rest of the way to "The Gilded Lily." 

The cool evening air was a welcome contrast to the stifling anxiety in your chest. 

The streets here were well-lit, bordered by sleek, modern buildings and the occasional burst of high-end boutiques. 

This truly was neutral territory, a world away from the gritty chaos of Valhalla’s district or the utilitarian anonymity of Toman’s turf.

As you approached the restaurant, its elegant, subdued lighting casting a warm glow onto the pavement, you spotted him. Hanma Shuji. 

He was leaning against the polished stone wall beside the entrance, his tall, lean frame an incongruous sight against the refined backdrop. 

He was on his phone, held casually to his ear.

Even from a distance, the usual bored amusement was gone from his face. His profile was sharp, etched with a grim expression as he listened, occasionally nodding or offering a terse, low reply into the phone. 

The streetlights caught the subtle gleam of his glasses, but tonight, there was no playful glint in his golden eyes, only a hard, focused intensity. 

He looked less like a casual date and more like a predator surveying his domain, or perhaps, dealing with a problem. A very serious problem.

You swallowed thickly, the knot of dread tightening in your stomach. Despite the chilling intensity on his face, you forced your legs to move, heading directly towards him.

He spotted you. His grim expression, moments ago etched with a cold, ruthless focus, softened almost imperceptibly, his eyes losing their sharp edge. It was a subtle shift, a surprising relaxation that made your breath catch.

"I'm busy now. I'll call ya later," he said into his phone, his voice dropping to a casual, almost bored tone before he pocketed it.

You stopped in front of him, the ambient street noise suddenly seeming to press in around you.

"Well, good evenin' to you as well," he drawled, that familiar, infuriating smirk now playing on his lips.

"Let's just get this over with," you replied, your voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside you.

Hanma's smirk remained firmly in place. He pushed off the wall, his considerable height looming over you. "Lead the way, trickster."

You turned, pushing open the heavy glass door of "The Gilded Lily." The interior was even more opulent than the outside suggested. Soft jazz music drifted from unseen speakers, mixing with the gentle clinking of cutlery and a murmur of polite conversation. The lighting was dim and warm, casting a sophisticated glow on the crisp white tablecloths and gleaming silverware. The air smelled of expensive perfume, fine wine, and something subtly delicious from the kitchen.

A hostess, elegant and poised, approached you. Her eyes, initially warm, flickered with a hint of something wary as they landed on Hanma's imposing figure and the unmistakable aura he carried.

"Reservation?" she asked, her voice professional but a fraction cooler.

“Hanma Shuji.”

The hostess tensed further. "Of course. Right this way, Hanma-san." She led you deeper into the restaurant, past hushed tables filled with well-dressed couples and business associates. 

You walked rigidly, acutely aware of Hanma a half-step behind you, his presence radiating an almost palpable energy that felt entirely out of place in this refined setting. 

She stopped at a secluded booth near a large window, offering a view of the city lights. "Here you are."

You slid into the booth, taking the seat farthest from him, effectively putting the table between you. Hanma slid in opposite you, his long legs stretching out comfortably under the table. 

He picked up the menu, not even glancing at you.

"So," he drawled, his voice pitched to just the right level for the intimate setting, "hungry?"

“Do you do this often?” you asked, ignoring his question completely.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, and looked at you, his golden eyes unblinking.

“Threaten women to have a date with you?” you added, letting your gaze sweep pointedly over the elegant restaurant, then back to his unbothered face. 

The soft jazz and clinking silverware suddenly felt like a mockery of your situation.

He tilted his head. "Only the interesting ones."

You huffed. “I’m honoured.”

“But nah, I don’t date enough to really say,” he added. “Though this worked out nicely, maybe I should do it more often, eh?”

“As if women willingly would go out with you,” you replied, a scathing retort.

“Ouch.” He brought a hand to his chest dramatically, though his golden eyes still held that infuriating glint of amusement.

"And besides, this isn't a date. This is a business transaction. You gave me a sample, and now I'm here. We eat. We leave. We don't speak again."

Hanma laughed, a low, smooth sound that somehow managed to be both irritating and strangely captivating in the sophisticated ambience. "Such a romantic. And here I thought you'd be swept off your feet by my charm." He leaned back in his seat, beckoning a passing waiter with an almost imperceptible flick of his wrist. "Besides," he added, his gaze sweeping over your face, "you needed that sample. Badly. And I delivered. You really think I'm lettin’ you off the hook for a single dinner?"

The waiter arrived, polite and efficient, taking their drink orders. 

You opted for plain water, while Hanma, predictably, ordered something dark and alcoholic.

Once the waiter departed, the silence stretched, filled only by the quiet hum of the restaurant.

“So, about that flakka,” he began, abandoning the pretence of small talk. “Any luck reverse-engineering it yet?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s definitely my business, trickster. Considering I’m the one who got you the sample, and considering the little… understanding we have.” He leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes locking onto yours. “Besides, if you screw it up, it reflects badly on my product. And I don’t like my product looking bad.”

“It’s flakka,” you retorted, a sardonic twist to your lips. “It always looks bad.”

He grinned. “Touché. But you know what I mean. So, spill. What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated, then sighed. There was no point in lying.

“It’s potent. The composition is… tricky. And we still need the right equipment for large-scale synthesis without, you know, blowing ourselves up or poisoning half of Tokyo.”

Hanma nodded slowly, as if assessing your words. “Thought so. Valhalla’s got a few… special suppliers. And some very specific setups. Mikey wouldn’t have you playing with this if he didn’t think you could handle it, but even he knows his limits with this stuff.” He paused, then picked up the menu. “Well, let’s order. I’m starvin’, and we still have to discuss the finer points of our continued… collaboration.”

"There is no continued collaboration!" you snapped, but the waiter arrived then, oblivious to the simmering tension at the table. 

You quickly scanned the menu, picking the simplest, most expensive thing just to spite him: the grilled black cod with seasonal vegetables. 

Hanma, without even looking at the menu, ordered a Wagyu steak, rare. 

The waiter took the menus and departed, leaving you in another uncomfortable silence.

"So," Hanma began, leaning back against the plush booth, his eyes fixed on you with an unnerving intensity. "A chemist, huh? How'd you end up stirrin’ pots for a gang?"

You bristled. "That's personal."

He merely raised an eyebrow. "I'm genuinely curious. Most girls your age are doing... I dunno, nail art or something. Not cooking up recreational psychosis for a bunch of delinquents."

"And most guys your age aren't running gangs and getting stabbed in alleyways," you shot back.

He chuckled, a low, pleased sound. "Fair point. So, tell me. University? Some dark family secret involving a periodic table? Spill."

You hesitated, then sighed. Maybe if you gave him a little, he'd back off. "I… I just liked chemistry. Always have. It made sense. The way things react, the predictability of it. It was... clean." The irony of that last word, given your current occupation, was not lost on you.

"Clean," he mused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "And now you're making drugs for Toman. Doesn't sound very clean to me."

"It's a job," you said, shrugging, trying to sound nonchalant. "A means to an end."

"An end to what?" he pressed, his gaze unwavering. "Financial freedom? Running from something? Or just a thrill-seeker with a very specific skill set?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Why do you care?"

"Like I said," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to that intimate, unsettling purr, "you're interesting. And I like to know what makes interesting things tick." He paused, his gaze sweeping over your face. "So, Toman. Why them? Plenty of other gangs in Tokyo. Or, you know, honest work."

You almost scoffed. "Honest work doesn't pay for certain... necessities. And Toman offered a path. A way to use my skills without drawing too much attention from, say, the police." You pointedly looked at him. "Or people like you."

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that drew a few more glances from nearby tables. 

“Why are you working for Valhalla?” you asked in turn, seizing the opportunity to shift the uncomfortable spotlight back onto him.

He leaned back again, his smile fading slightly. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes gazing past you, as if considering his answer. "Valhalla's got... potential. And it's never boring. Besides," he shrugged, finally meeting your gaze, "someone's gotta keep the chaos organised, right?" He offered a sly grin. "Might as well be me."

"But... why this ?" You gestured vaguely, encompassing the restaurant, the city, the entire underworld he inhabited. "Why not an honest job? You seem… uhh… smart enough. Capable. You could do something else."

The corner of his mouth twitched, and the usual sardonic amusement in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something surprisingly thoughtful, almost melancholic. The sly act dropped, if only for a moment. 

"Honest job, huh?" He let out a soft, humourless chuckle. "What's 'honest' about punching a clock, building someone else's dream, living by rules that make no sense? This world..." He swept a hand vaguely. "It's all rigged anyway, isn't it? Laws, society, morality. Just different ways to control people."

He met your gaze, and for the first time, you saw a glimpse of something raw beneath the swagger. "I never fit in with 'honest.' It was always too small, too slow, too... borin’. This world, the gang world, it's honest in its own way. Ya see the consequences of yer actions immediately. There ain’t no pretence, no false smiles. It's raw. And it's fast. It feels more real, y’know?" He paused, taking another slow sip of his drink, his eyes distant. "Besides," he added, a flicker of his usual smirk returning, though softer now, "The freedom and the chaos make life interestin’."

You considered him, a strange flicker of understanding passing through you. You could see the restless energy he spoke of, the undeniable draw of a life lived on the edge. 

You opened your mouth, a question forming, but he interrupted.

"My turn."

"Your turn?" you asked, taken aback.

"Aye. Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

"Excuse me?" The audacity of the question, delivered with such casual bluntness, made you reel.

"Excused. Now tell me."

God, this man was...

"I don't have time for a boyfriend. And haven't really been looking for one," you said.

"Why?" he pressed, his golden eyes unblinking, probing.

"My turn," you said, seizing the opportunity to redirect. "Why were you stabbed on the night we met?"

Hanma’s gaze sharpened, the last vestiges of his casual amusement fading. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his posture suddenly more predatory. "That," he said, his voice low, "is classified information."

"Oh, really?" you retorted, a sardonic smirk touching your lips. "So, you get to dig into my life, but your own is off-limits? That's not how a 'partnership' works, Shuji-san." You emphasised his full name, a subtle jab.

He chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. "Partnership? I believe you were the one who so vehemently denied that. Besides," his eyes glinted, "some things are better left unsaid. For your own good. Let's just say… I was dealin’ with some internal unpleasantness. Standard gang stuff."

"Standard gang stuff that leaves you bleeding out on my floor?" you challenged, a vivid image of that night flashing in your mind.

"It happens," he shrugged, his expression now completely unreadable. "Occupational hazard. But you seemed to handle it well enough." He paused, a strange glint in his eye. "You know, for someone who supposedly doesn't have time for a boyfriend, you clean up pretty nice."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, infuriated by his sudden shift in topic. "Just stick to the flakka, Shuji."

"Always thinking about work, eh?" He sighed dramatically. "Such a responsible chemist. Maybe you should take a break. Enjoy the moment." He gestured vaguely at the elegant restaurant around them. "This place isn't exactly a lab, you know."

“Well, why don’t you have a girlfriend?” you asked in turn, a challenge in your voice.

He paused, looking up at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “I dunno. Haven’t been interested in findin’ one. Ain’t no one really wanna date a fella like me anyway. And if they do then…” He gnashed his teeth, a flicker of something dark and self-deprecating in his golden eyes, “Something ain’t right in the head with ‘em.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, genuinely curious despite yourself.

“If a woman wants to date a gang leader, they want something. Money, status, quickie. I ain’t got time for that. Too much drama anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that was almost... normal.

“Spoken like the man that you are,” you replied dryly.

He shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

“Maybe not. I don’t see any other reason for anyone wanting to date you.”

Other than his looks, of course, but you would never admit that.

His lips twitched, a hint of something unreadable in his golden eyes. “Damn. Yer the first person to talk to me in this way.”

“In what way? Truthfully?”

“Disrespectfully.”

You smiled at him, a genuine, if defiant, curve of your lips. “Well, that would be because I don’t respect you.”

“And the sky is blue.”

Just as you were about to retort, a soft chime from the kitchen signalled the arrival of your meals. 

The waiter glided over, presenting two exquisitely plated dishes. 

The aroma of your grilled black cod, delicate and inviting, mingled with the rich, savoury scent of Hanma’s perfectly seared Wagyu steak.

The waiter set your plate before you first, the fish glistening under the soft light, surrounded by a vibrant array of seasonal vegetables. Then, with practised ease, he placed Hanma’s formidable steak in front of him. 

"Enjoy your meal," the waiter said, a polite, almost imperceptible bow before he retreated.

For a moment, a rare silence fell between you, broken only by the gentle clinking of cutlery from other tables and the soft jazz music. 

The food itself seemed to demand attention, a momentary truce in your verbal sparring.

You picked up your fork, carefully flaking a piece of the black cod. It was perfectly cooked, tender and flavorful.

Hanma, meanwhile, had already cut into his steak. As he took his first bite, a piece of the perfectly rare meat disappearing into his mouth, you saw it. A flash of silver inside. 

Your eyes focused. 

It glanged again as he chewed, catching the soft light of the restaurant.

It was subtle, almost hidden by the movement of his jaw, but unmistakable once you noticed it. He had his tongue pierced. 

He must have caught your gaze, because he paused mid-chew, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. 

"What?" he asked, a faint trace of annoyance in his voice, as if he knew you were scrutinising him.

"You have your tongue pierced," you blurted out.

He laughed, a flash of pure amusement. 

He stuck out his tongue for a split second, just enough to confirm the glinting silver bar. "Sharp eye, trickster. Most people don't notice that unless they're... getting really close." 

You immediately looked away, a flush creeping up your neck. You busied yourself with your food, stabbing a piece of cod with more force than necessary.

"Hey."

You ignored him, focusing intently on your plate.

"Oi, chemist."

Still nothing.

Then, before you could react, he reached across the table with his fork. In one swift, audacious movement, he speared a piece of your grilled black cod and a sliver of asparagus right off your plate. 

You watched, aghast, as he brought it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.

He chewed slowly, deliberately, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Hmm," he hummed, then swallowed. "Not bad. A little bland for my taste, but the texture's nice." He met your furious glare with an utterly unbothered one. "You gonna eat all those veggies, or can I have another?"

You didn't say a word. You just met his gaze, a clear challenge in your eyes. Then you reached across the table with your own fork. 

With a smooth, precise movement, you speared a piece of his perfectly cooked Wagyu steak right off his plate, mimicking his earlier audacity. 

You brought it to your mouth, your gaze never leaving his, and took a bite.

You chewed slowly, savouring the rich, tender meat. "Hmm," you hummed, mimicking his earlier assessment, "Not bad. A little... rich for my taste, but the marbling is exquisite." 

“The marbling is exquisite, you are right,” he replied.

You narrowed your eyes at him, the brief truce broken. “By the way, if this whole thing is some elaborate plan to get into my pants, you have been mistaken.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, a theatrical sigh escaping him. “Calm down, darlin’. I ain’t trying anything.”

You scoffed, disbelief plain on your face. “Sure you aren’t.”

“Damn, you calling me easy now?” he drawled.

“Well, yeah. I guess I am.”

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that made a few heads turn. “Wow, you have some balls for a woman. I respect that.”

“Then what is this?” you pressed, gesturing between the two of you, the elegant restaurant, and the half-eaten food. “Just having dinner with me, huh?”

“Yeah, looks like it,” he said, taking another bite of his steak, completely unperturbed.

“Right.” You crossed your arms, your scepticism palpable.

He tilted his head, his gaze piercing. “You are very suspicious of me.”

“It’s called having common sense,” you shot back, a dry retort.

“Mmh. Maybe.” He finished his mouthful, his expression unreadable.

You huffed, suddenly losing your appetite. The tension, the endless banter, it was exhausting. You put down your cutlery with a soft clink and leaned back in your seat, watching him.

Hanma watched you in turn, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. Or fuck you if that is what you’re concerned ‘bout.”

“Why did you force me to this dinner then?” you demanded, the question escaping you despite your resolve to remain aloof.

“‘Cause like I said, you are interesting and I am bored,” he replied, shrugging a shoulder.

“Then get a hobby.”

He sucked his teeth, a low, drawn-out sound. “Maybe I should.”

You still didn't quite believe him, but the way he said it, with a hint of genuine consideration, was unsettling. 

"So, that's it?" you asked, a sceptical eyebrow raised. "You just wanted to alleviate your boredom by terrorising a chemist who works for your rivals?"

"Terrorising? Strong word. I'd say... stimulating." He took a long sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. "Besides, I did you a favour, didn't I? That sample isn't something you can just pick up at your local convenience store."

"At a considerable cost to my sanity, and potentially my life," you countered dryly.

"Such dramatics," he scoffed, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was enjoying every second of it. "You're still here, aren't you? And you got what you needed. Seems like a fair trade."

A waiter approached, discreetly refilling your water glass. The brief interruption offered a moment of respite from Hanma's intense gaze. 

You picked up your fork again, pushing a piece of cod around your plate, your appetite still diminished.

"So, what happens now?" you asked, keeping your voice low. "Are we... done? The sample exchanged, the 'date' fulfilled?"

He leaned back. “For now.”

“So can I go?” you asked, your voice laced with a mixture of hope and impatience.

His lips twitched, but he waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah. You are free to go.”

You didn't need to be told twice. 

Without a word, you pushed yourself out of the table, almost knocking over your untouched water glass in your haste. 

You barely spared Hanma a glance as you turned and practically sprinted towards the restaurant exit, navigating around tables with an uncharacteristic clumsiness. 

The cool night air outside was a blessed relief, and you didn't look back as you walked, desperate to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the "Gilded Lily."

Chapter Text

The flakka sample proved to be both a breakthrough and a bane. 

After days of meticulous analysis, trial, and error, you and your team managed to produce a small, albeit potent, amount of flakka. The initial synthesis seemed surprisingly stable, and for a moment, a sliver of relief pierced through the constant pressure. It was possible.

But that fleeting victory was quickly overshadowed by the overwhelming reality of your resource limitations. The lab was equipped for basic pharmaceutical concoctions and minor illicit substances, not the complex, large-scale production of highly volatile designer drugs. 

You were working with makeshift equipment, questionable sourcing for precursors, and a constant fear of explosion or contamination. 

Every other project on Toman’s growing illicit menu—from methamphetamine derivatives to synthetic stimulants—demanded attention, stretching your meagre supplies and even more meagre time.

You were perpetually, bone-deep tired. 

The concept of a "day off" felt like a distant, alien luxury. 

You couldn't remember the last time you hadn't been working, sketching out molecular structures, or overseeing a shaky distillation. 

Unlike regular employees, your pay wasn't hourly. You got compensated only when a job was completed successfully, when a batch was delivered and deemed "right." And right now, things were decidedly not going right.

Toman, sensing the rising tensions in the city, was breathing down your necks. 

Their patience was wearing thin, their demands for new products increasing with each passing day.

Outside the lab's secure walls, the gang landscape was a volatile mess. 

Smaller, ambitious gangs were testing the waters, trying to carve out their own territory, and both Toman and Valhalla were reacting with brutal efficiency to every perceived threat. Their own ongoing, violent conflicts only added another layer of suffocating pressure.

“We need a much bigger lab,” Aya snapped, pacing the cramped confines of your current workspace, her frustration a live wire in the already tense atmosphere. “Fucking bullshit.”

Kenji, meticulously cleaning a retort that looked suspiciously like it had once been a coffee pot, sighed. “Tell me about it. I almost dropped that last batch of meth because I had nowhere to put the cooling plate.” He gestured vaguely at a stack of overflowing crates. "We're practically tripping over volatile chemicals."

Rina, hunched over a sputtering Bunsen burner, muttered, “And don’t even get me started on the ventilation. I swear I’m going to start glowing in the dark soon. My eyes sting, and I can taste acetone even in my sleep.” She coughed, a dry, hacking sound that punctuated her complaint.

You rubbed your temples, the stress a constant headache. “It’s not just the space. It’s the constant pressure. Toman wants more, faster, and better . And they don’t care that our 'budget' wouldn't even cover a proper fume hood, let alone a whole new facility.”

“No kidding,” Aya scoffed, running a hand through her already messy hair. “We’re making flakka and meth in a glorified broom closet. One spark, one wrong move, and we’re all going to be statistics.” She picked up a cracked beaker, shaking her head. “This isn’t just inconvenient; it’s genuinely dangerous. For us, mostly.”

“And it’s costing us time,” Kenji added, looking up from his cleaning. “Every moment we spend trying to improvise or prevent an explosion is a moment we’re not perfecting the yields, or trying to find a safer synthesis for this new shit.”

You sighed, looking around at the lab. "It’s a miracle we haven’t blown ourselves up yet. Or poisoned half of Tokyo."

“Maybe we should just… go on strike,” Aya mused, more to herself than anyone, a dark, desperate humour in her voice.

Rina snorted, a sharp, cynical sound. “Right.” She then burst into a short, humourless laugh. “A, they’ll find someone else to do this in a day. And B,” her eyes hardened, “we pull a stunt like that, and your mom finds your head outside her door by morning.”

A tense silence fell. The grim reality of their situation settled back in, heavier than before.

“Okay, fine, no strike,” you conceded, running a hand over your face. “But we demand a bigger lab. We demand proper equipment. This is unsustainable.”

Kenji sighed, gesturing around the chaotic, fume-filled room with his free hand. “Yeah, we already did. And look where it got us.”

You looked at the exhausted faces of your team, the dark circles under their eyes mirroring your own. 

Rina coughed again, a deep, rattling sound. The stench of acetone and other, less identifiable, chemicals hung heavy in the air. 

Just as the despair threatened to settle in, the heavy metal door to the lab creaked open with a groan. A hulking Toman member, Hashiro, you recalled, his face impassive under a perpetual scowl, stood silhouetted in the doorway. He didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“We need a delivery,” he grunted, his gaze falling directly on you. “Now.”

Your heart sank. You were exhausted, and the thought of another risky delivery gnawed at you. “Isn’t there anyone else that could—”

“Now.” His voice was flat, leaving no room for argument.

You looked at Aya, Kenji, and Rina, a silent, "God fucking dammit," passing between your eyes. 

This was nothing new, the sudden, inconvenient demands, but the annoyance still simmered. 

With a frustrated sigh, you started gathering the specific packages Hashiro had ordered: several vacuum-sealed bricks of methamphetamine, discreetly wrapped in dark plastic. 

You stuffed them into your worn backpack, zipping it shut with a grim finality.

Slinging the bag over one shoulder, you pulled your headphones over your ears, letting the music drown out the lab’s oppressive hum and your own rising irritation. 

You nodded curtly to Hashiro as you passed him, then stepped out into the cool Tokyo evening.

This time, the drop wasn't in some grimy alleyway. 

The message had specified a club, deep within Toman's territory. 

You took the underground, the rhythmic clatter of the train a monotonous backdrop to your thoughts. 

The neon glow of the city filtered through the windows, painting the passing tunnels in fleeting, electric hues.

The club was a throbbing bass in the distance before you even reached it. 

A line of people snaked around the block, and the air thrummed with anticipation. 

At the door, a burly security guy, all muscle and bored menace, stood guard.

“ID?” he grunted as you approached, barely glancing at you.

You pulled down your headphones. "I'm here to meet Kaito," you said, keeping your voice even. "I have a delivery."

He scrutinised you for a moment, then a flicker of understanding passed over his impassive face. "Right. Go on in." 

He waved you through, and the thumping bass hit you like a physical force as you entered the dimly lit, smoke-filled interior.

The club was a dizzying assault on the senses. 

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and spilt drinks. 

Bodies pressed in on all sides, a chaotic sea of dancing figures illuminated by strobing lights. 

The bass vibrated through the floor, thrumming against your teeth, making conversation almost impossible. 

You pushed through the dense crowd, trying to avoid stray elbows and spilt drinks, your backpack feeling heavier with each step.

You finally broke free of the main dance floor, making a beeline for the dimly lit bar. 

It was just as crowded as the rest of the club, but at least here, people were somewhat stationary. 

You managed to squeeze yourself to the front, catching the eye of a bored-looking bartender wiping down the counter.

"Kaito?" you yelled over the deafening music, pointing vaguely towards the back of the club.

The bartender, a young man with a tired expression and several facial piercings, barely blinked. He simply gestured for you to wait, then disappeared through a door behind the bar. 

A few minutes later, he returned, nodding towards a burly bouncer who was now making his way through the throng. 

The bouncer, a mountain of a man with a stern face, approached you. He didn't say a word, just inclined his head towards the rear of the club, then turned and began to weave his way through the crowd. 

You had no choice but to follow.

The bouncer led you past a "Staff Only" door, down a narrow, graffiti-scarred corridor that smelled faintly of stale beer and something vaguely medicinal. 

The thumping bass of the club became a dull throb here, a distant heartbeat. 

He pushed open another unmarked door, revealing a private room cloaked in dim, swirling colored lights.

The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and the cloying sweetness of various substances. 

Several figures were sprawled on plush, low couches: a few burly men, and an equal number of women draped over their laps or nestled beside them, all clearly out of it in one way or another. 

Their eyes were glazed, movements sluggish. A half-empty bottle of expensive liquor stood on a table laden with scattered bills and what looked like drug paraphernalia.

"Kaito-san," the bouncer grunted, stepping aside for you.

A man on the central couch, lazily running a hand through a woman’s hair, looked up. He was lean, with sharp, calculating eyes that, despite the hazy atmosphere, seemed surprisingly alert. 

You just wanted to get this over with. You stepped forward, beginning to unzipper your backpack. "I have the delivery."

"Woah, woah, what's the hurry, darlin'?" Kaito drawled, a slimy smile spreading across his face. "No need to rush a good thing." He gestured to the empty spot beside him on the couch, the woman there shifting to make room. "Sit."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. 

The bouncer, a silent, menacing shadow, was now standing squarely in the doorway, his hand resting casually on the gun holstered at his hip. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to move, taking the offered seat with as much dignity as you could muster. 

The woman beside you gave a slow, vacant smile.

Kaito leaned closer, his breath warm and stale against your ear. "Did Mikey put a pretty thing like you here all alone, huh? No escort? No bodyguard?" His gaze raked over you, making your skin crawl. "Someone's not thinking straight, sending valuable cargo unattended."

You clenched your jaw. "My friends are waiting outside," you lied, hoping to project an image of backup you desperately lacked. "They know where I am. And what I'm doing."

Kaito just chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Do they now? And what exactly are you doing?" His hand, disturbingly warm, settled on your knee.

You flinched inwardly, but forced yourself to maintain a blank expression. 

You pushed his hand away, subtly but firmly. "I'm really not in the mood for fucking around, sir. I got your delivery. You give me the money. Unless you want to stop doing dealings with Toman, that is."

"Damn, you hear that?" Kaito asked his friends, who chuckled, their hazy eyes focusing on you with amusement. He looked back at you, his smile unwavering. "And is this delivery of yours good? I won't be paying for some half-assed shit."

"It's the best in the market," you stated, your voice flat with conviction. You had personally overseen the last batch. It was indeed potent.

"Best in the market, eh? Now I have high hopes." He paused, letting his gaze linger on you. 

"The money," you demanded, extending your hand.

He just watched you, a slow, predatory gleam in his eyes. "Yes, of course." He snapped his fingers, and one of the men quickly handed him a thick pack of bills. Kaito opened it, fanning through the stacks with a languid thumb. "Although..." he paused, looking up, his smile turning distinctly unpleasant. "They could have sent a pretty girl like you here to talk me all sweet, to really take me off guard here and fool me. Right?"

The men around the room hummed their agreements, their gazes unsettlingly fixed on you.

"So." Kaito set the pack of money down on the table, just out of your reach. "Why don't you try it first so I can see that it is indeed the best in the market."

Your blood ran cold. You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. "I don't use."

"Well, you are now." His voice was soft, but laced with an undeniable command. 

The bouncer by the door shifted, a silent reminder of the gun on his hip.

"That's not part of the deal," you insisted, your voice barely a whisper.

"Then, it looks like we have no deal." Kaito leaned back, a smug, triumphant look on his face.

You swallowed hard, your gaze darting from Kaito’s smug face to the hazy figures around the room. This was a nightmare. You glanced at the bouncer by the door, his hand still resting on the gun, a silent, menacing confirmation of your predicament.

Kaito watched you squirm for a long moment, then a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You should chill.” He gestured to one of the women beside him. “Have a drink, pretty thing. Relax.”

A woman with glazed eyes and a vacant smile offered you a glass filled with a clear liquid, ice clinking softly. 

You eyed it suspiciously. 

There was no way you were drinking something from this room.

Kaito’s easy demeanour hardened. “You know it’s very bad manners not to take something when offered to you, especially in my company.”

You kept your hand firmly by your side, refusing to reach for the glass.

“Drink.” Kaito’s voice was sharper now. 

The man opposite you on the couch shifted, revealing the glint of a gun tucked into his waistband, partially concealed by his jacket. 

Your heart hammered.

“If you want to do business with me, girl, you better learn the business etiquette,” Kaito said, his smile now a predatory baring of teeth.

Terrified, you reached out, your hand trembling slightly as you took the glass. 

You tried your best to keep your composure, bringing the glass to your lips. 

You took a minuscule sip, barely wetting your tongue.

“You call that drinking?” Kaito scoffed, an amused glint in his eyes.

You took a bigger gulp, the burning liquid searing your throat. It tasted sweet, but with a sharp, unfamiliar aftertaste.

“All of it,” Kaito commanded, and the others around the room watched, eyes wide with amusement. 

You hated every second of it, but you had no choice. You forced yourself to swallow the entire contents of the glass, the last drop burning your throat.

“Good.” Kaito smiled, a chillingly satisfied expression. He then picked up the stack of drugs from your backpack. 

But he didn't hand you the money.

Almost immediately, a strange haze began to settle over you. 

Your vision blurred, colours seemed to shift and warp, and your tongue felt thick and unwieldy. A dizzying wave washed over you, making it hard to focus. 

They were still laughing, their faces seeming to stretch and distort in the swirling lights.

You pushed yourself to your feet, the sudden movement making the room spin. 

"The... money," you demanded, your words slurring, already feeling the strange haze beginning to settle over you. 

Kaito merely chuckled, fanning the pack of bills. "If you want the money, pretty thing," he purred, patting his lap, "come here and sit on my lap."

"I'm not doing that," you mumbled.

One of the men on the couch reached out, a meaty hand grabbing for your arm. 

You yanked yourself back, stumbling over your own feet. 

Their amused expressions twisted into something predatory as they started to close in. 

You didn't think, didn't question why the bouncer was letting you leave the room. 

You just spun and beelined out, the pounding bass of the club a distorted echo in your ears, the men's laughter following you.

You managed to keep yourself somewhat straight, beelining towards the dimly lit sign for the women's bathroom, knowing the bouncer was right behind you.

You burst into the small bathroom and slammed the door shut, fumbling desperately with the lock until you heard the reassuring click. 

Your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped your phone. 

You tried Kenji first. No answer. 

Then Aya. Still nothing. 

Finally, you frantically dialled Rina’s number.

“Rina, soMething’s wrong!” you gasped, your voice slurring, the words thick and garbled in your own ears. “I… I didn’t get the m0ney… he made medrink somethin… I feel weird… reallllyweird…”

“What?! What do you mean you didn’t get the money?! And what did you drink?! Are you okay?! Where are you?!” Rina’s voice, panicky and high-pitched, screamed through the phone, doing absolutely nothing to calm your rapidly escalating terror.  "I'll call Draken or someone! They're so screwed if they fuck with Toman like that!"

"I... I think theyre waiting for me... outside the toillet," you stammered, leaning your head against the cool tile of the wall.

"Don't leave. Don't you dare leave," Rina commanded, her voice cracking. "I'll call Draken! Stay put!" 

The line went dead.

You slid down the cold wall, hugging your knees to your chest. 

The room swam around you, and a wave of nausea washed over you. 

Your head felt light, detached from your body, and your thoughts were scattered. 

The floor felt strangely soft, almost like quicksand. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stay up, trying to fight the terrifying haze that was consuming you.

Your phone buzzed again, vibrating against your ear. 

"They're... they're somewhere at some big meeting," Rina's voice was frantic, muffled, as if she were yelling into the phone. "Everyone's there! Draken said he'll send someone... soon... just wait!"

The words barely registered. "Soon?" 

What did 'soon' even mean when every second felt like an eternity, and your body was betraying you? You were trapped, alone, drugged, and without the money. 

The realisation hit you with a fresh wave of panic. 

You didn't know what to do.

"They have guns," you muttered, eyes pricking with tears. 

In hindsight, this all probably wasn't as bad as it felt. 

Maybe they would have let you take the money, as Toman's wrath would have been death for them. But drugged, alone, and terrified, everything felt like the end of the world. 

And you were scared of Toman's wrath too; you thought it was your fault you didn't get the money, that you'd fucked up.

But you only remembered the drug-infused panic. 

You don't remember what Rina said. 

One moment you were talking to her, the next the call had ended. 

Someone knocked hard on the bathroom door, making it rattle in its frame.

You grabbed your phone again, your fingers fumbling. Who to call? You tried to read your contacts, but the names were a blurry letter soup. 

Then, miraculously, you saw it—just one clear letter: S. 

You clicked it. It only rang a few times when that infuriating voice came through.

"Hanma's Diner. You kill 'em, I grill 'em. How can I help ya?"

“Shuji… I… I need help,” you mumbled, the words thick and slurred, your voice barely a whisper. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the already distorted bathroom tiles.

The casual, mocking tone on the other end vanished instantly, replaced by a chilling seriousness. "Where are you?" Hanma's voice was sharp, cutting through the fog in your brain.

A sob escaped you. "I… I don't know… club… it's so loud…"

"Stop crying. I can't understand a single shit yer sayin'!" he snapped, his voice rough but clear.

You tried to speak, but another sob choked you. 

You could hear the muffled thumping of the club's bass through the bathroom door, then a sharp, distinct rattle as someone tried the handle again.

"Stay on the line," Hanma commanded, his voice surprisingly calm now, a steady anchor in your swirling panic.

"Someone's... rattling the door," you whimpered, the cold dread making your teeth chatter. "And I... I feel weird. Really weird."

"Stay awake," he ordered, the authority in his voice undeniable. "Count to one hundred out loud. To me. Now."

"What?" you mumbled, confused by the strange request.

"Ya deaf? Count to one hundred, trickster! Out loud! To me!"

The command, sharp and insistent, cut through the swirling chaos in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to grasp onto the numbers. “One… two… three…” Your voice was shaky, slurring around the edges, but you forced yourself to keep going. On the other end of the line, you heard some muffled shuffling and movement, a sense of urgency without understanding why.

“Keep going.” Hanma’s voice was a steady refrain, a lifeline you clung to.

You stumbled through the numbers, the bathroom stall a tiny, spinning cage. “Forty-seven… forty-eight… forty-nine…” It felt like an eternity, each number a monumental effort. 

When you finally slurred out, “One hundred,” your breath hitched, exhausted.

“Now do it again,” he said.

“Okay,” you whimpered and counted again.

The line crackled, and his voice muffled away for a moment, then came back clearer. "I'm at the club. Where are you?"

“Toilet… women’s…” you managed to choke out.

Then, a sudden, heavy knock on the bathroom door. "Trickster! Open up!" Hanma's voice. Right outside.

With a surge of adrenaline, you pushed yourself up, stumbling against the stall door. 

You fumbled with the lock, your fingers clumsy, before finally unlatching it and pushing the door open.

Hanma stood there, his phone still pressed to his ear, his golden eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and shock as they landed on you. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

You swayed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “I… I had b-business… and th-they didn’t give the money…” Tears pricked your eyes again.

“Who?” 

“K-Kaito…”

A visible wave of fury contorted his face, the casual boredom replaced by raw, simmering rage. 

He took a step towards you, but you flinched back.

“Please… just… just get me out of here,” you begged, the words tumbling out. “Get me home.”

His anger seemed to deflate slightly, replaced by a grim resolve. 

He reached out, gently but firmly taking your arm, helping you steady yourself. “Alright. C’mon.” 

He offered you his arm, and you clung to him, grateful for the solid anchor. He guided you out of the bathroom, your legs feeling like jelly.

“Left foot, right foot. Off ya go.” His voice was gruff, but the support he offered was undeniable as he helped you keep upright, navigating through the thumping chaos of the club.

You stumbled, a dead weight against him, your vision swimming. 

The flashing lights seemed to mock your disorientation, and the bass pounded in your skull. 

Hanma swore under his breath, a low, frustrated growl, adjusting his grip to keep you from collapsing. 

He wasn't gentle, but he was undeniably effective.

People, a blurred mess of dancing bodies, seemed to part before him, whether out of respect for his sheer presence or the menacing scowl etched on his face, you couldn't tell. 

All you could focus on was placing one foot in front of the other, fighting the overwhelming urge to just give in and sink to the floor.

You lurched, almost tripping over someone's foot. 

Hanma let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. 

Before you could fall, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer, his other hand gripping your arm more firmly. 

Now, you were practically being dragged, his body a solid, immovable pillar against your unsteady frame. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and something distinctly metallic, a scent that, in your current hazy state, was strangely grounding.

"Just keep moving," he muttered, annoyance warring with a grudging determination. "Don't make me carry you. I hate heavy lifting."

The air shifted, growing cooler and less stifling as you approached the club's exit. 

The thumping bass receded, replaced by the distant hum of city traffic. 

You stumbled through the final set of doors, and the fresh, cool night air of Tokyo hit your face like a welcome slap. 

It was a dizzying change, and you swayed dangerously, leaning heavily against Hanma.

A black car, sleek and suspiciously unmarked, was parked right at the curb, its engine idling. 

Hanma, without breaking stride, pulled open the back door. 

The interior was dark, but you could just make out the clean leather seats.

"If ya need to throw up," he grunted, his voice still laced with impatience, "please let me know before you do it in my car."

You barely registered his words, too focused on the immediate task of not falling over. 

You practically fell into the backseat, collapsing against the plush leather. 

The world spun for a moment, then slowly began to settle into a nauseating sway. 

Hanma slammed the door shut, then rounded the car and slid into the driver's seat. 

The engine purred, and the vehicle glided away from the curb, leaving the pulsing lights and deafening music of the club behind.

The car hummed, a low, vibrating drone that seemed to pull you further into the swirling darkness. The last thing you remembered was the distant glow of city lights blurring through the window, then a wave of overwhelming exhaustion washing over you, dragging you down into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

You jolted awake, a gasp catching in your throat. 

For a moment, you lay still, disoriented, staring up at your familiar ceiling. 

The light filtering through your curtains told you it was morning. 

A profound sense of confusion settled over you. 

You were in your bed. Fully dressed, right down to your shoes.

Then, a sound. A low, rumbling snore vibrated through the quiet room.

You slowly turned your head. 

In your armchair, sprawled in a position that defied comfort, was Hanma Shuji. His long legs were propped up on the foot of your bed, and his head was lolled to one side, his mouth slightly ajar. 

It took a moment, then another, for your drug-addled brain to fully process the scene. Hanma. In your apartment. Snoring. And you in your own bed.

What the fuck?

You stared at him, then at your room, then back at him. The confusion quickly morphed into a furious indignation. 

Without a second thought, you swung your leg, kicking his feet off your bed.

Hanma jolted awake with a startled grunt, his long limbs flailing. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, completely disoriented. 

"Why are you here?!" you demanded, your voice hoarse from sleep and residual panic. 

"Christ, woman!" he grumbled, stifling a massive yawn.

Then you looked around your small bedroom, eyes widening. "Why is my armchair here?!"

He blinked at you, still groggy. "What are you even talking about?" He glanced at the armchair. "It's always been there, hasn't it?"

"No! It was in the living room! How did you get me here?!"

He sighed, running a hand over his face. "With a fuckin' flying mat, how do you think I got you here? I carried you, obviously." He squinted at you. 

"Why are you here?!" you repeated, louder, pointing a finger at him.

He finally seemed to fully wake up, pushing himself out of the armchair with a groan. "To make sure ya didn't choke on yer vomit, you ungrateful woman. You are very fucking welcome, by the way."

You stormed forward, intending to unleash a furious tirade, but as you got up, your vision swam, and everything went black for a terrifying moment. 

You swayed, feeling yourself falling, but strong hands caught you, steadying you.

Your vision cleared as quickly as it had blurred, and you found yourself leaning against Hanma, his arms supporting you. 

You immediately pushed his hands off you, repulsion overriding the lingering weakness. 

He just raised his brows, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You always like this when you wake up, or is this somethin' special just for me?"

You huffed, regaining your balance. "You could have done something to me while I was unconscious."

He looked genuinely offended by that, his smirk vanishing. "Well, I fucking didn't." 

He turned abruptly, walking out of your bedroom.

"You are a man, and I was an unconscious woman!" you called after him, indignation rising again.

"Yeah," his voice drifted back from the living room, followed by the distinct sound of your refrigerator opening. "That's why I came to get you from that fucking club."

He didn't leave your apartment, instead making himself at home in your kitchen, the rhythmic creak of your fridge door opening and closing a stark testament to his unexpected, infuriating presence.

"Excuse me," you snapped, storming into the kitchen to find Hanma brazenly pulling one of your precious energy drinks from the fridge. "I need you to leave."

He popped the tab with a loud hiss, ignoring your demand. "Still haven't heard a single thank you from you."

Your left eye twitched. The sheer audacity of the man, making himself at home. "Thanks," you bit out, the word dripping with sarcasm.

He took a long gulp of the energy drink, then looked at you, his golden eyes surprisingly serious. "Now, what happened there?"

Your irritation, burning so fiercely just moments ago, suddenly flickered and died, replaced by a cold wave of dread as the memories from the club flooded back. The drugged haze, Kaito's predatory smile, the gun, the humiliation, the missing money.

"Shit." You dug your fingers into your hair, the exhaustion returning with full force. "Those assholes screwed me over." You looked around frantically. "Where's my phone?"

Hanma reached into his pocket and pulled out your phone, tossing it to you with an easy flick of his wrist.

You snatched it from his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as you saw the screen. A million missed messages and calls, mostly from Rina, Kenji, and Aya. You immediately called Rina.

Rina’s voice was a frantic explosion in your ear. “Oh my god! Are you okay?! Where are you?! We were going crazy here!”

“I’m… I’m home,” you mumbled, leaning against the counter, the energy drink in Hanma’s hand a blur in your peripheral vision.

“Home? How? What happened?!” Rina demanded, her panic barely contained.

“I… I don’t really remember much after the club,” you hedged, carefully omitting any mention of Hanma. 

“The club! Those bastards! You know what Kaito and his men are saying? They’re saying you never even showed up to the club!”

“What the fuck?!” you snapped, a fresh wave of outrage momentarily cutting through the lingering haze. “I did! I was there! They took the drugs! They made me drink something, and they didn't give me the money!”

“I believe you, I swear I do!” Rina insisted, her voice dropping slightly, laced with frustration. “But Kaito… he’s telling Mikey and Draken that it never happened. He’s got a lot of influence, and… and Toman doesn’t really know what to do here.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck?! They don’t know what to do?! Are they such pussies that they can’t just barge in there?! Kaito screwed Toman over!”

Your gaze fell on Hanma, whose brows were practically in his hairline, his golden eyes wide with amusement as he listened in. He had a box of your cereal in his hand, munching on it happily, completely unfazed by your escalating rage or Rina’s frantic voice.

“I don’t know, dude,” Rina sighed, her voice weary. “Toman is mad. Mikey is mad. They just care about the money.”

“Yeah, well then they probably should go to Kaito!”

“I know, but I don’t get why they won’t. Everyone’s saying it’s your fault.”

“WHAT?!” The word ripped from your throat, loud enough to make Hanma nearly drop his cereal box. 

He stopped chewing, his eyes now fixed on you with a sudden, sharp interest.

“I don’t know, dude,” Rina sighed, her voice weary. “Toman is mad. Mikey is mad. They just care about the money.”

“Yeah, well then they probably should go to Kaito!”

“I know, but I don’t get why they won’t. Everyone’s saying it’s your fault.”

“WHAT?!” The word ripped from your throat, loud enough to make Hanma nearly drop his cereal box. He stopped chewing, his eyes now fixed on you with a sudden, sharp interest.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Rina whispered, her voice laced with sympathy. “Also, there’s some talk that Valhalla was seen at the club too.”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” you snapped, the injustice of your situation boiling over. “What do you mean it’s my fault?!”

“That you fucked up the job. And no, none of us here are thinking that,” Rina quickly added, trying to reassure you.

“Those fucking—” You cut yourself off, a cold dread seeping into your veins. "I need to go, Rina.” 

You ended the call abruptly, fuming.

Hanma, meanwhile, continued to munch on your cereal, seemingly oblivious to your escalating crisis. 

“Toman is saying it’s my fault,” you snapped, unable to keep the fury from your voice.

He just shrugged. “Typical for them. I don’t know why yer so surprised.”

“What do you mean?!”

“They’re all talk, no action. Mikey will go hidin’ as soon as shit goes down. They’ll blame the weakest link.”

You scoffed, disbelief warring with rising panic. "They fucking drugged me! What the fuck do I do now?"

Hanma watched you as your anger rapidly morphed into sheer, unadulterated panic.

The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. 

You started pacing, quick, frantic steps across your kitchen floor. The shame, the betrayal, the fear of Toman’s wrath – it all crashed down on you. Your breathing hitched, growing shallow and ragged.

“I can’t breathe,” you gasped, clutching at your chest. Your head swam, the lingering effects of the drug combining with the sudden surge of adrenaline. 

You started hyperventilating, the world narrowing to a suffocating tunnel.

Hanma, seeing your distress, shifted awkwardly. His expression, usually so smug or menacing, was replaced with a look of genuine discomfort. 

“Hey, relax,” he mumbled, sounding more annoyed than comforting. He took a hesitant step towards you, then stopped, his hands hovering uselessly. “Just… just calm down. You’re fine. Don’t… don’t do that.” He gestured vaguely, his attempt at reassurance failing miserably. 

“I’m so fucked,” you choked out, tears streaming down your face now.

“Everything is fine,” Hanma said, his voice flat, completely unconvincing.

“Everything is not fine, you piece of shit!” The insult burst out, fuelled by terror and frustration.

Hanma’s brows shot up, a surprised flicker in his golden eyes. He dropped the pretence of comfort. “Alright, everything is going to absolute shit. The end of the world. You really are fucked.”

“What do I do?!” you cried, your voice cracking, your pacing becoming more frantic.

“What do you do?” he echoed, a hint of his usual mockery creeping back into his tone.

“I don’t fucking know! Help me!”

“The fuck you want me to do?” he asked, throwing his hands up in a gesture of exasperated helplessness.

"I don’t know!” You stopped pacing, wrapping your arms around yourself, swaying.

“Fucking Christ,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Chapter Text

“Okay, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just go talk to Mikey, explain everything. Surely, he’ll believe me and be on my side, right?” you babbled, more to yourself than to him, your voice a little too high, a little too strained.

Hanma watched you pace back and forth, a box of your own cereal still in his hand. He took a slow bite, his expression unreadable. "...right."

“And they’ll go get the money from Kaito. Easy peasy.” You stopped pacing, the forced optimism in your voice shaky.

“Great.” Hanma tossed the cereal box onto the counter with a thud. “It’s settled then.”

You took a step in front of him, your panic-fueled bravado faltering. The rational part of your brain was starting to resurface, poking holes in your flimsy plan. “But what if it’s not enough? What if it’s like you said? They’ll blame the weakest link.”

His smile dropped. The sudden seriousness in his eyes was more terrifying than his usual mockery. “Weakest link? Trickster, you’re not the weakest link.”

You smiled.

“You’re the dead one.”

Your smile dropped.

“Kaito’s got the drugs, the money, and a story that makes you look like a traitor. And Toman doesn’t go to war over an accusation from some chemist they barely know. Especially not when they can pin the entire mess on you, collect your head, and call it even.”

His words, brutal and direct, ripped through the last shred of your hope. 

You staggered back, the reality of it all hitting you with the force of a physical blow. No money. No drugs. No proof. Toman would believe Kaito over you. 

“I’m… I’m so dead,” you whispered, the words barely audible. The panic, which had been a frantic, high-pitched scream in your head, was now a cold, numbing despair. You had nowhere to go. No one to turn to.

Hanma watched you crumble, his expression unreadable. 

He walked over to the fridge, grabbing another energy drink. “Yeah,” he said, his voice flat. “Pretty much.” He opened the can, then leaned against the counter, his golden eyes fixed on your terrified face. “But,” he continued, “there’s a way out.”

You looked at him, a flicker of desperate hope in your hollowed-out eyes. “What?”

“You work for me now.” His voice was a low, dangerous purr. “I get you a new lab, proper equipment, and the protection Toman won’t give you. You give me your brains. Your skills. And we’ll make Toman and Kaito both regret the day they screwed with you.”

“You…” You staggered back, the weight of his words pressing down on you.

“Mhm?”

“You fucking idiot!” You struck his chest with your fist, the blow landing with a dull thud.

“Ouch!” He winced, a flicker of genuine surprise on his face.

“You're a damn moron for even suggesting that! Like I'd betray Toman and turn to Valhalla? Hah! Toman might be bad, but Valhalla is even worse. And who knows, maybe I'll get my hands on the surveillance feed from the club and have proof. They can't seriously think that I lost the drugs.”

“Lost or sold them to someone else and kept the money,” Hanma finished for you, his voice calm and maddeningly logical. The amusement was back in his eyes, as if he were enjoying your despair.

"You're such a rude asshole," you snapped, your voice thick with exhaustion and frustration.

"Hey, no need to project your bad emotions onto me," he said, placing a hand over his heart with mock sincerity. "And besides, you, my dear, are rude as shit."

"Me?"

"Yeah. I saved ya from that club, carried you home like a goddamn knight in shinin’ armour, and stayed up to make sure you wouldn't choke on yer own vomit in your sleep." He gestured around your kitchen with a flourish. "I am, in a way, yer hero."

"You broke into my apartment now multiple times, you threaten me and my neighbour, you broke my phone, you are my rival and, by most accounts, the most dangerous man in all of Tokyo!"

"And yet," Hanma countered, taking a nonchalant sip of your energy drink, "here you are. Completely safe. Untouched."

"Yes, but..." You trailed off, searching desperately for a retort, but your mind was a scrambled mess. There was no 'but.' He had a point, infuriatingly. He had, in fact, kept you safe. 

He raised a stupid brow, waiting. “But…?”

"You'll probably do something to me still!" you burst out, the only accusation you had left.

His expression fell, and he let out a dramatic, eye-rolling sigh. "Dontchu think I would have already if I wanted to?"

"Maybe you're waiting. Toying with me. Hunting. It's part of your whole... I don't know," you gestured vaguely at him, "thing."

"Thing?" he asked.

"Yes, thing."

"What thing?"

"How would I know when it's your thing?"

"I don't have a thing."

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

"You could."

"I don't."

"There's a chance."

"There’s not."

“You sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“But not entirely sure.”

“Well, they say to never say never.”

“See,” you gestured with your hand, a smug smile touching your lips. “There is a chance.”

“Fine, alright. There is a chance I could hypothetically hurt ya.”

You smiled, feeling a small victory.

“But I won’t.”

“Why?”

He blinked. “Yer askin’ me why I won’t hurt you?”

“Yes. Like I said, you’re Valhalla’s acting leader and known for your reckless, dangerous behaviour. Why would you be nice to me?”

“Woah. I said nothin’ about being nice.” He pointed at you. “Don't confuse 'nice' with 'not wanting to waste a valuable asset.' You think I’m just some thug who likes to smash things? I’m here because you're a chemist. A good one, at that. And right now, you're a chemist Toman's about to throw to the dogs.”

"Do you think I'm doing this as a job for fun?" you snapped, the exhaustion and fear of the past twenty-four hours boiling over into a fresh wave of fury. "Because I wanna be in a gang?! You're mental. Absolute psycho. I'm not switching to another gang or making drugs for you, you asswit!"

Hanma's expression remained infuriatingly calm. "What other choice do you have?"

"I'll get the money back."

He laughed. "And how are you plannin' to do that?"

You stared up at him, hands clenched to fists at your sides, thinking, furiously thinking. 

Until the anger was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. 

You had no plan. No proof. No way out.

"I have no idea," you finally admitted, the words a whisper of complete defeat.

He blinked, the cynical amusement in his eyes fading for a moment. 

"None," you added, the word heavy with the weight of your surrender. 

He watched you, his usual smirk replaced with a grim, almost pitying expression. He set down the energy drink, the can clattering softly on the counter. 

"Good," he said simply, his voice low and devoid of his usual mocking tone. "Then you've finally stopped being a fuckin’ idiot."

He pushed himself off the counter and walked over to you, his sheer height and presence filling the small kitchen. 

You instinctively flinched, but he just reached past you, grabbing your discarded backpack from the floor.

"Get ready," he ordered, his voice suddenly sharp with a no-nonsense authority you hadn't heard before. 

You swirled around, your heart hammering in your chest, the fear momentarily replaced by a jolt of disbelief. "What do you mean?"

"We're gettin' your money, smartass."

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

Without a word, you stormed into your tiny bathroom. 

The mirror showed you a haggard reflection: hollowness under your eyes, hair a tangled mess, and a faint, terrified look you barely recognised. 

You grabbed your toothbrush, scrubbing your teeth furiously to get rid of the stale, coppery taste in your mouth. 

You splashed cold water on your face, the shock of it a welcome jolt to your system. With a grimace, you attempted to tame your hair.

When you emerged, Hanma was already fast asleep on your couch, his long legs stretched out so far his feet were dangling over the armrest. 

The sight of him, so completely at ease in your home, was a fresh wave of infuriation. 

You ignored him and went to your room, slamming the door shut with a satisfying thud that made the walls vibrate.

You rummaged through your closet, discarding the idea of your usual lab clothes. This wasn't a lab; it was a raid. 

You pulled on a pair of dark, durable jeans and a black hoodie, its hood offering a sense of anonymity. 

You tied your shoes tightly, feeling a grim resolve settle over you.

When you finally opened your door, Hanma was still out cold, a soft snore escaping his lips. 

You strode over and clapped your hands together. "Wake up!" 

Hanma's eyes snapped open. He blinked, groggy and disoriented, then sat up with a massive yawn that revealed a flash of his tongue piercing. 

He got up with a long, lazy stretch, his shoulders rolling as if shaking off the last remnants of sleep. 

You were already at the front door, your hand on the lock, tapping your foot impatiently.

"Can you be any faster?" you snapped as he finally sauntered out of the apartment.

"What's the hurry?" he muttered, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. He retrieved a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and placing it between his lips.

You scowled at him as he lit the cigarette, the small flame illuminating his face in the dim hallway light. 

"We're still inside," you said.

"No shit." He took a deep drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the stagnant air.

"Smoking is disgusting."

"Ain't you a goddamn sunshine." He took another long drag and followed you as you hurried down the stairs, your shoes clattering on the concrete. 

The building's front door loomed ahead.

As you stepped out into the cold morning air, he let out a shiver. "Ugh, it's cold as shit," he said, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette butt into a puddle on the street.

He strolled to a sleek, black car parked a little way down the street. It was the same one from last night, you now realised, the memory returning with a hazy jolt. 

He opened the passenger side door for you with a silent gesture, and you slid inside.

He rounded the car to the driver’s side, and the doors closed with a soft click, plunging you into a small, enclosed space with him. 

The smell of new leather filled the car, a clean, expensive scent that felt completely at odds with the grimy reality of your situation. 

You were intensely aware of his proximity, of the fact that you were alone with the man who was both your rival and your unlikely saviour.

He didn’t look at you. Instead, he simply put the car in reverse, manoeuvring the steering wheel with one hand. As he did, your eyes were drawn to the large kanji tattoo on the back of his right hand. It was a stark, black word against his pale skin: “Punishment”.

With a practised ease, he steered the car out of the residential streets and onto the wider, bustling avenues of Tokyo.

“I’m not joining Valhalla,” you said, your voice weaker than it had been in your apartment.

Hanma didn't reply. His eyes were on the road, his expression stern, his jaw set. He didn't even spare you a glance.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, the silence stretching taut between you. “I don’t have any money to give you.”

Still, he remained silent. He just drove, a man on a mission, completely ignoring you.

“We’re not doing another bargain either. I’m not doing any favours for you.”

He let out a low, humourless chuckle. "Who said anything about favours?" He finally looked at you, his golden eyes cold and sharp. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for me. You just happen to be the beneficiary."

Your brows furrowed in confusion, but you didn’t ask for him to elaborate. 

You turned your eyes back to the road, the city streets a blur of lights and traffic outside your window. 

The car smelled of new leather, and the engine hummed a low, constant drone.

You drove in silence with him, the quiet more unnerving than any of his threats or taunts. 

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ。 ⋆✩₊˚.

Hanma drove right up to the front, parking his car directly in front of the entrance, completely ignoring the "No Parking" signs. He killed the engine.

"Stay in the car," he said, not even looking back at you, and got out without a word, the slam of his door echoing in the early morning quiet.

"The hell I will," you snapped, fumbling with the unfamiliar car door handle before scrambling out after him. 

He just rolled his eyes, turning his back to you as he walked towards the main entrance. 

The club was closed at this hour, the neon was off, and the loud music was replaced by a deep, unsettling silence. 

Hanma knocked on the heavy metal door with a deliberate, echoing thud.

A security guard, a different man from last night, opened the door a crack. "We're closed. You need to-" His voice cut off as his eyes widened in recognition. He took in Hanma's tall, menacing frame, the hair, the kanji on his hand, and his face immediately paled. 

He started to shut the door, but Hanma was faster.

He slammed his hand against the door, pushing it open with a brutal shove that sent the guard stumbling back. "Kaito," Hanma said. "Where is he?"

The security guard just stared, his eyes wide with terror, unable to form a word.

Hanma sighed deeply. His hand disappeared under his hoodie for a second, then reappeared holding a gun. He pointed it loosely at the guard's chest. "Where’s Kaito?"

The guard's eyes flickered to the weapon, then back to Hanma's face. He started stammering, the words tumbling out in a rush of panic. "H-he's at his h-home... I don't know the... the apartment, but it's in K-Kasuga-dori Avenue."

Hanma lowered the gun, a satisfied smirk on his face. He reached out and gently patted the terrified man on the cheek. "Kasuga-dori. Got it. Thanks for the help." 

Your eyes were wide with shock. You hadn't expected the gun. Not so soon. 

Hell, you didn’t even know he had had one on him the entire time.

You just followed him, your mind reeling, as he turned on his heel and sauntered out of the club. 

You got back into the car, your body still humming with a panicked energy. 

Hanma slid into the driver's seat, pulled up a map on the navigation system, and typed in the address. 

The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the silent, terrified club behind.

“Efficient,” you commented, your voice dry and laced with sarcasm.

Hanma let out a short, sharp laugh, his eyes still on the road.

He drove right up to the building, a towering, modern high-rise that seemed to shine even in the noon light. 

He parked right in front, not in a designated spot, just on the curb, as if the entire city were his personal parking lot. As he had done at the club, he killed the engine and got out without a word.

You hurried after him. 

He sighed, an exasperated sound, but didn't argue. He just started walking towards the building's main entrance, assuming it was the correct one. The automatic doors slid open with a quiet whir, revealing a sleek, modern lobby. It was completely deserted.

Hanma sauntered up to the front desk, but there was no one there. He looked at the elevator panel, a dozen buttons for a dozen different floors.

“Well,” he said, turning to you with a cold grin. “Looks like we have some exploring to do.”

You just stared at him, your mind racing. He didn't wait for your response. He walked over to a locked door behind the front desk, one labelled "Staff Only."  

He pulled out a small, metallic tool and leaned down to the lock. With a few deft movements, you heard a soft click. 

He pushed the door open, gesturing for you to stay put.

"Keep an eye on the lobby," he ordered in a low voice. "Let me know if anyone shows up."

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. You took up a position by the front desk, your gaze fixed on the quiet street outside. 

Inside the small office, you heard the rustle of papers and the soft clicks of a keyboard. 

After what felt like an eternity, Hanma emerged, a slip of paper in his hand.

"Seventeenth floor," he said, a wide grin on his face. "Apartment 17B."

"Let's go then," you said, your voice a little steadier now that you had a destination. 

You headed for the elevators, Hanma right behind you.

The doors slid open with a quiet chime, revealing a clean, empty car. 

You both stepped inside. You reached for the buttons, your finger hovering over the number 17. But as you tried to press it, nothing happened. A small panel on the side of the buttons flashed red, showing a key card icon.

You both stepped out of the elevator. The silence was broken only by a soft sigh from Hanma. "Guess this place is a little smarter than we thought."

You both moved to a door labelled "Stairwell" and tried the handle. 

It was locked. A small card reader sat next to the handle, a red light blinking faintly.

You groaned. “Shit.”

Hanma knelt down, pulling the set of lock picks from his pocket. "Relax," he murmured, his hands working quickly and deftly. "It's just a lock. Nothin’ an old-fashioned pick can't handle."

“Ain’t you handy,” you muttered.

“What can I say… I’m good with my fingers.” He bit his lip, biting back a smile as he focused on the task.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

With a series of soft, metallic clicks, the door sprang open. A triumphant smirk spread across his face as he pushed the heavy door inward, revealing a dimly lit stairwell.

"After you," he said, gesturing for you to enter. You didn't argue.

The initial floors were easy, a rhythmic, steady climb. The silence was broken only by the sound of your footsteps, a steady march up a concrete spiral. 

Hanma stayed a few steps ahead of you, his long legs covering the distance with ease. 

But on the sixth floor, your thighs began to burn, and your breath hitched. 

You had to stop, leaning against the cold railing to gasp for air.

Hanma, who was already on the seventh or eighth floor, looked down at you, his voice echoing in the stairwell. "Don't tell me a little climb is too much for Toman's top chemist! We'll be here all day!"

"Shut the fuck up," you muttered under your breath, a string of curses following as you pushed off the railing and forced your wobbly legs to start moving again, fuelled by pure spite.

By the time you reached the fourteenth floor, you were practically crawling. 

But a look up revealed Hanma hunched over the railing of the landing above you, his shoulders heaving, a ragged breath escaping his lips. He was human after all. A bitter satisfaction filled you as you finally reached him, your legs trembling and weak.

"Missed your cardio training, huh?" you gasped, leaning over and trying to catch your own breath.

He straightened up slowly, glaring at you. "This ain't the type of cardio I usually prefer," he said, a wheezing, sarcastic tone to his voice.

You just sighed, pushed yourself upright, and started climbing the final three flights. 

You were in the lead now, and he followed, a heavy, silent presence behind you.

You pushed through the door to the seventeenth floor, your legs screaming with protest, lungs burning. 

The cool air of the hallway felt like a blessing. 

You stumbled forward and leaned against the wall, head bowed, just trying to get enough air into your lungs. Your thighs felt like a lead weight.

Behind you, you heard a muffled groan. Hanma collapsed against the opposite wall. His chest was heaving, his face pale, and for once, his golden eyes were wide with exhaustion.

“Motherfucker,” he gasped, the words punctuated by ragged breaths. "I'm never doin' that again."

You looked at him, a small, weary smile of triumph touching your lips. He was completely out of his element, and it was a small, satisfying victory. You took a few more deep breaths, your vision slowly clearing. You pushed yourself off the wall and began to walk down the hall.

“Right. Apartment 17B,” you said, your voice still shaky. “Let’s get this over with.”

You found the apartment with a small "17B" plaque next to the door. 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you feigned a bravery you didn't feel and marched right up to it.

You raised your fist to knock, but hesitated, turning to Hanma, who stood a few feet behind you, watching with a bored expression. "What do I say?" you whispered.

He let out a tired sigh. "Sup, fucker. Give me my money."

You scowled at him. "I'm not saying that." 

You turned back to the door, your fist still hovering a few inches from the wood. You couldn't just stand there and knock like a regular person. The sheer absurdity of the situation was crippling.

Hanma's patience snapped. "Some time today," he muttered, taking a step forward. He didn't bother with a second warning. He raised his foot and delivered a brutal kick to the centre of the door three times. The sound of splintering wood and a snapping lock echoed through the quiet hallway. 

He immediately stepped back, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor, leaving you alone and fully visible in the open doorway.

The door swung slightly inward with a groan of protest, revealing Kaito in the entryway. He looked like he had just woken up, his hair a mess and his eyes heavy with sleep. He blinked at the sight of you standing there, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. He didn't even bother to look into the hallway.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

"You forgot to give me my money last night," you said.

Kaito let out a short, humourless chuckle, feigning ignorance. "Money? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," you insisted, stepping forward. "The delivery from Toman. You took the drugs and you didn't pay for them."

He just sighed, the amusement in his eyes replaced by a bored annoyance. "Look, little girl, I already told Mikey that you never showed up. Now, get the fuck off my property before I have you taken out."

With that, he stepped back, and the heavy door slammed shut in your face with a resounding finality, leaving you alone in the quiet hallway with a splintered door.

You stood there for a moment, the sound ringing in your ears, before you slowly turned to look at Hanma.

He was biting his lip, a flash of amusement in his golden eyes. He was fighting a smile, and it made you even angrier. 

"This isn't funny," you said, your voice low and dangerous.

He cleared his throat, but the mirth was still there. "Sure it ain't. Now..." he gestured to the door with a theatrical wave of his hand. "Wanna try again?"

You let out a frustrated huff but turned back to the door and began to knock, a series of hard, rapid thuds. 

You knocked and knocked, the sound echoing down the hall for what felt like forever. 

Finally, the door opened with a sudden jerk, and Kaito was there, his face red with fury.

"Listen, you little bitch–" His words died in his throat. 

His eyes, fixed on you just moments before, slowly rose, moving to the figure standing just behind you. The anger on his face was replaced by pure, unadulterated fear.

You stood there, arms crossed over your chest, a grim satisfaction settling over you. "The money?" you demanded again, the question now a steel-trap snap.

He didn't reply. His eyes darted from you to Hanma, and he made a desperate attempt to slam the door shut. But he wasn't fast enough. 

Hanma wedged his boot, which he’d clearly kicked off without you even noticing, between the door and the frame. 

Kaito stumbled; the door was left half-open. 

You stepped aside, and Hanma's long arm shot forward, grabbing the door and yanking it open. 

He pushed his way inside, his immense presence filling the entryway.

Kaito scrambled back, his face white. "Hanma??" he stammered, his bravado from last night completely gone.

Hanma's smile was a cruel, beautiful thing. "Mornin', sweetheart," he drawled, surveying Kaito's terrified face. "We came for a little wake-up call."

“But you work for Valhalla,” Kaito stuttered.

You stepped inside, too, closing the door behind you.

Hanma gasped. “What, really?” 

Kaito watched him, his face a mix of confusion and fear. “I don’t know about any money. Believe me.”

Hanma let out a deep, exasperated sigh. “So fuckin’ tirin’.” He sauntered closer to Kaito, who stumbled back, his eyes darting around the apartment, probably looking for anything to defend himself against the infamous acting leader.

“I’m still in a somewhat good mood, Kaito-chan,” Hanma said, his voice dropping to a low purr. “So if I were you, I’d stop fuckin’ around and hand over the money.”

“I don’t know about any—”

Without a second’s hesitation, Hanma pulled out his gun and shot Kaito in the shin. The sound was deafening. Kaito’s scream was raw and primal as he dropped to the ground, grabbing his now-bloody leg.

“That clear yer memory?” Hanma asked, his voice flat.

Kaito was groaning, looking at his bleeding shin in disbelief. “What the fuck?!”

“No? Let’s try the other leg then.” Hanma aimed the gun again.

“Wait!” Kaito yelled.

Hanma tilted his head. 

“Wait, wait,” Kaito stammered, his body trembling. “It’s… it’s in the safe behind the painting.” He gestured with a shaking hand to a large, gaudy landscape painting on the wall.

Hanma looked from Kaito to you. "Get it, trickster."

You blinked, your eyes wide with shock, but you nodded.

The sound of the gunshot was still ringing in your ears, and Kaito's groans filled the tense silence. 

You walked towards the large, ornate painting hanging on the wall. Your hands, still trembling slightly, fumbled with the heavy frame. With a heave, you managed to pull it off the wall, revealing a small, black safe hidden in the plaster. 

You turned to Hanma, who was still casually standing over the whimpering Kaito.

“The code?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hanma nudged Kaito with his foot.

Kaito’s face was a mask of pain and defeat. He spat out a string of numbers. 

You quickly punched them into the keypad on the safe. 

The light turned green, and the small metal door swung open. 

Inside, stacked in neat bundles, was the money. 

You reached in and pulled it out, the weight of the bundles a strange, solid comfort in your arms.

Without a word, Hanma strolled past you, his eyes scanning the apartment until he found the bedroom. He went inside and emerged moments later holding a pillowcase, which he wordlessly held open for you. 

You placed the stacks of cash inside, the rustling of bills a muffled sound.

Hanma turned to Kaito and gave him a salute. "Have a lovely day.”

Then he turned and walked to the door, leaned down to get his missing shoe, the pillowcase of money slung casually over his shoulder.

You didn't hesitate. You followed him, stepping out of the apartment and into the quiet hallway, leaving Kaito bleeding on his floor.

Hanma sauntered to the elevator. 

You caught up to him. "We don't have a key.”

He stopped, his hand going to his pocket. He pulled out a key card and dangled it in front of you. A smug, devilish smile stretched across his face.

"When did you take that?" you asked, your eyes widening in disbelief.

"Told ya I was good with my fingers.”

You couldn't help but let out a small huff of a sound that was a mix of disbelief and grudging amusement.

You both stepped into the elevator. 

He put the card on the sensor, and the buttons lit up, the first floor button glowing. 

The elevator descended in a comfortable silence, and Hanma pulled on his boot.

As you got into the car, Hanma tossed the pillowcase into your lap. 

You hesitantly looked inside, the stacks of cash a crumpled, glorious mess. You ran your hand over the bills, your brain still struggling to process what had just happened.

"Oh my god," you whispered. "I can't believe we got it."

Hanma turned the car onto the main street, the lights of the city blurring past. He glanced at you, a half-smile on his face. "Do you know how much you were supposed to get?"

"Uhm." You thought about the packages of drugs and their street value. "Probably around 12 million."

"Count what you took," he said. "Bring 14 million to Toman. Keep the rest."

"The rest?" you asked, confused. 

He let out a short, sharp laugh. "You emptied his whole fuckin' safe."

Your eyes widened, and you scrambled to open the pillowcase wider. Inside, the stacks of cash were not just a few bundles but a thick, messy pile. "Wait."

"You didn't realise?"

"I did, but I thought it was just the drug money!" you said, your voice full of genuine shock. The pillowcase felt heavy, but you had assumed it was just the money you were owed.

Hanma laughed even more, a low, rumbling sound that filled the car. 

"Stop laughing!"

“Shit’s funny.”

“What if he’ll send his guys to me now!”

“He won’t.”

“You can’t know that!”

“Relaaax.”

You glared at him, but then you noticed the familiar landmarks blurring past the window. “I don’t live this way.”

“No?”

Your heart sank. “This is Valhalla’s territory.”

He didn’t reply, his eyes fixed on the road.

“Where are you taking me, Shuji?”

He glanced at you, a fleeting smile on his face. “A little detour.”

The car swerved off the main road and down a dark, grimy alleyway. He pulled up to an abandoned warehouse, its massive metal door scarred with rust. He cut the engine, and the sudden silence was heavy.

“Get out,” he said, his voice now devoid of any humour. 

He grabbed the pillowcase of money and slung it over his shoulder, a silent command for you to follow. 

You looked at the massive, decaying building and then at him. “Shuji.”

“Come on. Left foot. Right foot. Keep up.”

You swallowed tightly and followed him.

Chapter Text

You followed Hanma, the massive, rusty door of the warehouse groaning as he pulled it open. The smell of cold metal and damp concrete hit you first. 

But instead of a dark, empty space, you found yourself standing in what looked like an apartment. 

Hanma sauntered over to a wooden dresser against the wall. He tossed his keys onto it, the jangle echoing in the large room, then glanced at his reflection in a mirror above the dresser.

Swallowing thickly, you followed him.

The main space was massive. A sleek, modern kitchen with a large island sat to your right, and in the middle of the room, a large, plush couch faced a giant TV. The quiet hum of the electronics and the soft glow of the screen created a domestic atmosphere that felt completely out of place.

Two heads were visible above the back of the couch, both completely engrossed in the game they were playing. 

You stared, eyes wide, at the unexpected scene. 

The entire space was a contradiction: industrial and modern, yet surprisingly inviting.

One of the heads turned, a shock of lavender curls on top. "Yo, Shuuji."

He turned more, noticing you standing behind Hanma. "Ya brought a girl in here?!" he exclaimed, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

The other guy next to him snorted, glancing over his shoulder. "Since when?" he muttered, but then his eyes widened as he took you in. "Shit, ya actually did."

You just stood there, staring at the two men, their eyes wide with a mix of surprise and amusement. They most certainly were Valhalla men, and the fear you'd been suppressing came back full force.

"We're just stoppin' by," Hanma said dismissively, heading towards a hallway, leaving you alone in the middle of the room.

The men stared at you.

You stared at them.

"Does she speak?" the lavender-haired man asked, a playful smile on his face. He had big, dark eyes lined with smudgy eyeliner and a surprisingly inviting expression.

The other guy, with long, black hair and sharp amber eyes, just glared at you, looking much meaner.

"Hi," you said, your voice small.

The lavender-haired man tilted his head and smiled brighter. "Hi. Who are you?"

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say. You were certain they worked for Valhalla, and telling them your identity might be a mistake. "Shu– Hanma's ... acquaintance."

They eyed you, and then the lavender-haired man's eyes widened. "Shit, are you the Toman chick?"

Your eyes met his, and a cold dread settled over you. "What?"

He jumped off the couch, dropping his controller with a clatter, making the other guy curse. He came over to you, his eyes filled with a strange mixture of concern and joy. He wasn’t very tall. Probably around 5’6. And black ink covered his bare arms and neck. "You're the dealer, right?"

You tensed, your body preparing for a fight. "I, well—"

He smiled a genuine, gentle smile. "No need to look so scared, sugar. We ain't gonna bite ya."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you asked.

He grinned. "I'm Itachi. That's Baji," he said, gesturing to the meaner-looking man on the couch. "And Qiangwei is..." He eyed the apartment, his smile returning. "Hidin' somewhere."

You eyed him. "And you work for Valhalla?"

"Yeah." Itachi scratched his head. "I'm Shuji's second in command. Baji and Qiangwei are under us. Where they belong." He smirked.

"Fuck you," Baji snapped from the couch.

Itachi just laughed, a bright, playful sound.

"Right," you said evenly, feeling the awkward tension in the air. "I'll..." You pointed in the direction Hanma had gone. "Go check where... he went..." You turned and began to walk away, your heart still thumping from the strange interaction.

You walked down the short hallway, the quiet hum of the building and the distant sounds of the game a soft background noise. You found an open door and hesitated for a moment before looking inside.

It was a bedroom. A space that was both chaotic and personal. The bed was unmade, with the covers and pillows in a messy pile. Clothes were draped over a chair and the corner of a big dresser. A table with a large computer screen was cluttered with papers and a few empty energy drink cans. 

Despite the mess, it didn't look dirty, just... lived in. The air was filled with a scent that was a strange mix of pinewood, tobacco, and something masculine.

And Hanma was sitting in a chair in front of the computer, his face illuminated by the screen's glow. He was scrolling through something, completely focused. The pillowcase of money, now emptied, was on the table beside him, the stacks of cash a strange, solid lump of reality in the otherwise mundane room. The sight of him here, in a space that felt so normal and domestic, was jarring. 

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of his computer.

He didn't look up. "Just checkin' something."

You eyed the room, the clutter and the masculine scent, making it feel both private and intimidating. "Is this your bedroom?"

"Yeah." He finally glanced at you, his golden eyes filled with a bored amusement. "Somethin' wrong with it?"

You lifted a shoulder. "I can only assume I'll get something from here. Probably herpes."

He let out a short huff. "It's always possible."

You shifted on your feet, hating how your heart kept thumping inside your chest. You felt nervous, an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation. Nervous being around Valhalla men and not knowing why Hanma had brought you here, and what he was planning. You weren't used to not being in control.

"I counted the money," he said. "Thirty-two million yen."

You blinked. “What?”

Hanma's fingers stilled on the keyboard. He looked up at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I know right?"

"You're shitting me."

He grinned. "I ain't."

"Thirty-two million?"

"Not bad, eh?"

Your mind raced with the new information. "He'll definitely come after me. Thirty million is a lot to lose."

"He knows that you know me, so I doubt it."

"Oh, don't be so full of yourself.”

He just bit back a smile, his eyes dropping back to the screen. 

You eyed his room again, the few cans on his table, the white Valhalla hoodie tossed on the floor, the dumbbells beside it. There was nothing on the walls. No personal items anywhere. Just random clutter in the form of clothes and energy drink cans. Then you looked at the man of the hour at his computer. "What are you doing?"

"Deletin' footage from Kaito's place."

Your eyebrows rose. "You can do that? How?"

He nodded his head as a gesture for you to come look at his screen.

You walked over to him, rounding the table and stood behind his chair to his left. There was surveillance camera footage on his computer screen of the two of you.

Hanma showed you how he deleted a few hours' worth of footage from the feed. "Qiang made this software."

"But isn't it suspicious that there is missing footage?"

"Sure, but no evidence it was us."

"Only Kaito knows," you said, more to yourself than him. "He won't let this slide."

Hanma turned his chair slightly to face you better. "Ya wanted me to kill him instead?"

Your stomach lurched at the thought, but still you asked, "Why didn't you?"

He didn't reply, just stared up at you in a strange, curious way. Assessing you, perhaps.

"What?" you asked.

He shrugged and turned back to the screen. "Nothin'."

"You didn't answer me," you said.

"Yer stupid for even asking me."

"Excuse me?"

"Gang politics and all that. Not that you'd understand."

"Fuck you."

He huffed a laugh. 

“I appreciate your help today, and if you're done with this," you gestured at the computer, "I’d like to go home now."

“Sure.” He closed his computer, the screen dimming, and stood, packing the money into the pillowcase. 

You walked back to the doorway, but Itachi stood there, smiling sweetly.

“What’s the Toman girl doin’ here, Shuuji?”

Hanma slung the pillow over his shoulder. “Ain’t your business, Tachi. Stop bein' sly."

Itachi gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Me? I'm never sly!" But the mischievous grin on his face said otherwise.

Hanma let out a weary sigh, pushing past you and Itachi. "Where's Qiang?"

"I dunno," Itachi replied with a shrug. “Ya worried he’ll see her?”

"I ain't worried." Hanma's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "If you see him, tell him I used his shit." He left the two of you standing there.

Itachi remained in the doorway, eyeing you with a knowing look. "Qiang ain't a fan of Toman."

"It's fine," you replied evenly. "I'm not a fan of Valhalla."

"So you ain't planning to jump gangs?"

"No," you snapped. "Never."

Itachi just smiled, a hint of something deeper in his eyes. "Too bad." 

You scowled at him.

He stepped aside, and you walked past him, heading towards the quiet arguing you now heard coming from the living room.

"What's the problem, Baji? Shouldn't you feel nostalgic?" Hanma's voice was laced with its usual mockery as he faced the long-haired man.

"Fuck you," Baji snapped, his angry gaze cutting to you.

Hanma chuckled. "So tense."

You eyed Baji. 

He had long black hair that seemed to move with a life of its own. His features were sharp, his body muscular, and his t-shirt hugged his wide shoulders and thick biceps. He had a very rugged look about him. 

And yet, Hanma still towered over him, a clear sign of dominance.

"The fuck are you lookin' at?" Baji barked, his amber eyes blazing with an intense fury that was completely disproportionate to the situation.

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to back down.

Hanma glanced at you, a faint smirk on his face. "Let's go, trickster." 

You followed him, leaving Baji's furious glare to burn a hole in your back.

"What's his problem?" you asked once you were outside the warehouse.

Hanma just shoved the pillowcase full of money into your arms and kept walking. "He ain't a fan of Toman," he replied, taking a pack of cigarettes from his black jeans.

"Why did you bring me here then?" you snapped, following him to his car.

Hanma placed a cigarette between his lips, watching you from beneath his lashes as he lit it. "I didn't wanna drive back and forth."

"I could have waited in the car."

He huffed a laugh and took a long drag. "Ya never seen him? Baji, I mean?"

"Why would I?"

"When did ya join Toman?"

"A few years ago."

"Ah," he breathed in understanding.

You frowned. "Why?"

"Baji jumped gangs when he was a teenager."

"From Toman?"

"Uh-huh."

You blinked, a new piece of the puzzle falling into place. "Why?"

Hanma raised a brow. "Why would he jump from a shitty gang to the best one?"

You scoffed. "Valhalla, the best gang? That's funny."

"I wasn't joking."

"If this is some tactic for you to speak me into jumping gangs, it's not working. I don't care what you think of Valhalla or Toman. I'm not jumping gangs."

He just watched you, puffing on his cigarette, his expression unreadable.

"Can we go?" you snapped, your patience wearing thin.

"You in a hurry?"

"To get away from you? Yeah."

"Ya really don't like me, huh?"

You scoffed, unable to believe the seriousness in his voice. "Are you serious? Why would I?"

"I like you."

Your eyes widened slightly before you managed to school your expression. You couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "You don't even know me, asshole."

He lifted a shoulder. "I know you enough."

"Cut the shit, Shuji. Take me home."

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that sent a jolt through you. "I just love it when you talk dirty to me." He flicked his cigarette to the ground. "Yer so damn easy to rile up." 

You huffed, rounding the car to the passenger side, your heart thumping fast against your ribs.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The drive was done in tense silence. 

You sat huddled against the passenger door, the pillowcase of money clutched to your chest like a shield. 

You were glad to get a drive home with the amount of money with you, and your head was still pounding due to the drugs last night and the lack of food and water. But every turn Hanma took felt like a betrayal, leading him closer to your home. The thought that he knew where you lived made your stomach clench.

You wondered if Kaito knew where you lived, too.

He pulled up to your apartment building, his car's engine humming quietly. He didn't speak, just looked at you.

You took a deep breath, the cold reality of the situation forcing you to be civil. "Thank you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "For... for getting the money back. And for getting me home last night." The words tasted like ash.

Hanma's mouth opened, and you knew exactly what he was about to say. Either something arrogant or idiotic.

You raised a hand, stopping him before he could speak. "Don't say anything stupid to ruin this," you said, your voice firm. "Just take the gratitude and leave me alone. We’re done now."

He watched you, his mouth closing. He didn't argue. He didn't say another word. But there was an amused glint in his eyes that was unreadable.

And you didn’t know what to think of it.

"Have a good... afternoon," you added, your hand reaching for the door handle.

"Likewise," he replied, his voice a low rumble.

You nodded once, a final, weary gesture, and stepped out of the car. The cool afternoon air hit your face, and you clutched the pillowcase of money to your chest. As you walked towards your apartment building, you could hear the low hum of his engine as he pulled away from the curb, leaving you alone.

As his car pulled away, you didn't head straight for your apartment. Instead, you scanned the street, your eyes darting over every parked car, every dark alleyway, checking for any lurking figures. 

The paranoia was real. 

You couldn't shake the image of Kaito’s bleeding leg, the expression on his face.

Once you were sure nothing seemed amiss, you headed inside and climbed the stairs to your floor.

As your apartment door was locked securely behind you, you finally let out a long, shuddering breath. 

“Christ…”

You eyed the pillowcase in your arms.

“No, what do I do with you?”

You decided to empty it onto the bed, and the muffled thump of the stacks of bills hitting the mattress felt surreal. 

With a methodical calm, you began to count.

The final number made your head spin. Hanma had been right. It was far more than you were expecting. You stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to do, before your eyes landed on your phone. A dozen missed calls and messages from your friends lit up the screen, a reminder of Toman and how you had “fucked up” the deal.

But before you could deal with that, you needed to wash off the dirt and dread of the morning and night before. 

You walked to the bathroom, catching your reflection in the mirror—eyes wide, face dull. 

After getting undressed, you stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over you, scrubbing away the club, Kaito, the violence. All of it. You changed into a clean set of clothes, your eyes lingering for a moment on the armchair in your bedroom where Hanma had so carelessly rested. 

You frowned at the memory.

After a quick, silent meal, you packed 15 million yen into your backpack, zipped it up and slung it over your shoulder. 

Now, you had to face Toman.

The weight of the backpack felt heavy on your shoulders as you walked to the nearest metro station. The world outside your small apartment building seemed to be moving at a normal, unconcerned pace. 

You kept your head down, eyes darting from face to face.

The metro ride was a blur. 

You found an empty seat and sat down, clutching the straps of your backpack. 

The rhythmic screeching of the train on the tracks and the gentle swaying of the car became a sort of metronome for your nerves. Your mind was racing, replaying every moment of the morning.

You exited the station and walked the familiar few blocks to the Toman lab. The building looked unassuming from the outside, but you knew what lay beyond its locked doors. You used your key card, and the heavy door clicked open. 

The scent of chemical reagents and sterile air immediately hit you, a smell that was usually comforting but today felt alien.

Kenji and Rina were inside. Kenji was hunched over a workbench, his face grim, while Rina stood by the storage room. 

They both turned as you entered, their faces a mixture of relief and anger.

"Where the hell have you been?" Rina demanded, her voice low and sharp. "We've been calling you for hours."

But before you could even muster a reply, she had run to you and clutched your shoulders. "Are you alright?" 

"I got the money," you replied, your voice flat.

Her eyes widened, her hands dropping from you. "What, how?" 

"I went to Kaito's apartment."

"Alone?" Kenji gasped, his own eyes wide with disbelief.

"Yeah," you lied easily. "Have you seen Mikey or Mitsuya?"

"They left hours ago," Rina said.

You shrugged the backpack off, cradling it in your arms. “I need to give them the money.”

"I'll call Mitsuya," Kenji offered, pulling his phone out.

You nodded, clutching your backpack tighter. 

"How the hell did Kaito give you the money?" Rina asked, then her expression fell. "Don't say he... hurt you or anything?"

"No, no. I mean, last night he drugged me and insinuated things, but nothing happened."

"How did you get the money then?"

You thought of the gunshot, of Hanma's cold smile and Kaito's screaming. Would Kaito tell someone? Would anyone know it had been Hanma, or would everyone think that you had shot him? 

You opened your mouth, then closed it. 

What the hell do I say?

You opened your mouth again. "I got the money. That's the most important part, right? I saved my own head."

"Mitsuya's coming," Kenji said, putting his phone down.

"How could they think that I would steal the drugs?" you asked, the frustration finally bubbling up.

"I don't think they actually do, but it's easier to blame us... at the bottom of the hierarchy than people like Kaito," Kenji said, sounding defeated.

You scoffed. "They wouldn't have anything to sell if it weren't for us."

"Maybe we should complain to the union," Kenji joked, but Rina cut him a sharp glare, making him gulp.

Rina turned back to you, her expression firm. "The most important thing is that you are safe."

You forced a smile and put the backpack back on. "How’s the lab holding up?" 

Kenji sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Still a damn mess. We just don't have enough equipment. I swear, they expect us to make gold out of thin air with all the crap they give us."

"Should we ask Mitsuya again?" you asked.

"Maybe if he's in a good mood," Kenji muttered, glancing nervously at the door.

He was, in fact, not in a good mood.

A moment later, the door to the lab swung open. Mitsuya, his usual calm composure replaced by a grim scowl, walked in. He wasn't alone. Two other Toman members, their faces hard and unreadable, followed him inside, closing the door behind them.

The air in the room went from tense to frigid. Mitsuya's eyes landed on you, cold and demanding. He didn't ask if you were okay or if you had the money. 

He just stood there, waiting.

Without a word, you slipped the backpack off your shoulders. The weight of it was a dull ache, a constant reminder of the chaos of the morning. You placed it on the large steel workbench with a quiet thud, unzipped it, and pulled out the stacks of bills. You laid them out on the counter, the crisp, green paper a stark contrast to the sterile white surface.

"I sold the drugs to Kaito and got the money," you said, your voice steady despite the thumping of your heart.

Mitsuya didn't say a word. He just walked to the workbench, his footsteps deliberate and heavy. One of the men with him picked up a stack of bills and quickly fanned through it, nodding to Mitsuya. 

Mitsuya then grabbed the money and began to stuff it into a black bag he was carrying.

He zipped the bag shut, the sound a final, unforgiving note in the silent lab. He met your eyes, his expression hard. "Don't fuck up again."

The words hit you like a physical blow. A dozen angry retorts bubbled up in your throat. I didn't fuck up in the first place. You wanted to scream it, to defend yourself. You wanted to tell him that you had just been drugged and could have been killed. 

But you just bit your tongue, the bitter taste a perfect reflection of your frustration. You said nothing, your silence the only form of protest you could allow yourself.

Mitsuya didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked out, his two men following behind him. 

The door clicked shut, and you were left standing in the lab.

Rina grabbed your shoulder. The touch was firm and grounding, pulling you out of your stupor.

You glanced at her, frowning. "I didn't fuck up."

"I know," she said simply, her dark eyes filled with a deep, silent understanding. She tugged on your arm, pulling you to a nearby workbench. "Come on."

You followed her, the words a lifeline. 

She didn't need a detailed explanation; she knew the politics of the gang. She knew that people like you and her were always just one wrong move away from being a scapegoat. 

You picked up a beaker, the cold glass a familiar weight in your hand, and you both returned to your work. 

The hum of the lab's equipment and the quiet rhythm of your tasks became a soothing blanket, a world you could control.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

Day after day, your life settled into a mundane, repetitive rhythm again. 

The morning routine was always the same: you would wake up, put on your headphones, and go for a jog, your feet pounding against the pavement as if to outrun the memories of the past week. You would eat a quick, solitary breakfast, get ready for the day, and head to the lab.

You worked late. 

You would come home, exhausted, eat a microwave meal, and watch TV until you were too tired to think.

But beneath the surface of this routine, there was still paranoia. Every time you left your apartment, you checked the street, scanning for unfamiliar faces or cars. Every time you heard a loud noise, you flinched, your heart leaping into your throat. 

You were looking for Kaito's men, but you were also looking for a certain tall, black-and-yellow-haired man. You didn't know if you were afraid of him or if you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But nothing happened. The days bled into one another, and no one from Kaito's gang came for you. No one from Valhalla came to make a detour either. 

One night, the drone of the television was a comforting blanket, and you felt yourself finally drifting off, the weight of the past few weeks starting to lift.

That's when you heard it.

A scraping, rattling sound at your front door. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping to your throat. The sound of someone trying to pick the lock filled the silent apartment. 

Then, the handle moved, slowly, deliberately.

You shot up from the couch, your hand snatching your phone. 

You didn't know what you were doing, but you moved on instinct, clutching the phone like a weapon as you went to the door.

"I HAVE A GUN!" you yelled, hoping it would work.

The rattling stopped instantly. The handle stilled. 

You stood there, your body rigid, listening to the suffocating silence. 

You held your breath for a long moment, then carefully, hesitantly, you moved to the peephole. 

You peeked out, but the hallway was empty. There was nothing.

You were too scared to open the door. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Who else but Hanma would be trying to pick your lock? But why would he just leave? It didn't make sense.

Hesitantly, you went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife, its handle a cold comfort in your hand. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs. You looked at the phone in your other hand, the screen still lit.

You scrolled through your contacts until you found his name and pressed the button.

"Missed me?" he drawled, his voice a low rumble through the phone.

"Were you trying to pick my lock just now?" you demanded, your voice a desperate whisper.

"Nope," he replied, popping the p, sounding bored. "Kinda offended you'd even ask."

You scoffed. "You have picked my lock before."

"Exactly."

You stared at your door for a moment, dumbfounded. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sighed, tired. "If I had been at your door just now," he spoke slowly as though dumbing it down for you, "you wouldn't have to call me to ask whether it had been me or not. I'd already be in."

You rolled your eyes so hard at his smugness that, for a moment, you thought they'd get stuck in the back of your head. "Well, someone tried to just pick my lock and get into my apartment."

"Wasn't me. Buh-bye."

"Wait!"

"Whaat?"

"Then who could it have been?" you asked, the panic in your voice rising.

"How the fuck would I know?"

"What if it was one of Kaito's men?"

"Ya still have my gun?"

"Yes."

"Good. Use that. Byeee."

"Shuji!"

He groaned, the sound of his impatience clear. 

"I'm scared,” you said. “What should I do?"

"Why you askin' me?"

"Because you're on the phone."

"Call your friends."

You opened your mouth. He was right. Why did you even keep him on the phone? You weren't sure. 

"They're asleep," you said.

"Yeah? I'm tryinna be too."

You heard him about to hang up again. "Don't hang up. Please. Stay on the line a moment longer while I check the hallway."

"That'll be 5 yen per minute."

"Fine. I can pay you. Just stay."

"A paid phone call, eh?" he chuckled. "Sure. I can work with that. Whatchu wearing, baby?"

"Shut up," you grumbled, heading to your door.

He laughed. 

You held the phone momentarily off your ear, trying to open the lock with the knife in your other hand. Then you put the phone back to your ear. "Okay, I'll open my door now."

"Wow, you're so brave, baby."

"Fuck you."

He laughed again.

"This is not funny. I'm scared."

"Relax. It was probably a drunk neighbour at the wrong door."

Your hand trembled as you slowly unlocked the door, the clicks of the deadbolt echoing in the silence. You held your breath and pushed it open just enough to peek into the hallway.

It was empty.

The silence was deafening, a stark and anticlimactic end to the terror that had just gripped you. The hallway was exactly as you had always known it: a blank, unassuming corridor with three other doors and a single overhead light. No one was there. No splintered wood, no broken lock, no sign of a struggle. Nothing.

You let out a shaky breath, the tension leaving your body in a sudden, draining rush. Hanma was right. It had just been a mistake. You looked down at your phone, still on the call.

"It's empty," you mumbled, a mix of relief and frustration in your voice.

"Told ya so," he said, and you could hear the smirk in his tone. "Now, can I go back to sleep?"

You put the phone back to your ear, a sigh of frustration escaping your lips. "Yeah. I'm sorry for bothering you. Good night."

"Night, night," he replied, and the line went dead.

You frowned at the screen, a mix of relief and annoyance bubbling inside you. You closed your door, the click of the lock a small comfort.

Hanma Shuji knew it had not actually been a drunk neighbour trying to open the door.

He knew because he was currently watching the figure of a man slip out of your apartment building and merge into the shadows of the night. 

He saw the first man come, saw the failed attempt, and waited for a few more to join the first one. There were three of them in total now.

Hanma stood on the other side of the street, hidden in the shadows as he shoved his phone back into his pocket, genuinely surprised you had called him. Of course, you had blamed him for trying to break in, but then you had wanted him to stay on the phone. Touching. Really.

He pushed off the brick wall he had been leaning against and pulled out a cigarette.

The three men walked down the street, oblivious to being watched.

Hanma lit the cigarette, the small ember a brief flash in the dark.

Then he began to follow the men, ready to paint the pavement red.

Chapter Text

You never noticed Hanma Shuji watching you.

He had been doing this for two weeks now. Trailing after you in grocery stores, underground stations, streets, and cafes, but you didn’t notice him. 

You hadn’t even called or messaged him. And why would you have? No one was bothering you anymore, trying to break into your apartment or stir up shit. Hanma made sure of that.

But really, you were a pathetic case. Christ, you didn’t even notice Kaito’s men after you, loitering in your street. 

And first and foremost, you didn’t notice Hanma! 

Did you have a fucking death wish or something?! How could someone be so goddamn oblivious?

Okay, sure, you were somewhat cautious. Hanma would give you that. He noted you scanning the street each time you left the building for a morning run or to go to work. Because that’s all you did. You only left your home to go to that sad excuse of a lab or for a run. 

How fucking boring.

And your morning run route was always the same. Every damn time. Man, you were just begging to be stalked at this point with your predictability. You were lucky he was making sure no one got their hands on you.

This morning was no different as you put on your headphones and headed down the steps of the building. Always four minutes of walking at first, then two minutes of jogging, two for walking, two for jogging. It was easy for Hanma to follow you. Easy for anyone if they wanted to. 

He sighed, disappointed in you.

But today, you did slow down earlier than usual and glanced behind you. Hanma was well away, on the other side of the street, near the side alleyways, making sure you didn’t notice him. And you didn’t.

You turned back and kept walking, though you slowed down again, kneeling down to tie your laces, apparently. But you stayed on the ground for quite a while, your head slightly turned, the other headphone slightly off your ear. Listening? For what? For him? Were you waiting for whoever you felt following you to pass? So you knew someone was following, huh.

Hanma kept walking then, approaching you. 

You didn’t glance behind. You just pretended to tie your laces. 

Hanma tilted his head, not understanding the point. If you knew someone was following or even suspected it, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to give them your back. You were even more stupid and pathetic than he initially thought.

Just as he was right behind, you jumped up and turned.

In that instant, both of you were surprised. 

Hanma was surprised by the small, silver blade of a flip knife pressed against his stomach. 

You were surprised it had been Hanma goddamn Shuji following you. 

You hadn’t seen or heard of him in weeks.

"Why are you following me?!" you snapped, not lowering the knife. 

You couldn’t help but find some satisfaction in his slightly startled expression.

He looked down at the blade against his hoodie. "Not so stupid after all," he muttered to himself.

"Shuji," you demanded, ignoring his comment as it didn’t answer your question.

His eyes darted to your face. There was no smug smirk or amused grin on his face. He was oddly expressionless. "What?"

"Why were you following me?"

He lifted a shoulder. "I was bored."

Your brows snapped together. "That's no excuse."

"It ain't an excuse. Just a fact."

"You can't just follow people when you're bored. That's beyond strange."

He didn't reply.

"And besides, it's 6 a.m." You lowered the blade, closing and pocketing it. "How can you already be bored?"

He shoved his hands casually into the pockets of his oversized hoodie. "I'm always bored, darlin'. It ain't tied to the time."

"Well, keep your boredom elsewhere. Don't follow me again." You turned and kept walking. 

But he fell into an easy step beside you.

You shot him a glare. "Walking beside me also counts as following me."

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't."

You huffed.

"If it hadn't been me, what would you have done?"

"What?"

"If it hadn't been me followin' you."

"I don't know. Still, demanded to know why you were following me."

"And if I didn't tell you?"

"Maybe stabbed you if you were threatening. Or… ran away.” You thought about it. “That would seem more like me anyway."

"Ya did neither with me," he mused.

You gave him an annoyed expression. "And?"

Hanma tilted his head, watching you curiously. "You ain't threatened by me?"

Well, when he put it that way… 

You shot him a cautious glance. "Should I be?"

He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me," you reminded him. "That you would have already if you wanted to."

"I did," he hummed. "Didn't think ya would believe me."

You frowned at him. "This is the stupidest conversation ever, and it’s too early to be dealing with you. Stop walking with me." You took a few quick steps ahead.

But of course, he jogged after you, falling in step beside you easily.

You groaned, irritated. "What did I just say?" 

"I'm just walkin' in the same direction at the same pace. Ain’t nothing wrong with that."

You took a deep inhale and a long exhale, trying your very best not to let him get to your nerves more than he already did.

Hanma was quiet for a moment until he opened his stupid mouth again. "So ya ain't scared of me anymore then?"

You ignored him. You put your headphones back over your ears and turned up the music. 

Then you started running.

The asshole ran after you and ahead of you, turning around and jogging backwards, talking. 

You shot him a glare and tried to outpace him, but he easily kept pace, his lips moving even as you tried to ignore him.

You huffed and raised your headphone again, ready to curse him to the moon and back.

"So the yellow kiwis don't make my tongue hurt like the green ones do," he ended his sentence, and you forgot what you were about to say to him.

"Huh?"

"Oh, ya weren’t listenin’?"

"Leave me alone, Shuji." 

You quickened your pace to a full-on run, and fortunately, he stayed behind. 

You ran for a few more blocks, the morning air cold against your face. 

Feeling a deep-seated unease, you decided to cut your run short, turning down an earlier alleyway that led back toward your home. 

But as you approached your building, you saw him. 

Hanma was sitting on your front steps, leaning back with one hand propping him up. He had a cigarette between his lips, a wisp of smoke curling lazily into the morning air.

You froze. He just sat there, waiting.

Deciding to ignore him was the only option. 

You put your head down and walked straight for the stairs. You felt his gaze as you passed, a silent, heavy weight on your back. You weren't sure if he said anything, as your headphones were still blasting music, but you didn't look back to check. 

Surprisingly, he didn't follow.

You got to your apartment, fumbled with your keys, and got inside. After locking the door, you went to your living room and peeked out the window. 

He was still there, a lone figure on the steps, smoking his cigarette. The sight of him just sitting there, not even trying to get to you, was more unsettling than if he had tried.

Deciding to forget about him, you had a quick wash, changed, drank some coffee, and ate a small breakfast. 

When you finally left for the underground station, Hanma was gone. 

That didn’t stop you from paying closer attention to your surroundings as you headed to the lab and when you headed back home in the evening. 

You assumed he would be waiting by your building or even in your apartment when you got back home, but fortunately, the man wasn’t there.

You even managed to forget about him for the rest of the evening and night, until you headed for your morning run, a habit you had now developed and were unable to break from, and saw him waiting for you at your steps.

You startled, staring down at him from the building door. He was casually leaning against the handrail, phone in hand, until he noticed you and straightened, grinning.

"Good morning,” he said and put his phone in the pocket of his black college shorts.

Not only were his torso and arms covered in tattoos, but both of his legs were too. You hated that you noticed his legs were toned. His thigh muscles showed even with the loose shorts cutting just above his inked knees.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, your voice flat.

"Joinin' ya for your run."

"No, you are not."

"I'm not?"

"No." You marched down the steps and walked past him.

He followed you. "Why not?"

"Why would you?"

"'Cause I wanna."

"This is not your territory, Hanma."

"Don't call me that."

"What? Hanma?"

"Yeah."

"It's your last name."

"I don't like you callin' me that."

"And I don't like you calling me 'darling'."

"Why?"

You huffed. "Just because. And, as a matter of fact, I don't like you talking to me at all."

"I can be quiet."

You snorted. "Sure, you can."

Surprisingly, he didn't reply but kept walking beside you. 

What was his problem? Surely this was some attempt to get a rise out of you. He wanted to annoy you on purpose. Or intimidate you. 

You side-eyed him. 

He kept his gaze forward, walking casually, hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie. 

What a weird guy. 

Well, you wouldn’t give him what he wanted. 

He’d grow bored with you soon enough.

"Let's see if you can keep up then," you muttered, and kicked up the volume of your music before starting to jog.

Hanma kept up easily, not breaking a sweat as he jogged beside you. 

Usually, you slowed up to walk every two minutes, but now you just kept going, running for two and jogging for two. 

Hanma kept pace, not speaking. Not that you were 100% sure, as you kept your music loud. 

The early morning Tokyo air was sharp and cold, biting at your cheeks as you ran. The concrete streets in these parts were still mostly empty, bathed in the pale, blue light of dawn. The city was a silent giant, its towering buildings casting long shadows. 

It could have potentially been a beautiful, peaceful scene.

After a mile, you raised your other headphone a bit from your ear.

"You know you could be recognised here," you said, slowing your pace.

He just glanced at you but didn't reply, slowing down too.

You raised a brow.

He made a zip motion with his fingers over his lips.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. "You can speak now."

"I could," he then said. "Be recognised."

"That would mean bad things for me," you said. "People might think I’m fraternising with the enemy. I could get killed."

"Not many Toman members are here at this time," he replied and eyed the street. "Or in these parts of Tokyo."

"No, but these people know this is Toman's turf. And you are quite recognisable."

"Ya didn't recognise me."

"That is because I keep to myself and the lab."

"Why is that?" He looked genuinely curious.

Your brows furrowed, confused why he was interested. "Easier and safer that way. This job is just a means to an end."

He eyed you knowingly. "Valhalla could pay you more."

"Ah," you breathed in understanding. "Now I see."

"What?"

"This thing." You gestured between him and yourself as you jogged. "Some new type of plan to get me to work for Valhalla."

He sucked his teeth. "Ain't no plan here."

You watched him flatly as he jogged, a look of perpetual boredom on his face. 

"So you just want to go for a morning run with a rival gang member? No other intentions whatsoever."

He gave a slight shrug. "Like I said. I'm bored."

"Surely, there are other more interesting things to do," you said, your voice laced with disbelief.

"I agree."

You gestured to the empty street with a hand. "Then why not do them?"

His gaze turned back forward as he continued to jog. "'Cause ya ain't doing them."

Your brows snapped together in confusion. The logic was completely alien to you.

You came to an abrupt halt, your breath coming out in ragged puffs. 

He stopped a few paces ahead, turning to face you, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, waiting.

"This is not... we are not," you began, unsure what to even say.

"We are not what?" he asked, his expression calm.

"This won't be a thing, Shuji. I don't like you. And I don't want to spend time with you. On morning runs or otherwise. So there’s no need for you to do things I’m doing."

"I know."

Your lips parted in disbelief. "Then stop jogging with me. Stop coming to see me when you're bored. We're not friends."

"I know."

"Clearly, you don't. I want to be left alone."

"I don't."

"Excuse me?"

He swayed back onto his heels. "Plus, minus, zero."

You just stood there, dumbfounded, staring at him. He was a puzzle you couldn't solve, a contradiction you couldn't understand. "This is stalking. I will tell Toman you are bothering me."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Oh, please do."

"I will fucking stab you," you snarled.

He dared to look excited, his eyes glinting in the pale light. "Even better."

"You are insane!"

"And?"

You blinked, utterly speechless. This man couldn't be for real.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, taking a few deep, deliberate breaths before you looked at him again. 

He just stood there, feigning innocence, his hands in his pockets as if waiting for a bus.

"What do you want from me, Shuji?" you finally managed to ask, your voice a frustrated whisper. You just had to stay calm. Don’t let him get to your nerves more. Zen. Cool as a cucumber–

"To hang out with you."

"WHY?!" 

"'Cause I like you."

"No, you don't! You don't even know me!"

He said the same reply he had before, his expression unchanging. "I know enough."

"I won't jump gangs, and I won't…” You gestured widely with your hands, trying to think what he would want with you. “And I won’t go to bed with you if that's your plan with all of this nonsense."

"I know."

You groaned, feeling grey hairs growing and your lifespan shortening by another year or two. "Then what's the fucking point?"

He tilted his head. "I'm entertained."

You just stared at him, completely, utterly dumbfounded. 

Hanma watched you like you were a science experiment, his expression one of detached fascination.

"You are seriously not right in the head," you said.

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"No?"

"No!"

He finally turned back around, falling into an easy jog. "We gonna keep runnin' now? You're gonna be late for work."

"And how would you know that?" you asked, suddenly suspicious.

He didn't turn around. "Lucky guess."

“This motherf…”

The curse died on your lips. 

You didn't stop. You didn't run away. 

Instead, you kept jogging beside him, your pace a steady, defiant rhythm. 

It was a silent conversation: a refusal to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had completely unnerved you. He might know your schedule, he might be stalking you for his own sick entertainment, but you weren't going to let him derail your life. Not for a moment. 

You just ran, the silence between you now filled with the thumping of your feet on the pavement and the low thrum of your music.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The next morning was the same. You considered skipping your run, just to break the absurd routine. But the thought of letting him win, of letting him disrupt your life so easily, was enough to make you defiantly lace up your trainers.

He was there, standing by your steps, a cigarette between his fingers. He was dressed in the same running gear: hoodie, trainers, and shorts.

"Smoking is bad for you," you said as a greeting, your voice flat, as you walked past him and fell into a jog.

"No shit," he replied, flicking the cigarette butt to the ground and running after you. 

For the rest of the run, you didn't say another word to him.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.

On the fourth morning, you slept in, too tired from a long night of work at the lab. You didn't know if Hanma had been waiting for you at your steps, but he wasn't there when you finally left for work.

You only found out that he had been there on the morning after, when you saw him waiting at the steps once more.

"You didn't come yesterday," he said as you approached, his voice casual.

You gritted your teeth, not wanting to explain anything to him. "I slept in."

A slight frown touched his lips. "Everythin' okay?" 

Again, your brows furrowed. Why would he care? Why did he sound... concerned? "Amazingly," you replied, your voice thick with sarcasm. 

You didn't wait for a response. You just started running. 

But you didn't put on any music yet, and the only sound was your breathing and the steady thud of your feet on the pavement. 

Hanma caught up to you easily, falling into a casual pace beside you.

“How do you have time for this?” you asked, your voice a little strained.

“Well, it’s only 6 a.m.”

“Aren’t you tired?” you grumbled, hating that you even asked.

“I’ll manage. Thanks for the concern, though, darlin’.” He winked, his golden eyes glinting mischievously.

You huffed. "That's not what I meant. Does your gang know that you’re hanging out with a Toman member?”

“Ain’t their business what I do.”

“Does your boss know?”

He let out a low chuckle. “If he knew, I wouldn’t be here.”

You considered him, the thought settling in your mind. “So this is some thrill thing for you? You get a kick out of doing something forbidden.”

“Forbidden, eh?” he repeated, arching a perfect brow. “So poetic.”

“You know what I mean, Shuji.”

He bit his lip, fighting a smile, and gazed back forward. 

There was a dimple on his cheek when he did that, a strange, small imperfection on a face that you wished was less familiar to you. 

You huffed, turning your gaze forward, too, and neither of you spoke after that.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.

Sunday morning. 

A day you typically spent sleeping in, enjoying the silence of your apartment before a long day of rest. But for some reason, you found yourself lacing up your trainers and heading for the door. 

It was curiosity, you told yourself. A small, thrilling whisper that reminded you of the dire consequences if anyone from Toman knew about this strange, unwilling running acquaintance.

You stepped out onto the quiet street, the air still and cool. 

Your eyes went to the steps, expecting to see a familiar tall figure in a hoodie. But the steps were empty.

A wave of slight confusion washed over you. 

You scanned the street, your gaze lingering on every corner, every parked car. No sign of him.

You started your jog, a peculiar sense of emptiness settling in. 

You knew you should feel relieved. 

The threat, the annoyance, the weird presence was gone. 

But the feeling that he was about to jump out from behind an alleyway or a corner was even stronger than before. 

Your eyes darted around, your mind running through all the possibilities, but there was no sign of him.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone, checking the screen. No new messages. You shoved it back into your pocket, shrugging to yourself, and finished your run.

When you got back to your apartment, the silence of your home felt heavier than usual, a physical thing. 

You decided to lean into it. 

The hours slipped away as you went from one leisurely activity to another. 

After breakfast and a shower, you settled into bed, pulling the covers over your legs as you lost yourself in a book. 

The morning light softened into the muted, golden tones of the afternoon as you moved to the couch, binge-watching a show on your laptop. The screen’s blue light was a comforting presence in the growing dusk.

You finally peeled yourself off the couch, a little stiff but feeling more at peace than you had in weeks. 

You cooked a simple meal, the scent of the food filling your apartment. 

After dinner, you put on some music and did a quick clean, wiping down the counters and putting things away. 

By the time you were ready for bed, this part of the city was quiet. 

The streetlights cast a dim orange glow into your room, and the silence was deep and comfortable. 

You fell asleep almost instantly, a wave of exhaustion washing over you.

Then, at 3 a.m., a sudden, loud sound shattered the silence.

It was a knock at the door.

It took you a moment to comprehend the sound, your sleepy mind trying to place the jarring noise in the quiet of the night. 

When someone knocked again, a jolt of pure terror shot through you.

You jumped out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor as you ran to the kitchen. Your hand wrapped around the handle of a knife, its cold weight a strange comfort.

You crept to the front door, your body rigid with fear.

Then, there was another knock. 

This time, it was weaker, a hesitant tap that didn't match the loud, angry sound from before. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you lifted your gaze to the peephole.

What you saw wasn't a stranger. It was a familiar, chaotic mess of yellow-black hair.

You didn't hesitate. You unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Hanma was hunched over, his shoulders curved in on themselves. He was holding himself up by the door frame, his usual defiant posture gone. His face, visible in the dim hallway light, was ashen, and he looked impossibly pale.

"Shuji?" you asked, your voice a whisper as you slowly lowered the knife.

He mumbled something, his breath coming out in ragged, heavy pants. He swayed on his feet, holding onto the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

"What?"

"I think… I am gonna throw up."

"Now?"

"Now."

He looked greyer. 

You acted on instinct, your hand reaching out and grabbing his arm. You pulled him into the apartment, stumbling back a few steps as he leaned heavily against you. 

You pulled him into the bathroom, barely managing to get the toilet lid up before he heaved his guts out, gripping the sides.

You grimaced, turning your head away and looking at the polished bathroom tiles. The silence of your apartment was now shattered by the violent sounds of him heaving, over and over again. It felt like an eternity. 

This was the same man who had laughed at your fear, who had nonchalantly murdered and hurt people and who had the entire city in his hands, yet he was now reduced to a pathetic, groaning heap in your bathroom.

The thought of it made your skin crawl. You considered just leaving him there, locking the door, and going back to bed. But you couldn't. You just stood there, rooted to the spot, listening to him get sick.

Finally, the sounds subsided, leaving only the sound of his ragged, uneven breathing.

Hanma groaned, the sound of his ragged breathing still filling the small bathroom, and slumped back, sitting on the cold tile floor. 

You reached past him to flush the toilet, the gurgling sound a harsh, final note. You eyed him, hunched over, his pale face resting against his knees.

Without a word, you went to the kitchen and got a glass of cold water from the tap. You returned to the bathroom, the glass condensation cool against your fingers. 

He made no move to take it. 

You sighed, the sound a quiet puff of exasperation. You knelt beside him, bringing the glass to his lips.

"Drink," you said, the word a soft command. "Your breath stinks."

He parted his lips obediently, and you carefully tilted the glass, letting the water spill into his mouth. All the while, his golden eyes remained locked on yours, watching you intently as he swallowed, his throat bobbing with each gulp.

After he finished drinking, he pulled his face away from the glass, his eyes still locked on yours. The intensity in his gaze was unsettling. A faint, crooked smirk returned to his lips, though it looked strained on his pale face.

You stood up, putting a careful distance between you. He was still the same person, even if he looked broken. "What the hell happened to you?" 

He pushed himself up, leaning against the wall for support. "Just a rough night," he mumbled, his voice raspy. "Guess some people can't take a joke."

You stared at him, your arms crossed. He was bruised and scraped, and you could see the faint outline of a dark stain on his hoodie that you realised must be blood. 

"You can't stay here," you said, even as a wave of unwilling guilt washed over you. You couldn't just leave him in the hallway.

He just looked at you, his eyes still unnervingly calm.

You sighed in defeat. "Come on," you said, moving to the living room. "You can rest on the couch for a bit. Don't bleed or throw up on my things."

He nodded, pushing off the wall. He stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe. You didn't offer your hand. He wouldn't have taken it anyway. 

He slowly made his way to the couch, still favouring one side of his body.

You went to the hall closet, rummaging through a box until you found the first aid kit. You carried it back to the living room and set it on the coffee table. 

Hanma was sitting on your couch, his head lolled back against the cushions, his breathing still heavy.

You flicked on the overhead light, the sudden brightness causing him to squint.

"Take off your hoodie," you said, your voice flat as you settled on the couch next to him.

He obeyed, his movements sluggish and heavy with effort. He pulled the oversized garment over his head, wincing as he moved his side. 

You kept your eyes away from his body, your gaze focused on the deep, bleeding gash at his side. It looked like a knife had slashed him. It wasn't too deep, but it was bleeding steadily, the dark stain on his t-shirt growing as he peeled it off, too.

You sighed. "Why do you keep on doing this to yourself?"

"I've had worse," he replied, his voice a low rumble. He attempted to reach for the wound, but you slapped his hand away.

"Idiotic," you muttered, pulling a wipe from the kit and wetting it with antiseptic. "It'll burn," was your only warning before you pressed it against the wound. 

Hanma’s breath hitched in a sharp, painful gasp, his body going rigid as the liquid stung his skin.

You continued to clean the wound, your movements precise and clinical. He remained silent, his breath still a little too fast, his eyes watching your every move. When the wound was clean, you reached into the first aid kit for the sterile needle and thread.

"What did you do today?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

"What?" you asked, not looking up from your work.

"Tell me what ya did today."

"Why?"

A long silence stretched between you. 

Then, he said, "Please."

That one word made your breath stop in your throat. It was such a weak, humanising word. A fragile thing that felt completely out of place, leaving his lips. 

You glanced at him, his golden eyes. "Uhm, well, not much. Just a bunch of nothing."

"Tell me anyway."

You considered him for a moment, the needle poised in your hand. You cleared your throat, then lowered your gaze back to the wound and pushed the needle through his skin. 

He didn't flinch. 

"I went for a run in the morning. And then I had breakfast and read a book."

"What book?"

"Um, just this fantasy book," you muttered, pulling the thread through.

"Tell me."

You watched his face for a moment before you started on the next stitch. "It's about this boy who has been hiding for years because the King wants him dead. The boy is the last human alive with the power to wield this dark magic thing. You know, your usual fantasy thing. There's also another boy, but he wields the light magic. But the boy with the dark magic is actually a good person, and the other one is bad."

"I see."

"Do you read?" you asked, a strange curiosity in your voice.

"Nah. Don't have the ability to focus."

"You watch movies then?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

"What kind?"

"The violent ones with action and comedy."

You huffed an amused sound. "Of course."

You finished the last stitch, tying off the thread and cutting it with a pair of small scissors. You wiped the area one more time, then carefully covered the gash with a large bandage. The entire process had taken only a few minutes, but it felt like hours. 

You sighed, gathering the bloody gauze and used wipes.

"Alright," you said, pulling away from him, a little too quickly. You put the first aid kit on the coffee table and stood up. "That's it."

The low hum of the refrigerator and the gentle whir of the clock were the only sounds in the quiet apartment. 

Hanma just sat there on your couch, his head back against the cushions, his eyes half-closed. The vulnerability from before was gone, replaced by a calm stillness.

"What now?" you asked, your voice low. "You can't stay here. You should go get that looked at by a real doctor."

"I'll be fine," he mumbled, not even opening his eyes. "Just need to rest."

"Shuji, it's the middle of the night," you said, your frustration growing. "And you're bleeding all over my couch."

"I won't bleed anymore," he said simply, as if that solved everything. 

You wanted to scream, to shove him out the door and slam it shut. But you couldn't. He was a mess, and the thought of what might happen to him on the street—or what he might do to you if you tried to force him out—made you hesitate. 

Defeated, you went to the hall closet for a blanket. 

Hanma was in the same position, his eyes still closed, when you returned to the living room. 

You dropped the blanket on him.

 He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement, pulling it over himself.

"Don't get any blood on anything, or I'll charge you," you grumbled, switching off the lights and walking to your bedroom.

"I know," he replied, already half-asleep.

You gave his dark form one final glance from your doorway. 

The only light was the dim, orange glow from a streetlamp outside, casting a faint halo around his head. He was a perfect stranger, a dangerous monster of a man, sleeping in your living room. 

He was a symbol of chaos and danger, and yet, you weren’t even unnerved by his presence. You were confused that you weren’t frightened by him being here.

It was a strange, unsettling feeling. 

Still, as you closed your bedroom door, you hoped he would be gone once the sun rose.

Chapter Text

The shrill sound of your alarm pierced the silence of your bedroom. 

Your mind, already restless, noted that it was the usual time you would head out for your morning run. You rolled over and silenced the alarm, knowing you weren’t going. 

You got up, pulled on a robe, and stepped out of your bedroom, your eyes immediately going to the living room couch.

It was empty.

“Huh?” you mumbled to yourself. 

The blanket you had thrown on him was still on the couch, but there was no sign of Hanma. 

You walked to the kitchen, peering around the corner. It was empty, too.

“Shuji?” you called out, your voice quiet, unsure.

There was no reply. 

Your gaze then fell on the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. 

You approached it, your body tensing, and gently pushed it open.

He was there, curled up on the bathroom carpet, a sweaty, shivering mess. His knees were pulled to his chest, and his body was shaking uncontrollably. 

You knelt beside him, taking in his pale face and the beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Shuji? What the hell?” 

He didn't respond. His body was curled into a tight ball, his arms wrapped around his stomach as if holding himself together. He was shivering violently, an uncontrollable tremor that racked his entire frame. 

You touched his forehead, finding his skin slick with a cold sweat, but he felt unnervingly chilled to the touch. This wasn't a fever. This was something else.

He let out a low groan, his eyes fluttering open to reveal a hazy, unfocused terror. The paleness of his face, the clammy skin, and the way he was clutching himself—it all pointed to something more sinister than a simple illness. 

The air in the bathroom felt heavy and cold with the dawning realisation that he was in pain, and it was a pain born not from an injury, but from within.

“Shuji, are you using?” you asked, your voice a low, frantic whisper.

He didn’t reply. His face was a mask of pain, scrunched up as he clenched his teeth, his body still trembling.

“Shuji?” you said again, louder this time, a new urgency in your voice. “Are you having withdrawals? I need to know so I can help you.” You had no idea how to help him, but the question felt like the only one that mattered. 

He just groaned in response, a low, guttural sound.

A wave of panic hit you. You had work. You needed to get ready. But Hanma fucking Shuji was being sick on your fucking bathroom floor! Your life was spiralling out of control, and it was all because of this man. 

You ran a hand through your hair, your own breathing turning frantic.

"What do I do?" you asked out loud, the words hanging in the air.

You sat there for a long moment, the panic in your chest slowly giving way to a defeated, frustrated calm. 

You stood and went to your bedroom, grabbing a pillow and the thick quilt from your bed. You returned to the bathroom and dropped them on the floor beside him. 

He didn't seem to notice.

Then, you went to the kitchen. The quiet hum of the refrigerator was a small comfort. You grabbed a bottle of water and a carton of juice, placing them on the counter. You searched your cupboards, looking for something bland and salty, but all you found was a box of microwave popcorn. It was ridiculous, but it was the best you could do. 

You put the bag in the microwave and pressed the button. 

The loud popping sound seemed to fill the entire apartment, a chaotic, mundane noise in the face of his silent suffering. While it cooked, you made yourself a mug of strong coffee. You were going to need it.

When the popping stopped, you poured the popcorn into a bowl, grabbed the juice and water, and carried everything back to the bathroom. 

You knelt beside him again, setting the bowl of popcorn and the drinks on the floor.

Gently, you laid the quilt over his shivering body and reached for the pillow and, with a careful hand, eased it under his head. He let out a low, pained sound but didn't protest.

You stood up, looking down at the strange scene in your bathroom. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to brush my face and teeth. Priorities and all that." 

Trying not to think of him lying behind you on the floor, you got ready for work, doing your usual morning routine with the one glaring exception of using the toilet. You just had to hold it in until you got to the lab.

A few minutes later, you looked at him again, sighed, and headed to the kitchen. You opened a drawer and rummaged through it, finally pulling out a plastic straw. 

You returned to the bathroom, kneeling beside his curled form once more. You brought the juice to his lips. “Drink.”

His eyes opened a bit, the golden colour clouded with pain.

“Drink,” you said again, pushing the straw to his parted lips.

And he obeyed, weakly, his lips closing around the straw. You found your hand, of its own accord, brushing back the strands of his sweaty, black-and-yellow hair from his forehead.

“You are having withdrawals,” you said, your voice a hushed accusation, and you withdrew the juice.

“Yes,” he breathed out, the single word a fragile confirmation.

“Of what?”

“Meds.”

You scoffed, a short, sharp sound of disbelief. “Sure, let’s call it that.”

“I ain’t… usin’.”

“These are some strong withdrawals,” you said, your hand brushing back his hair again. “You aren’t fooling me.”

“I’m not… foolin’.”

You realised what your hand was doing and you dropped it as if his forehead had burned you. Clearing your throat, you placed the juice beside him, next to the water and the popcorn.

“I’ll have to go to the lab now. Try not to die.”

He didn't reply, just slouched deeper into the pillow you had placed under his head, his eyes closing. 

You gave his hunched form one final, helpless glance before you turned and walked away. 

The quiet click of your bedroom door closing was a small mercy. You dressed quickly, your movements frantic and jerky. 

You gulped down a cup of coffee so hot it burned your tongue, ate a piece of toast so fast you barely tasted it, and checked your reflection one final time to make sure you looked like a functioning member of society.

After one last, panicked look at the door to the bathroom—the place where a gang leader lay dying on your floor—you put on your shoes and headed out. 

The cool, early morning air did nothing to calm your racing heart. Your mind was a blur of terrified questions: What if he died while you were at work? What if a neighbour heard something? What if someone found out you had Valhalla’s acting leader in your home? 

The consequences were almost too great to consider. 

You felt all kinds of sick.

The trip to the lab felt longer than usual. You sat in the metro, a sardine in a can of other commuters, your leg bouncing uncontrollably. Your heart thrummed a panicked rhythm against your ribs. The familiar sights of the city's concrete and steel blurred into a disorienting, grey haze.

When you finally stepped into the lab, the sterile air and the low hum of the machines were a jarring contrast to the chaos of your mind. 

Kenji, Rina, and Aya all noted your apprehension almost right away. Their concerned eyes were a weight you couldn’t shake off.

“You okay?” Kenji asked, putting a hand on your shoulder.

You forced a weak smile. “Just feeling a bit under the weather.”

Rina gave you a sharp look. “You should have stayed home.”

“We’re already behind as it is,” you replied, heading toward your station. “I’ll manage.”

She sighed, disapproving, but didn’t argue back.

“You sure?” Aya asked, her voice softer than Rina’s.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll make you tea anyway,” she said, already heading toward your small kitchen.

“Thank you,” you yelled after her, the words a genuine plea.

The day at the lab felt like an eternity. You sat at your station, surrounded by beakers and flasks, the sterile scent of antiseptic smelling more suffocating than usual. 

The team was focused on one thing: finishing the latest batch of amphetamine. It was a rush order, and the pressure was thick enough to cut with a scalpel.

"Hey, you're off your game today," Kenji said, nodding at a small pile of powder on your scale. "That's a bit heavy on the cut, isn't it?"

You looked down, startled. Your hands, usually so precise, were trembling. "Right. My bad." You quickly adjusted the measurement, your heart pounding.

Aya handed you a beaker. "You want me to take over? I can finish the measuring. You look like you're about to pass out."

"No, I'm fine," you insisted, though your voice lacked any conviction. "Just a little tired."

You went back to work, meticulously weighing out each portion, but your mind was a thousand miles away. You kept glancing at your phone, lying face down beside your station. Every time a notification chimed in the lab—from a colleague's phone, from a machine—you flinched, your breath catching. But it was never him. He had never once called or messaged you, not in all the weeks of this bizarre ritual, so why would he start now?  Maybe because he was sick and alone in your apartment. Or maybe he had died? Choked on vomit or passed out and hit his head. 

The thoughts did nothing to ease the frantic hope that swelled in your chest with every sound.

"This is good stuff," Rina said, peering into a container of the finished product. "Mikey-san is gonna be happy with this batch. They'll be moving this fast."

"The clientele will be happy," you mumbled, placing another small bag on the scale. Your hands were working on autopilot, but your mind was replaying the scene in your bathroom. His shaking form, the clammy sweat, the pained look in his eyes. Was he still alive? The question looped in your head, a maddening, persistent ache.

"You've been checking your phone every five minutes," Kenji said, his voice quiet. "Something up?"

You shook your head. "No. Just… waiting for a message."

“Who would be messaging you?”

You didn't answer; instead, you smacked his arm harder than you meant to.

"Ouch," Kenji grumbled, rubbing his arm. 

"Not your business," you muttered, returning your focus to the scale.

"Is it a boooy?" he asked, a conspiratorial glint in his eye that caught Rina and Aya's attention from their own stations.

You hit his arm harder this time, causing a sharp, audible slap. 

"What boy?" Aya asked, coming closer. 

"There’s no boy," you replied, your voice flat.

Kenji rubbed his arm again, this time with a more pained expression. “Someone’s sensitive today.”

"Well, duh, if she's sick," Aya said, defensive. 

Kenji shrugged, not pushing it. 

The silence in the lab was punctuated by the soft scrape of beakers and the hum of the air purifier. 

You continued to package the product, each bag a tiny, vacuum-sealed testament to the two separate, warring lives you were living.

You had never felt more stressed in your life. 

The stress of the work, the fear of your own incompetence, and the terrible, gnawing anxiety of what might be happening in your home. The feeling was a tight, twisting knot in your stomach that no amount of deep breathing could loosen.

As you got all the amphetamine packed, you all but sprinted out of the lab. 

"See you tomorrow," you called over your shoulder to your dumbfounded colleagues. 

You didn't wait for a response, only a vague sense of their staring eyes as you burst through the doors. 

The journey home was a frantic blur of motion. 

You raced through the winding tunnels of the metro, the train seeming to crawl despite its speed, and sprinted up the stairs of the station.

You didn't go straight home. Instead, you veered off toward the small, brightly lit convenience store near your apartment. 

You ran up and down the aisles, grabbing things without a second thought, the weight of a new, unsettling purpose in your mind. You grabbed a few bags of crisps, bottles of electrolyte drinks and juice, and a small, pre-packaged soup. The items felt heavy in your hands as you ran out of the store.

You sprinted the rest of the way to your building, the bags hitting your thighs with every panicked step. 

Your heart hammered in your chest, a frantic, thrumming drum. 

The only thing on your mind was what you would find when you opened your door.

You fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking with a mixture of fear and cold. 

The door opened to a quiet, still apartment. You didn't bother to take off your shoes or put down the grocery bags. You just dropped them on the floor and walked straight to the bathroom.

You found Hanma Shuji exactly where you had left him, curled on the bathroom floor. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of panic through you, but then you saw them: the empty carton of juice and the empty water bottle you had left beside him. 

A strange surge of hope and relief coursed through you. He was alive.

You dropped to your knees beside him, your hand trembling slightly as you reached for his neck. 

You pressed your fingers against the cool skin, your heart in your throat, and waited. 

A moment passed, a second, and then you felt it—a faint, steady rhythm. He was indeed alive.

You let out a long, shuddering breath, the relief in your chest an almost painful thing. "Christ," you muttered, kneeling beside him. You tapped his cheek lightly, then a little harder. "Shuji. Shujiii. I need you to get up."

His brows furrowed, and his eyes opened, a dull, pained haze clouding his golden irises. He was not lucid at all, his eyes closing almost as soon as they opened, his face scrunching up in discomfort.

"Shuji. Up." You started pulling him by his arm. You had to go at it for a moment before he stirred again. “SHUJI!”

Hanma obeyed, clumsily, his body a heavy, dead weight. He slowly tried to get up, his expression a mask of pain.

"I know you feel awful, but I need you up," you said, hooking your other arm behind his naked back and pulling. "Do you need to use the toilet?"

"No," he mumbled.

"Have you managed to use it?"

"Yes."

"Good. That's good. Now, up." You began to stand, dragging him with you. 

He grabbed the wall with his free hand, his knuckles white. 

"Arm around me," you commanded, and he obeyed, hooking his other arm around your shoulders.

Once he was up, his steps were wobbly and uncertain. 

You used all your strength to give his heavy body support as he leaned against you. You led him out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, a short distance that felt like a marathon.

"I haven't changed the sheets, so you'll have to sleep in mine. I don't think you mind," you explained, helping him to your bed. 

He collapsed onto it immediately.

You went back to the bathroom, collecting the pillow and covers he had been using. They were damp with sweat, so you changed the sheets, replacing them with a dry set, while he lay on your bed, eyes already closed. 

You pulled the blanket over him and eased the pillow under his head.

"What has my life become?" you muttered to yourself, the question a tired sigh as you went to get the groceries.

You carried the groceries into the kitchen, dropping the bags on the counter with a tired thud. You grabbed the can of soup and a bowl, the metallic scrape of the can opener a loud, jarring sound in the quiet apartment. You poured the thick liquid into the bowl and placed it in the microwave.

While it cooked, you watched the plate spin, your mind replaying the day’s events. The microwave’s gentle hum felt like an insult to the thrumming anxiety you had been feeling all day. Here you were, microwaving soup for the leader of a rival gang, a man you had threatened to stab just days before. The sheer absurdity of it all was overwhelming. You weren’t mad or scared anymore, just… resigned. This was your life now, you supposed.

The microwave beeped, breaking your reverie. You grabbed the now-hot bowl and carefully carried it to the bedroom with an electrolyte drink.

You set the bowl of soup on the nightstand. Leaving the bedroom, you went to the living room to grab the extra pillow from the couch. You snatched the napkins from the kitchen counter and dragged a chair back to the bedroom with you.

You put the extra pillow behind his back to prop him up, and he groaned in protest. You ignored him, easing him into a more upright position. You set the chair beside the bed and sank into it with a deep sigh. 

You had to do this. There was no one else. 

With a conscious effort, you clinically detached yourself from the situation.

You dipped the spoon into the warm soup, then held it out to him. "Open your mouth," you commanded.

He watched you with half-lidded, exhausted eyes, a flash of hesitation in their golden depths. The vulnerability in his gaze was unsettling.

To avoid the profound intimacy of the moment, you started talking, a nervous monologue spilling from your lips. "You know, this day has been absolute hell. We had to finish up this massive order, and I'm pretty sure I messed up a few batches because I couldn't focus. I'm telling you, Kenji was giving me looks all day. And Aya, she's so nice, she made me tea because she could tell I was about to lose it, but honestly, it didn't even help. We're already so behind on our deadlines, and if the client isn't happy with the product, it's our heads. I swear to god, I can't even get two minutes of peace anymore. And now this..."

You pushed the spoon to his lips. "You know, I don't even know what's in that formula. They just give me the proportions, but it's some nasty stuff. It's a wonder it works at all. We just finished up our biggest batch of the month, so he's gonna be mad when we tell him we might have to start over again. Open your mouth."

Hanma obeyed, opening his mouth and taking a spoonful of soup. 

You dipped the spoon into the warm soup again, a new wave of frustrated energy fueling your monologue. “And the equipment… don’t even get me started on the crappy filters. The stuff comes out looking all clumpy, and then we have to spend hours re-distilling the whole thing. It’s a waste of time and product. The boss would have our heads if he knew how inefficient we are. It’s not even our fault, it's just the shitty kits we have to work with.”

You kept your gaze firmly on the spoon, on the perfect, golden-orange liquid. Anything but his half-lidded, exhausted eyes watching your every move. You fed him another spoonful, your voice now taking on a more positive tone, as if you were trying to find something good to say to counter the bad.

“But the people are okay. Kenji is an idiot, but he’s funny. He’ll make these stupid jokes to keep us going when we’re working late. And Aya, she’s the best. She always knows when you need a break, you know? She’ll just show up with a cup of tea or ramen, and she doesn’t even have to ask what kind. And Rina, she’s sharp. She’s the one who catches all my mistakes. She keeps the whole operation from collapsing.”

He swallowed another spoonful, his full lips closing around the cool metal of the spoon. He was a silent, obedient patient, and the lack of protest only made the moment feel more unsettlingly intimate. 

You finished the last of the soup, setting the bowl aside. You reached for the electrolyte drink, putting a straw in.

“Okay, open up,” you ordered, pushing the straw to his lips. He obeyed, and you continued your monologue, ignoring the strangeness of the situation. “They’re good people. We all just want to get the work done and go home, you know? Nobody gets into this for fun. It’s all just… business.”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, his weak obedience a stark contrast to the defiance in his blood. 

Once he was satisfied, he opened his mouth and let go of the straw. 

You pulled it away, finally looking him in the eyes.

But Hanma didn't meet your gaze. He immediately darted his eyes elsewhere, to the wall, to the ceiling, to the rumpled blanket. The sudden, almost panicked shyness of him caught you by surprise. You had never seen him act like this. Perhaps you had misunderstood, and he was simply more tired than you realised, wanting this situation to end.

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” you said, standing up and gathering the empty bowl and the half-empty drink. "Although it’d be good to tell you now that this is quite an expensive care place I’ve got going on here. Ninety thousand yen a night.”

A faint, tired smile touched his lips. “I see.”

“Yup. Anyways, I’ll…” You took a step back, unsure how to end this, and walked out of the bedroom, leaving him to rest.

The ordinary motions of your nightly routine felt almost obscene against the weight of the situation pressing in from the next room. Dinner had tasted like ash, every bite dry in your throat. The glow of the television offered no comfort; every show grating, meaningless.

With a sigh, you padded toward the bedroom and eased the door open just enough to peer inside. Hanma lay where you had left him, an uncharacteristic lump beneath the blanket you had draped over him. His chest rose and fell with heavy, deliberate breaths—so unlike the frenetic energy that usually clung to him like static. The stillness unsettled you.

You crept across the threshold as though trespassing in your own space. The sight of him sprawled in your bed—Tokyo’s chaos incarnate reduced to a shivering, weakened body—felt wrong. Vulnerability sat awkwardly on him, like a mask that didn’t fit. 

You slid open a drawer and pulled out a pair of clean pyjamas, moving as quietly as possible. Then you slipped back out and shut the door with painstaking gentleness before retreating to the bathroom. The sterile brightness, the familiar rituals of washing and brushing, offered a thin veneer of control.

You tried to sleep on the couch, but it was a shallow, brittle sleep, stretched tight across your nerves. Every creak of the apartment kept you hovering on the edge of waking, ready to bolt upright. So when a low, ragged murmur seeped through the quiet, you were instantly alert.

The TV still hummed softly as you pushed yourself upright, ears straining. Another sound followed—painful, restless. A muffled moan.

You slipped from the couch and padded barefoot across the floor. The bedroom door groaned faintly as you eased it open, spilling a sliver of dark inside. Hanma’s silhouette twitched against the sheets.

He was shaking.

Even in the dimness, you could see the tremors rippling through him. 

You crossed the room and clicked on the bedside lamp. Light washed over his face, revealing a sheen of sweat glistening along his brow. His lips moved ceaselessly, fragments of words tumbling out in a fevered jumble.

“Shit,” you breathed, crouching closer. 

His skin burned beneath your palm when you touched his forehead, a fever raging hot against the chilled air. 

“Shuji?” you said softly, weighing whether you should call emergency services right then.

“Stop… no, stop,” he muttered, eyes rolling beneath fluttering lids.

“Shuji.” You gave his shoulder a light shake.

His eyes snapped open. Panic tore through them like lightning. “No—no, don’t touch me!” He jerked violently from your hand as though you’d seared him, breath ragged.

You stumbled back, heart hammering, as he shot upright. 

His gaze darted wildly across the room, unfocused, searching for threats that weren’t there. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me,” he choked, the words spilling broken, frantic. His fists twisted in his hair, pulling hard, his body trembling as he pressed against the headboard.

“Shuji,” you tried again, lowering your voice to something soft, coaxing.

“Please… don’t,” he begged, voice cracked with fear.

“Don’t what?”

“Touch me.”

“I’m not,” you whispered, helpless.

Still, he repeated it, over and over, lost inside whatever nightmare gripped him. 

You could only watch, your stomach clenching tighter with every second. 

His eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, until finally—finally—they landed on you. Recognition sparked dimly through the haze.

“Trickster?” The word left him weak, broken.

“Yes,” you answered at once. “It’s me.”

A raw groan tore from his chest. “I’m gonna throw up.”

You sighed, exasperation breaking through your worry. “Again?” The familiar irritation grounded you, steadied your hands. You grabbed his arm, tugging. “Fuck. Come on.”

Hanma stumbled after you, dead weight dragging against your pull, until you steered him into the bathroom. He collapsed in front of the toilet, barely making it before he doubled over and retched violently, knuckles white against the porcelain.

You sank to your knees beside him. 

Without thinking, your hand settled on his bare back, steadying him as his body heaved. Your palm slid across the ink etched into his skin, the ridges of old scars catching beneath your touch—silent stories carved into flesh, battles hidden beneath the artwork.

There were more than you expected. Far more.

“I’ll call for help,” you said, steady but not stern.

Hanma hunched forward over the bowl, breath tearing out of him in ragged bursts. “No,” he rasped, and then another heave wracked his body.

“Not even one of your… friends?” you pressed, grasping at options.

His head shook violently, greasy strands of hair sticking to his damp forehead. “No,” he ground out again, voice cracking on the word.

“You need medical help, Shuji.”

“I don’t.” He gagged again, body convulsing until there was nothing left to bring up. The sound was hollow, raw.

You grimaced, your stomach tightening with sympathy despite yourself. Watching him like this was uncomfortable in a way you couldn’t put words to—like staring too long at something you were never meant to see.

At last, he sagged against the wall, head tipped back, chest heaving. 

You stood, flushed the toilet, then dampened a towel under the sink. Kneeling back down, you offered it to him. He took it with an unsteady hand, swiping it across his clammy face.

“I’ll get you some water,” you murmured, standing again before the silence could grow too heavy.

In the kitchen, the normalcy of filling a glass felt absurd. The faucet hissed, the glass cooled beneath your fingers, but your pulse stayed sharp and unsteady. When you returned, Hanma was still folded on the bathroom floor, towel pressed weakly to his face.

You crouched and handed him the glass. “Sip. Slowly.”

He obeyed without protest, swallowing carefully, throat working around each gulp as if the water were both lifeline and poison. 

You hovered, uncertain, watching the tremor in his grip until he finally passed the glass back with a shaky exhale.

That was when you made your decision.

You rose silently, padded into the living room, and snatched your phone off the coffee table. Your hands were cold, clammy, but steady as you scrolled to the one name you trusted with this.

It rang twice. 

Thrice.

Six times.

Then, against all odds, Kenji actually answered.

“...Do you have any idea what time it is?” His voice came through hoarse, drenched in sleep. “It’s three in the goddamn morning. I should hang up out of principle.”

“Kenji,” you said quickly, sharper than you intended. “I need you to come to my place. Now.”

There was a pause. You could almost hear him sitting upright. 

“...You’re kidding. You’re not kidding. Shit. Did you blow yourself up again? If this is about the lab, I swear—”

“It’s not the lab,” you cut him off, your voice low but urgent. “Bring an IV bag. And whatever else you’d need to stabilise someone.”

“Excuse me?” His voice pitched higher, incredulous. “An IV bag? Do you think I just keep those lying around for fun? I’m a chemist, not—well, okay, fine, technically I have medical training, but that’s beside the point. Who the hell—”

“Kenji.” You gritted your teeth, clutching the phone tighter. “Please. Just come. I can’t explain right now. You’re the only one I trust with this.”

The silence that followed stretched thin. Finally, he groaned dramatically. “You owe me so many favours. So many. Like, an entire month’s worth of coffee runs at least.”

“Just… please. And bring men’s clothes and underwear. Something loose.”

“Huh?!”

“Just fucking do it, Kenji!”

Another beat. Then a heavy sigh. “Fine. Give me thirty. And if I die on the way, I’m haunting you.”

Despite everything, a breath escaped you—half relief, half exhaustion. “Thanks, Kenji.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I get there. And for the love of God, don’t let anyone bleed out before I arrive.”

The line clicked dead.

You lowered the phone slowly, heart still hammering. 

When you turned back toward the bathroom, the faint sound of Hanma coughing reached you.

You clenched your jaw, steadying yourself. Thirty minutes. All you had to do was keep him alive until then.

Once you stood at the bathroom door, Hanma tried to stand up and spat the question out like a knife. “Who the fuck did you call?”

“A friend.”

“No.” He sounded smaller than the word should have let him be.

“Look. You don’t have any say in this, asshole. I can’t do this alone.” The words were harder than you meant, but the night had thinned your patience to a sharp edge.

His chest heaved. Sweat lacquered his skin; the tattooed lines along his arms gleamed like wet script. He slid back down until his back hit the cool tile, knees drawn up, fingers digging into his scalp. “I will kill them,” he muttered, a promise and a prayer tangled together.

“Shut up,” you snapped, even as your throat tightened. 

You didn’t want promises. You wanted him steady and breathing and, impossibly, a flicker of the man who could smirk and start fights for sport. 

You headed for the hallway and waited there, hands shoved into the pockets of your pyjama pants like you could hide your worry.

You kept checking your phone. The screen lit the same way every time—no missed calls, no messages, only your jittering battery percentage and the tiny ring of midnight numbers. First, it was fifteen minutes. Then the clock was inching past twenty. Thirty minutes crawled like a wound opening.

You paced, a small, pointless figure between the kitchen and the bathroom, and went to check on him every few minutes. Each time you returned, you found him in a different kind of collapse—once curled into himself, once pressing his palms to the cold tile as if to stop the world from spinning. 

Each time he saw you, his eyes flashed with something hot and dangerous, and each time they softened into recognition, a tremulous filigree over the fear.

He watched you pace like he could map your steps to the hours. At one point, he laughed—thin, incredulous. “Yer friend’s gonna show up with a cape, yeah?” he rasped.

“You’d better hope so,” you said, and the forced lightness in your voice surprised you both.

When car tires finally hummed distant against the street and then died, the sound made your chest unclench in a tiny, involuntary rush. You opened the door before the knock. 

Kenji stood on the threshold like a cape-less, sleep-mussed sentinel: hair a bedhead chaos, dark circles under his eyes, and an armful of a ridiculous amount of medical gear—an IV pole clutched under one elbow, a canvas bag of supplies slung across his shoulder, and an indignant expression already forming.

“You’re a nightmare,” he announced, breathless from a sprint or an overdramatic decision to make you wait. “Do you know what time it is? Do you have any idea how many heavy things are in my bag right now? Also, why do you get to call me in the middle of the night? I cleared my Tuesday—”

“Kenji,” you cut in, relieved laugh strangled into your words. “Shut up and come help.”

He froze. His eyes landed on the figure slumped in the bathroom doorway.

“...No.” Kenji’s voice pitched up an octave. His finger shot out accusingly. “No fucking way. That’s Hanma Shuji! Hanma Shuji!! The acting leader of Valhalla is—” His voice cracked. “Why is he in your bathroom?!”

Hanma’s head lolled against the wall, eyes narrowing sluggishly at the noise. “Who the fuck is this?” he muttered, voice frayed and thin.

Kenji blinked, sputtering. “Who the fuck is this? Are you kidding me? We’ve met before, asshole!”

Hanma’s only reply was a dismissive huff, eyelids dragging shut again, too weak to muster more than contempt.

Kenji gawked, spinning toward you. “You—what—how the hell do you know him? Do you have any idea what kind of heat—”

“Kenji!” Your voice snapped sharp, cutting across his panic. “Shut up before you wake the neighbours. And help him.”

“Help him?!” Kenji’s voice cracked again. “He’s Hanma Shuji! He doesn’t get help, he—he breaks bones for fun, he—he starts wars! And you’ve just got him… what, passed out in your apartment like some stray cat?!”

“Kenji!” You stepped into his space, grabbing his arm. “He’s sick. And I can’t do this alone. So either help me, or get out.”

Kenji stared at you, chest rising and falling with frantic breaths. “Why would you help him? Better yet, why would I help him?” 

“Because he got us the flakka sample,” you said, hoping that would be enough of a reason.

“WHY IS HE HERE?!”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

Kenji looked back at Hanma, then at you again, torn between disbelief and loyalty. 

Finally, he muttered a curse, dropped his bag onto the floor with a heavy thud, and crouched down beside the trembling figure on your bathroom floor.

“This is insane,” he hissed, snapping on gloves with too much force. “Absolutely insane. Do you realise that if anyone from Toman finds out about this, I’m dead? You’re dead. We’re all dead!”

Hanma’s lips curved in the ghost of a smirk, though it was weak and cracked. “Then don’t let them find out.”

Kenji swore again, fumbling with his supplies, but his hands steadied the moment he touched the work. The drama fell away, replaced by a medic’s precision.

You leaned against the doorway, pulse still ragged. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Kenji muttered without looking up. “Explain later. Because once this is over, you’re telling me everything. Everything.”

Hanma groaned low, dragging his head back against the wall. “She won’t tell you shit.”

Kenji shot him a glare. “Shut up. You’re on thin ice and one IV away from unconscious.”

Hanma chuckled weakly, chest shaking. “Try me.”

Kenji looked like he wanted to scream, but instead he dug into the bag for the IV kit with trembling efficiency, muttering curses under his breath about how this night was going to kill him.

You told him everything in a rush—no room for theatrics, no time for Kenji’s running commentary. “He’s got a wound on his side,” you said, voice clipped. “I stitched it last night. He’s going through withdrawals, too. I don’t know from what. He’s been throwing up and shaking for over a day. Seemed to have hallucinations an hour ago.”

Kenji’s eyes narrowed, the scientist’s curiosity snapping into focus beneath the sleep-mussed theatrics. He crouched closer as he examined the shallow, ragged seam along Hanma’s flank where the crude stitches puckered. “You stitched that?” he asked, disbelief and a sliver of respect in his tone. “Jesus. You were alone with him?”

“Yes,” you said. “I did what I had to.”

Kenji’s gloved fingers hovered an inch from the wound, not touching, cataloguing instead. “This is good,” he murmured. “You did alright for a field stitch. But it needs cleaning again, and I want to change your suture—” He stopped, looking up at you. “Why is he here with you of all people? Why not with Valhalla?”

Hanma made no move to answer. He sat propped against the tiles, eyes half-lidded. The silence from him was hard and deliberate.

“I don’t know,” you said, and the honesty tasted sour. “I don’t want him here. I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

Kenji barked a short laugh that was almost incredulous. “Of course you don’t. Of all people, you get Hanma Shuji in your bathroom and expect me to play saint.” He jabbed a finger toward Hanma, half accusing, half fascinated. “He should be surrounded by his crew, not passed out in his rival’s apartment. This is—this is bad on a geopolitical level.”

“Kenji,” you warned. “Focus. He’s coming down hard. He insisted it’s not drugs. I don’t believe him.”

Kenji’s face turned practical and hard. “Words from someone like him mean nothing medically. Withdrawal is withdrawal. Symptoms don’t lie.” He reached for a sterile pack, snapping it open with brisk, efficient movements. “We’ll stabilise him, rehydrate, and give him something to blunt the worst of this. Then we can talk about logistics—where he goes after he’s not actively trying to die.”

Hanma snorted, a brittle, humourless sound. “Don’t make me laugh,” he rasped.

Kenji shrugged, fingers moving. “Right.” He fitted the IV line into the port with the kind of focus you only see in people who’ve done the same thing a thousand times. “If I hadn’t come—” he muttered, but you cut him off.

“You came anyway,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes, then softened for a blink. “I’m just mad I was pulled out of bed for this shit.”

For a second, the room hummed with a precarious, ridiculous normality—Kenji’s muttered complaints, the steady tick of the drip, the shallow, uneven breaths of the man on the tile. Then Kenji’s expression darkened in a way that made your skin prickle. 

“He’s weak,” Kenji said, more to himself at first. “We could just—” He paused, then finished with a laugh that wasn’t funny. “We could just kill him.”

The words hung in the cramped bathroom like a thrown knife. 

Hanma’s laugh that followed was a dry, ragged thing, more breath than sound, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the tremor in his chest. “I like you,” he breathed, each word a slow, incredulous admission.

Hanma’s eyelids fluttered; the smile faded into something like fatigue. “Say it again,” he murmured, stubborn as ever even through the haze.

Kenji froze, needle in hand. “Don’t make this weird.”

Hanma grinned weakly. “Me? Never.”

Kenji’s hands worked without comment, flushing the line, labelling syringes, loading a small dose of something to blunt the panic. “You just keep him breathing,” he said. “And no heroics. If he flips, hold him. If he hits, call me. If he tries to kill anyone, I get to decide whether we try to save him or not.” He looked at you like a man issuing rules—half doctor, half guardian.

You nodded once, and the motion felt like a contract. 

Hanma hummed, the sound slipping between a chuckle and a cough. 

You sat on the cold edge of the tub again, watching Kenji work, feeling the impossible intimacy of being the only person in the world at that moment who’d chosen to keep Hanma alive.

Outside, the city rolled on. 

Inside, for as long as Kenji’s IV dripped and Hanma’s breathing evened, the immediate danger at least had a shape you could see and touch. 

The rest—why he was here, who he would answer to, how you’d live with what you knew—still waited like a bruise.

Chapter Text

“I need you to get up now,” Kenji said, voice flat but urgent as he crouched beside Hanma.

Hanma looked at him with that lazy, half-lidded stare smudged by pain and sleep, the room bending around him like a bad dream. He was still propped against the wall on the bathroom floor, knees barely bent, a raggedy island of breath and sweat. “You gonna help me?” he asked, voice small and rough.

Kenji scoffed—a short, theatrical sound—but his hands were already moving. He slid an arm under Hanma’s shoulder; you took the other. Between the three of you, the motion was clumsy and human. 

Hanma hooked his arms around both of your necks and let you lift him upright.

“Take the IV with you,” Kenji said to you, eyes never leaving the drip chamber. He clipped a line to the pole and handed it over like handing off a baton.

You grabbed the stand with one hand, the cold metal steeling you, and together you shepherded Hanma down the hall. Each step was measured, Hanma’s weight shifting unpredictably, knees wobbling. 

“Steady now,” Kenji ordered. “Left foot. Right foot. Stay up.”

“Aye, captain,” Hanma muttered.

Kenji ignored him, but his jaw worked. 

Once you got Hanma to the bed, he sagged down onto it, shoulders folding into the mattress as if the world had finally been allowed to stop spinning.

You settled the IV beside the bed, clicked the stand into place, and Kenji bent to check the line, fingers nimble and calm. He tapped the tubing, adjusted the roller clamp, and watched the bag drip like an incantation. Within minutes, the saline was flowing steadily, a pale promise of hydration.

Hanma exhaled one long, empty sound and was gone—eyes fluttered shut. Within seconds, he was asleep, honeymooned into oblivion by the exhaustion.

Kenji’s whisper-snap came like a reprimand as he gestured at Hanma. “What the fuck?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“How does he know where you live?” Kenji demanded, eyes bright with a mix of irritation and curiosity that made him look younger than his years.

“I don’t know,” you repeated.

Kenji’s face hardened. “I don’t believe you.”

You didn’t care to argue. “I don’t care what you believe, Kenji. I don’t want him here. I want him gone, honestly.”

Kenji stared at you for a long moment and then, ludicrously, smirked. “You always did like picking worse options for yourself. Fine. We’ll get him patched, fed, and out of your life by noon.” He paused. “But you’re explaining everything to me afterwards. Every weird rendezvous, every half-truth. And if you’re hiding something, I will make you regret it by making you do my laundry for a month.”

You snorted despite yourself. Kenji’s theatrics were an anchor. 

He moved through the motions—checking pupils, using a stethoscope he’d produced from his bag like a prop, tapping out a rhythm on Hanma’s chest. 

You watched him work and felt the tiny lull of trust settle in your chest the way a hand settles on a wound.

“You should rest,” Kenji said finally, not looking up from his checklist. “You look like a raccoon and a ghost negotiated custody of your face.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, so you let him shepherd you to the couch. 

He made coffee like a man who used caffeine as legal tender—silent, efficient, an apology disguised as steam. The apartment smelled like burnt beans and antiseptic, and the contrast was absurd. 

You curled under the thin blanket like a guilty thing, and for a few hours you tried to sleep. Your mind didn’t cooperate; it replayed the night in jagged snippets—the wound you’d stitched with numb fingers, Hanma’s refusal, the taste of old blood and cold tile. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the angles of his face in unfamiliar softness, the way the moonlight had made the ink on his body look like it was alive.

Kenji patrolled the apartment like a nervous dog. Every fifteen minutes his shadow crossed to the bedroom and back, checking on the IV, the drip, the monitors he’d improvised from a cheap wristwatch and an app. He complained about the lack of proper equipment and cursed under his breath when the drip rate needed adjusting. But he stayed. 

He sipped at milk-sour coffee and made a half-arsed attempt at a sandwich that left him with cream cheese on his sleeve. 

At some point in the shallow hours just before five, Kenji sat cross-legged on the floor like a monk, staring at the sleeping man as if Hanma were a particularly interesting experiment. He hummed a tune under his breath—a ridiculous, slightly off-key melody that somehow made the apartment feel smaller and safer.

You woke to the sound of knocking. 

Not polite, not urgent—just steady, like someone tapping a rhythm they didn’t plan to stop. You sat up, heart already tight in your chest.

Kenji was awake in the armchair, mug in hand, shadows under his eyes. He froze, cocked his head toward the sound, then looked at you. “Please tell me that’s the mail.”

The knock came again—tap, tap, tap. Patient.

Both of you crept toward the door. 

You leaned against the frame, peering through the peephole. Your stomach dropped. Lavender curls. A boyish, restless sway to his stance.

“Shit,” you whispered. “That’s Itachi. Hanma’s right hand... or something.”

Kenji blanched, his expression a storm of disbelief and outrage. “Nakamura Itachi? Are you serious? He’s a literal psycho.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “Aren’t they all?”

“How the fuck did he find us?” Kenji hissed.

“I don’t know!”

The knock stopped. 

Silence. 

Then, a voice floated through the wood, sing-songy and too close. “Y’know, I can hear youuu.”

Both of you froze. Kenji mouthed, fuck fuck fuck, and pointed to the peephole like you hadn’t already looked.

Itachi’s voice came again, gentle and grinning. “C’mon. Open up, yeah? It’s rude to leave me standin’ out here.”

Kenji leaned close to you, whispering fast. “Should we open?”

You raised your hands. “I have no idea. Maybe he's here to get Hanma?"

"Or to stir up more trouble."

The decision was ripped from you when Itachi knocked again, sharp, two beats. Then, softer, like he was playing a game with himself.

With a shared breath, you unlatched the door and pulled it open a crack.

He was exactly as you remembered him, short with lilac curls bouncing as he tilted his head. His smile was wide, too wide, his dark eyes restless like he couldn’t quite focus on anything. He had the air of someone always humming a tune in his head.

“Hi,” he said brightly, like this was a casual drop-by. “Is Shuuji here?”

You and Kenji both froze.

Itachi’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew, pleasant and sweet, like he was the kind of man who’d bring a fruit basket when he visited. “Oh, he is? Good. I’ve been worried.”

You opened the door a fraction wider. 

Itachi didn’t wait for permission—he just slipped inside, movements light, almost bouncy.

Your entire apartment suddenly felt too small.

Kenji stiffened beside you, arms crossed tight across his chest. “This is insane,” he muttered, low enough that only you heard.

Itachi’s eyes darted around, drinking in the place like he was admiring the décor, until they landed on you. He clapped his hands softly together, a grin never wavering. “So. Where is he?”

You exchanged a quick look with Kenji. Neither of you answered.

Itachi swayed on his heels, tilting his head. “Don’t be shy. I won’t bite.” His gaze flicked to Kenji, lingering a moment too long. “Unless I’m asked.”

Kenji actually choked. “Excuse me?”

Itachi’s smile widened, delighted. “You’re funny. I like funny.” He tapped his chin theatrically, eyes gleaming with that restless spark. “You’re not one of his usual types of company. Too clean. Too… nervy. I think yer her friend.”

“I’m not company,” Kenji snapped. “I’m—”

“Shhh.” Itachi pressed a finger to Kenji’s lips, a head shorter, cutting him off with mock sweetness. “Mysteries are more fun.”

Kenji shoved him off. “What the hell, dude?”

You stepped between them, jaw tight. “He’s in the bedroom. He’s not well.”

For the first time, something in Itachi’s expression softened. The smile didn’t fade, but his eyes lost a fraction of their manic glitter. “Not well,” he repeated, like tasting the words. Then he was already moving, padding down the hall like he belonged there.

Kenji threw his hands up at you in a what the fuck gesture, mouthing furiously. 

You followed, pulse hammering in your throat.

Inside the bedroom, Hanma was a pale shadow against the sheets, his body slack but his chest rising in shallow rhythm. The IV stand hummed with its steady drip.

Itachi stopped at the doorway, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy. For once, he didn’t speak. He just looked at Hanma, head tilted, expression unreadable under the mask of his smile.

Then, softly, “Shuuji.”

Hanma stirred, eyelids flickering but not fully opening. His lips parted, a rough sound catching in his throat.

“Shuuji, Shuuji, Shuuji,” Itachi sing-songed, crouching low by the bed. “Always making me chase after you.” 

Kenji hovered behind you, shifting his weight like he wanted to bolt. “He’s… weird,” he whispered hoarsely.

You shot him a look and stepped into the room. “Keep your voice down.”

But Itachi heard. Of course, he heard. His head snapped up, eyes fixing on Kenji again, and his smile curved wider. “Weird’s just another word for interestin’.”

Kenji swallowed hard, glaring to cover the discomfort. “You’re not interesting.”

“Nah, I definitely am,” Itachi said cheerfully, standing in one fluid motion. He took a step closer to Kenji, way too close. “I like you. Ya look smart. Are ya smart?”

Kenji recoiled, sputtering. “Huh?”

Itachi chuckled, pleased with himself. “See? Funny and shy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kenji muttered, pushing past Itachi to check the IV line just for something to do with his hands. His ears burned red.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, thumb and forefinger pressing hard enough to prick at the edges of the headache you’d been carrying. The apartment felt too small, the air heavy with antiseptic and the presence of too many people.

Itachi had drifted and now stood in front of you like a too-bright ornament: lilac curls haloed his head, his smile fixed and patient and somehow wrong for five in the morning. He folded his hands as if he were preparing to recite a nursery rhyme. “Now—” he said, “ya gonna tell me what’s wrong with my acting leader, sweetness?”

You kept your voice level. “He was stabbed,” you said. “And he’s coming down from withdrawals.”

Itachi blinked slowly, the smile not leaving his face, as if the world were a puzzle and everything you told him was a piece he found charming. “Mm,” he hummed. His fingertips found the air by his cheek and tapped the beat of some private song.

“Withdrawals from what?” you asked him as he didn’t seem surprised. “Drugs?”

Itachi cocked his head toward Hanma, and the smile turned tender, as if the question amused and pained him in equal measure. “Shuuji ain’t using like that,” he said softly, like correcting a mispronounced name. “Not like that.”

“Then what?” The word came out sharp; you didn’t like the way his answers sounded like riddles.

Itachi didn’t answer, only drifted over to Hanma and leaned down, light and absurd as a crow. “Shuujiii,” he cooed, tapping Hanma’s cheek with two careful fingers.

Kenji stepped away.

Hanma’s brows drew together, a small human gesture that made you realise how thin the ferocity around him had become. “'Tachi?” he muttered, voice hoarse and reluctant to trust its own sound.

“It’s me,” Itachi replied, soft as a lullaby. “Wakey wakey, Shuujiii.”

“Why are you ’ere?” Hanma asked, eyes clearing just enough to find the question.

Itachi leaned in. “Why ain’t you takin’ your meds?” 

Hanma’s lids fell. “I don’t—” His mouth closed. He was too tired even to protest.

“Want me to go fetch ’em for you?” Itachi offered, almost eager.

“No.” Hanma’s rejection was flat, final—not from strength but from some thin, stubborn exhaustion.

“You know what you’re gonna be like without them,” Itachi said, not unkind. His tone carried the weary patience of someone who’d seen the before and after and been forced to memorise each version.

“What meds?” you asked, trying to anchor the conversation in something concrete.

Itachi turned his head and tapped his temple with one inked finger, the movement exaggerated and oddly intimate. “Meds,” he said, and the single syllable rang like a key in a locked room.

Hanma’s voice was a rasp from the inside of a tomb. “Do the… others know you’re… ’ere?” 

“Nah. Jus’ me.” Itachi’s grin flashed with small triumph. “Only me.”

“Good,” Hanma breathed.

“I think we should let him rest,” you said.

Itachi straightened slowly and turned his head to regard you, all innocent light and petulant charm. “You’re so carin’ and kind,” he said, the compliment wrapped in a mockery that couldn’t quite be pinned down. He lingered a beat, gaze flicking to Kenji, where he hovered again near the doorway, face pale and tense.

You scowled, tired lines sharpening. “Keeping him alive has been hard work. I’m not about to let you ruin it.”

Itachi’s smile widened, as if you’d just told him the best part of a secret.  “I can stay, too. If you want. I’ll keep watch with you, if you don’t mind me being… present.” The last word hung, less question and more offer.

You felt the apartment tilt—Kenji’s jaw tightened, Hanma exhaled a breath that might have been assent.

“Fine,” you said, because the fight would be stupid and because you were too tired for more battles. “But you don’t touch anything. And if you try anything—” You left the rest unsaid. 

Itachi dipped his head like a courteous guest. “I’ll be very good,” he promised, his voice sugar-sweet. Then, softer—like a secret meant only for Kenji—he added, “And I’ll bring you something nice later, hmm?”

Kenji made a strangled noise, halfway between disgust and unease, and clamped his arms tight across his chest as if he could physically ward off the words.

“Fine,” you sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “Okay. But let him rest now.” You jerked your chin toward the door.

Itachi’s grin flashed, bright and childlike. He drifted past Kenji, so close the shorter man’s shoulder nearly brushed his chest. 

Kenji flinched back like he’d just been grazed by static electricity.

You gave Hanma one last glance—he’d already slipped back into unconsciousness, chest rising and falling in that shallow, uneasy rhythm—and then stepped out yourself, leaving the door ajar. If he needed anything, you wanted to hear.

The hallway felt claustrophobic with the three of you pressed into it. Kenji stood stiffly, shoulders squared and jaw tight, while Itachi wandered freely through your small home as if it were some kind of curiosity exhibit. His gaze trailed along shelves, framed photos, the chipped edge of the table, and the coffee mug left on the counter.

“Itachi,” you said firmly, dragging his attention back. “This is Kenji. Kenji, this is Itachi.”

Kenji let out a sharp exhale. “Uh-huh. And you know him, how?”

“I don’t,” you replied. “I’ve only met him once.”

Kenji’s brows narrowed. “Why?”

You ground your teeth.

“How much have you been hanging out with Valhalla’s acting leader exactly?” Kenji pressed, his voice low and edged.

“Willingly? Zero times. Forcefully? A handful,” you shot back.

“Why?”

Your patience snapped. “I’d like to know that too,” you said, sharper than you intended. “He’s a damn lunatic. Try reasoning with him sometime.”

Itachi, who had drifted toward the couch, plopped down onto it without invitation, folding one leg under himself like this was his apartment. He clapped his hands together once, softly. “So you’ve got medical training, hm?” he asked, turning his too-bright smile toward Kenji.

Kenji crossed his arms even tighter, bristling. “Not your business.”

“Well, it is when it concerns Shuuji-san,” Itachi said lightly, tapping a finger against his temple as if to remind himself of something.

“I thought you liked mysteries,” Kenji shot back, his tone dripping disdain.

Itachi’s grin widened, pleased. “Touché.”

You rubbed at your temple. “Kenji has a medical background,” you explained before either of them could escalate further. 

Kenji immediately shot you a glare, his mouth parting to argue, but you ignored him.

“Very good,” Itachi replied, his voice sing-song again. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes darting between both of you. “We owe you both for keepin’ him alive.”

“I don’t want your gratitude,” you said, your tone flat, exhausted. “I just want all of you out of my life once he’s healthy enough to walk out that door.”

Itachi rose with surprising grace, his grin fixed, and wandered toward the kitchen as if you hadn’t spoken. “Naturally,” he said over his shoulder, like it was the easiest promise in the world.

Kenji let out a strangled noise of frustration, dragging both hands down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

And in the kitchen, you could already hear Itachi opening a cabinet.

You decided you didn’t care enough to check on what he was doing. Instead, you headed back to the couch to doze off.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The sharp slam of something against the wall jolted you from the quiet half-sleep. 

You sat up—and your stomach dropped.

Hanma was hunched in the hallway, one hand clawed against the wall for balance. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his jawline, and blood streaked down his forearm.

“Oh, for the love of—” Kenji barked, already striding toward him.

Hanma’s eyes snapped up, pupils blown, gold glinting in the dim light. His voice rasped, hoarse but edged with menace. “Who the fuck are you?”

Kenji froze mid-step. “Excuse me?”

“You deaf?” Hanma spat.

Kenji’s jaw clenched. “I practically saved your life, asshole.”

Hanma gave a broken laugh, bitter and short, scanning Kenji head to toe like he was sizing up trash on the curb. “Right.”

Kenji’s nostrils flared. “Fuck you, dude.” He stepped closer anyway, forcing calm into his voice. “Don’t move much. Let me see your arm—slowly. Like a civilised human being.” He held his hands out, palms open, before Hanma could lunge. His eyes flicked to the blood. “Did you rip the IV out?”

Hanma looked at his arm, puzzled. “A fairy took it.”

Kenji exhaled through his nose, muttering curses under his breath. “These fucking... I’ll go get a bandage.”

“For this?” Hanma lifted the bleeding arm with a mocking flourish, red dripping to the floor. “Funny.”

“Shuuji,” came Itachi’s sing-song lilt from the kitchen, as he ambled closer. His hair bounced as he tilted his head, expression full of mock-disappointment. “Why have ya been hidin’ in Toman’s turf? We were startin’ to get worried.”

“I’m touched.”

Itachi’s smile wavered, just faintly. “You had withdrawals, hm?”

“Yeah.”

A soft sigh, almost fond. “Why, Shuuji? Why ain’t you takin’ your meds?”

Hanma’s lids drooped, his body swaying against the wall. “Wanna go without ‘em.”

“You know how you’ll be then.”

Hanma shrugged, a jerky lift of one shoulder, still clinging to the plaster like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Your scowl tightened. “You’re very welcome, by the way.”

For the first time, his gaze cut to you—gold catching yours, unreadable—before he looked back at Itachi, ignoring the barb.

“Lemme help you, boss.” Itachi slipped under Hanma’s arm with surprising ease, looping it around his shoulders. His nose wrinkled theatrically. “You smell like shit.”

“Fuck you,” Hanma muttered, but he didn’t resist.

Itachi only grinned, then turned his head toward you. “Ya got men’s clothes here?”

You nodded and stood up. “Yeah, Kenji brought some.”

“Who the fuck is Kenji?” Hanma muttered, words slurring.

Kenji raised both hands, exasperated. “Me. The guy keeping your sorry ass alive, remember?”

You left them glaring at each other long enough to dig into Kenji’s bag. Grey sweatpants, boxers, and a white tee—basic, clean. You passed them to Itachi.

Kenji frowned, watching. “Wait. You’re gonna go in the bathroom with him?” His voice pitched, incredulous.

Itachi’s brows jumped high, mischief sparking. “Wow. Ya sound like there’s somethin’ wrong with it.”

“Well… he’s your boss. And a dude.”

Itachi barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “So, so shy.”

Kenji turned to you, seeking backup. “You don’t think this is weird?”

You shrugged, deadpan. “Hanma needs a shower, and he can’t even stand on his own. Unless you wanna do it?”

Itachi waggled his brows at you. “Or you could. I wouldn’t mind watchin’.”

You scoffed, curling your lip. “I’d not-so-accidentally drown him. And you.”

Hanma’s head lolled toward Itachi. “Some time today, ‘Tachii."

“Sorry, boss,” Itachi chirped, adjusting his grip and steering Hanma toward the bathroom with a bounce in his step.

“There’s a clean towel in there,” you called. “The mint-green one.”

“Gotcha,” Itachi sang back, kicking the door shut behind them.

The silence after was heavy.

“These people are insane,” Kenji whispered, running both hands through his hair like he wanted to rip it out.

Kenji was still muttering under his breath, pacing small laps in the hallway, when his eyes went wide. He froze. “Shit.”

You looked up, tense. “What now?”

“The lab.” His voice cracked on the word. “Aya and Rina. We were supposed to run checks this morning. They’re probably waiting for us to show.”

The bottom dropped out of your stomach. In the haze of blood and sweat and IV bags, you’d forgotten.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered.

Kenji pulled his phone out like it was a grenade about to go off, scrolling with shaking fingers. “They’ve probably already texted. Hold on.”

You watched him, nerves coiling tighter with every second. From the bathroom came muffled voices—Itachi’s light chatter, almost sing-song, broken up by Hanma’s hoarse growls. The sound of water running. Too domestic. Too wrong.

Finally, Kenji pressed his phone to his ear. “Aya? Yeah. Yeah, I know. Listen—” He cut himself off, eyes darting toward you before he turned away, lowering his voice. “There’s been another problem with Kaito. No, not the same one. Worse. I’m helping her with it.”

You sank onto the arm of the couch, dragging both hands down your face.

Kenji shot you a look mid-call—half a glare, half desperation—as he forced calm into his tone. “I know, I know. Just… stall Rina for me, okay? Tell her not to start without us. I’ll text when I can.”

He hung up, collapsing back against the wall with a groan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. That buys us maybe a few hours before Rina starts blowing up my phone.”

You pushed yourself up and fled to the kitchen, unable to sit still. The kettle clattered against the stove as you filled it, your hands trembling. The familiar rhythm of making coffee grounded you only a little—beans, filter, steam. But the weight in your chest didn’t ease.

From the bathroom came a loud thump, followed by Itachi’s amused laugh. “Easy, boss! You’ll slip.”

You gripped the counter tighter, breath shallow. Coffee. That you could control. Everything else? A nightmare bleeding into your living room.

The coffee maker gurgled low and steady, filling the silence of your kitchen. 

You stood there with your palms flat on the counter, staring blankly at the tile backsplash as though it might offer you an escape route.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Kenji stiffened in the hallway, his phone clutched in one hand like a shield.

Itachi emerged first, cheerful as ever. Behind him came Hanma, moving slower, one hand braced against the doorframe. He wore the clothes Kenji had packed—grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, a white tee clinging damply to his frame. 

His golden eyes flicked toward you, then away, as though acknowledging your presence cost him more than speaking.

“See? Good as new!” Itachi sang, tossing the towel onto your couch like it belonged there. “Doesn’t he look pretty, all fresh and clean?”

Hanma grunted, dragging himself to lean against the nearest wall. The IV rip wound on his arm was bandaged now, a sloppy job but at least contained. His chest rose and fell heavily, as though the shower had drained the last of his strength.

Kenji muttered under his breath, “He looks like death warmed over.”

Itachi’s smile widened. “Death’s still walking though, ain’t he?”

You slid a mug across the counter, hands still trembling slightly. “Coffee’s ready,” you said, mostly to ground yourself.

Kenji accepted his with both hands like a lifeline. 

Itachi took his without hesitation, sipping it with a theatrical hum of pleasure. 

Hanma ignored his until you shoved it into his hand. He looked at the mug as if deciding whether to throw it or drink it.

“He likes it with a lot of sugar and milk,” Itachi announced breezily, as if reading recipe cards instead of the mood in a room full of people who didn’t want to be there.

“Oh.” You blinked, crossing to the cupboard for the sugar and a spoon. Your fingers trembled a little as you measured, because hands are honest when everything else is a lie. “How much is a lot?”

“It’s the boss,” Itachi said, amused. “Put a big spoonful.”

You obeyed—heaping the spoon until the sugar heaved like a small white mountain—and then you poured milk with extra care, watching the pale swirl dissolve. The steam rose, warm and faintly sweet, and for one ridiculous second, the kitchen felt normal.

“Better?” you asked, holding out the cup.

Hanma didn’t answer. He only stared at the surface of the coffee, pupils blown, as if watching some private film. 

The silence stretched, and it started to hurt.

You exhaled and sat beside him, close enough that your knees nearly touched. “Are you still too weak?” you asked, softer than you meant.

His head turned. For a moment, his eyes found yours; gold raw with something not-quite-anger.

You lifted the mug to his lips. “Open your mouth."

Yet again, Hanma obliged like an animal taking food from a stranger: slow, suspicious, a test. 

You warned him the liquid might be hot, and he drank, not taking his gaze off you even as steam fogged the rim. 

When he swallowed, his tongue brushed his bottom lip, and the little silver glint of his tongue piercing flashed. 

Your attention was snagged on it a second too long, and you had to will your eyes away.

“Want more?” you asked.

Kenji’s voice cut across the quiet like a blunt instrument. “I’m sorry, what the hell is happening?” He looked between you and Hanma, incredulous and on the edge of losing his composure.

“Drink. It’ll do you good,” you said to Hanma, and he obeyed, taking another steady swallow.

“Why isn’t the minion feeding his master?” Kenji muttered.

“Minion?” Itachi repeated.

“Feeling any better, Shuji?” you asked, pulling the cup away.

“Yeah,” he breathed, simple and small.

You put the mug down, and the polite panic you’d been holding in your ribs finally cracked. “THEN TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!” 

Itachi’s brows marched up toward his hairline like a tiny curtain lifting. 

Kenji’s cup hovered midway to his mouth, forgotten.

You jabbed a finger at Hanma. “Why did you come to my home to die—again?!” 

"Again?" Kenji repeated.

“It was the closest,” Hanma replied, voice dry as old leather. The words were small and strangely logical, which made them worse.

“What happened to you? Why were you having withdrawals?” you demanded.

“‘Cause he wasn’t takin’ his meds,” Itachi replied, like it was the simplest fact on earth.

"How many times has he been here?" Kenji asked.

“What fucking meds?” you snapped.

“It’s so he won’t go into psychosis, duh,” he added around his cup, as casual as someone describing the weather.

Your brow knit as you turned back to Hanma. “Why did you stop taking them?”

Hanma blinked slowly, the attempt to summon memory like raking through fog. “I dunno,” he said after a beat, leaning back in his chair.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Of course, you do if you made the decision.”

“I don’t remember,” he said flatly.

You stared at him. “The fuck you don’t.”

And then, as if the room needed one more jag of absurdity to cut through the tension, Hanma made a childish fart-noise with his mouth and, for a heartbeat, everything teetered between fury and ridiculousness.

You glared so hard you thought you might scorch the air. “I will kill you,” you threatened, the words more habit than intent.

His lips twitched; a smirk threaded through the exhaustion like a hairline crack. “Sounds good,” he said, and it landed somewhere between a dare and a promise.

Itachi drew the moment out like a cat savouring a toy. “Now, now,” he cooed, voice honey-thick and too bright. “Let’s not fight. We’ve had such a lovely mornin’ together.” 

You blew out a tired sigh, pushing your chair back a little. “Whatever. Not my business anyway. Are you feeling strong enough to leave?”

Hanma didn’t look at you—he kept his gaze on the table’s scratched surface. “Yeah.”

“Fantastic,” Kenji said brightly, clapping his hands together. “Then you two gentlemen can head out, and the lady and I can finally go to work like we’re supposed to.”

Itachi tilted his head, eyes narrowing with playful sharpness. “What, you don’t like my company?”

Kenji gave him a flat stare. “What gave you that impression?”

“Ya don’t swing my way then?” Itachi asked, voice lilting.

Kenji froze mid-breath. “What?” he sputtered, colour flooding his face.

“You heard me,” Itachi said smoothly, smile curling.

“I definitely don’t swing your way.” Kenji cleared his throat, voice pitching higher than usual.

Itachi leaned an elbow on the table, chin resting in his palm. “Just me, or anyone with a dick?”

Kenji’s ears went scarlet. “I’m straight!”

“Riiight.” Itachi snorted, clearly unconvinced.

Kenji snapped your name like an accusation.

You raised your brows. “What?”

“Can you tell them to leave?”

Hanma’s golden eyes cut lazily toward him. “Why don’t you leave, Kazuki?”

Kenji turned. “Because I’m helping her. And it’s still Kenji.”

Hanma’s expression flattened. “I don’t think she needs any help.”

“And how would you know that?” Kenji shot back.

“Exactly,” you replied, tone clipped.

Hanma shifted in his seat, his jaw ticking as his eyes lingered on you. “She is quite capable on her own.”

“She is,” you admitted, “but she still likes having help when it’s offered. Thank you, Kenji.”

The faintest muscle in Hanma’s jaw twitched. His tone was cool, but his eyes gave him away. “You two a thing then?”

Your head snapped toward him. “What?” you and Kenji said in unison.

Hanma just stared, waiting, gaze heavy.

You leaned forward, refusing to blink. “What if we are?”

For the first time, something shifted in his face—tension in his shoulders, a sharp set to his jaw, like you’d touched a nerve. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I don’t care what you believe,” you said sweetly. “Kenji and I could be happily together. Morning, noon, and especially night. Right, Kenji?”

Kenji’s eyes widened in horror, throat working as he stammered, “Y–yeah. The happiest couple ever. Especially at, umm, night.”

“Mm-hm, so straight,” Itachi mused, almost purring the words, his grin infuriating.

Kenji shot him a glare that could’ve cut steel.

You slammed both palms against the table, making the mugs rattle. “Enough. You two were leaving. Right?”

Despite your words, Itachi leaned across the table, eyes locked on Kenji, grin widening. “Don’t look so stiff, Kenjiii. I’m just playin’.” His voice dipped, velvet and sly. “Unless you’d rather I wasn’t.”

Kenji looked furious. “I’d rather you shut the hell up.”

Itachi clicked his tongue. “So shy.” He tipped his cup back, finishing the last of his coffee in a single gulp. Then he set it down with a thud, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. “C’mon, boss. Let’s not overstay our welcome.”

Hanma pushed to his feet, slower, steadier than before, but leaning just slightly against Itachi. His golden gaze brushed yours in a way that made your stomach twist, unreadable and too sharp to be casual.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” he said. “Maybe next time I’ll come over when I’m not dyin’.”

You stared at him, mouth opening but no words coming. 

He smiled faintly, as if that reaction was enough.

“Bye now.” Itachi waved lazily at you and Kenji before shepherding Hanma toward the door, humming under his breath like the entire morning hadn’t been a disaster. “Lemme help you into yer shoes, Shuuji. Do you have your phone and keys?”

“I lost ‘em.”

“Lost ‘em?! Dammit. Qiang will be so mad.”

After a moment, the door shut behind them, leaving the kitchen oppressively quiet.

Kenji let out a long, ragged exhale, dropping his forehead against the table. “What the fuck…”

You slouched back in your seat, completely drained. The echo of Hanma clung to you, sharp as glass, long after they were gone.

"Now, mind telling me how you know Hanma fucking Shuji?" Kenji muttered against the tabletop.

Chapter Text

You told Kenji everything while the apartment smelled faintly of stale coffee and damp towels—details tumbling out of you in the hush that follows too much adrenaline. 

How Hanma had bled on your floor on the first night he ran into you, how you’d stitched him up when he refused a hospital, how he’d shown up at your door every time since, how you had to go on a date with him, how you got Kaito’s money back, how he started showing up on your morning runs.

“That guy is fucking obsessed,” Kenji snapped, voice cutting through the soft clink of a spoon against his fifth cup of coffee. He paced like he’d rehearsed motions to burn off panic—heel, toe, heel, toe.

You flopped back against the couch and let the weight of the room settle on you. The cushions smelled faintly of the detergent you used on weekends and something less definable—sweat, man, the lingering metallic tang of blood. 

“He’s bored,” you said finally, letting the word out like a verdict. “Toys with people for fun. Likes the chase.”

Kenji’s laugh was short and disbelieving. “That’s not just bored. That’s pathological. That’s—” He stopped, eyes narrowing. “Perverted. Manipulative. Dangerous. What the hell is wrong with him?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He’s confusing.”

“Confusing?” Kenji repeated incredulously, then more bluntly: “He’s psychotic. Quite literally, since he’s not on his meds anymore.”

“Yeah, but…” The ‘but’ snagged in your throat. 

There were nights when his presence had unnerved you, but also, impossibly, smoothed over a problem you hadn’t known how to fix. 

“He hasn’t… hurt or touched me.”

Kenji stopped pacing and looked at you like you’d handed him a lit match. “You can’t be serious,” he said slowly, horrified. “That's your excuse?”

“I’m not making excuses,” you said quickly. “I’m not saying he’s sane or that any of this is okay. He’s not been a threat. Not to me. Not—yet.” The word sat between you like a warning bell.

Kenji’s jaw was a line. “Yet,” he echoed. “That is the part I don’t like. The future tense of violence is still violence. He is the acting leader of Valhalla—he’s not a lone weird guy. If he wanted to be a threat, he could be. People can be useful and dangerous at the same time. That’s the worst part.”

You swallowed. “I’m not planning to see him again.”

“He knows where you live. He probably knows everything about you. He certainly has the resources,” Kenji said, voice dropping. It should have been only information, but the way he said it—steady, final—made it feel like a verdict. 

He crouched to meet your eyes, his face open and sharp. He was ridiculous—dramatic, complaining, theatrical—but when he looked at you now, the performance dropped away and something steady filled the space. “Okay. Practical. We do three things first: lock changes, a camera on the door, and an emergency plan. If he shows up again, we'll tell Draken. And you don’t confront him alone. Ever.”

You wanted to argue—about pride, about not wanting to make waves—but the common sense in his voice washed over you like a tide. “Change the locks?” you repeated, imagining the landlord’s bureaucratic face. “He can pick them easily.”

Kenji snorted. “We get very good ones hard to pick. Also, I’ll stay today. And maybe a few more nights until we get a sense of whether this was a one-off or a pattern.”

“You’ll lose sleep,” you said, and meant it as a complaint—not protesting his offer, but protesting being the person who needed keeping. “I don't want to be a nuisance.”

“You’ll get coffee and you already are,” Kenji countered, with the dramatic whine he used when negotiating lab reagents. “And endless moralising. Also—” he dropped his voice into mock-suavity, “you’ll owe me multiple breakfasts.”

You smiled despite the fear. It was small and brittle, but real. “Fine. You can stay.”

He exhaled like a man released from a rope. “Good. We tell Aya and Rina something different. Say we’re delayed. Say it’s an emergency. I’ll handle the cover. Just—be careful. No more stitching sexy Valhalla men in bathrooms for a while, okay?”

You choked on your coffee, sputtering as the hot sip went down wrong.

Kenji’s face split into a grin that was half smug, half scandalised. “Oh, please. Like you don’t think he’s fine as hell.”

You waved a hand, trying to look offended. “I don’t.”

“Bullshit.” He pointed at you like a prosecutor. “That was the finest man I have ever seen. Even half-dead.”

Heat crept up your neck before you wanted it to. “Your taste in men is deranged,” you muttered, but your voice had slipped into something softer than accusation.

He leaned in, delighted. “Are you seriously telling me you don’t find Hanma Shuji attractive?” 

You narrowed your eyes, playing at stubbornness. “I don’t.”

He rolled his eyes so hard they almost clicked. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” But his expression softened. “Anyway, I’ll be here. Day and night. So don’t do anything stupid.”

You let the weight of that settle in. 

“And you realise,” Kenji said finally, darker now, “that if he wants something, he’ll come back for it. Or for you.”

You met his gaze. “I know.”

He looked at the door as if it might cough up ghosts. “Then be ready. And don’t be an idiot.”

“Noted.” You let out a breath that was half laugh, half lament. You didn’t know if you’d kept Hanma alive or invited a storm, if you’d done the humane thing or the stupid one. All you knew was that, for the moment, you weren’t alone. And that was somehow both comfort and a warning.

Kenji nodded once, as if confirming a plan he’d just made in bed with fate. “Good. Now— more coffee. And then we change the locks.”

You rested your head against the couch back and watched Kenji move with the frantic competence of someone who could turn panic into action. You wanted to believe the worst was over. You wanted to be naive enough to think this was a chapter closed.

But as the morning light thinned and the apartment hummed with small chores, cleaning the mess of having Hanma Shuji dying in your home for two days.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

You were scrubbing the living room carpet of Hanma’s blood for the third time when you saw it—a glint of leather peeking out from under the couch. You bent down, tugged, and pulled free a black wallet, the edges scuffed, faint traces of blood smudged on the side.

Your stomach flipped.

Hanma’s.

You turned it in your hand, debating, half-ready to call Kenji in—but you didn’t. Instead, you slid your thumb across the fold and opened it.

Bank cards. ID. A fat stack of cash folded tight.

You exhaled through your nose, heavier than you meant to.

For a long minute, you just sat there in your quiet, freshly cleaned apartment, the air still holding that strange weight of the past two days. 

You set the wallet down on the table and reached for your phone.

The message you typed was short, practical: You forgot your wallet.

It hovered in the text box for a while before you finally hit send.

Delivered.

…No. Not delivered.

You tried again.

And again.

You frowned, staring at the empty little circles, before the memory hit—Hanma groaning to Itachi before they left, “Lost my phone.”

Of course.

You looked at the wallet again, thumb running along the stitching. The ID photo smirked up at you, careless and cocky, even behind the dull gloss of plastic. His whole existence condensed into a handful of cards and too much cash.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” you muttered.

You had no address. No number. Nothing—because you weren’t allowed to keep contact with Valhalla, not if you valued your position with Toman. And you did. Or at least, you kept telling yourself you did.

Still, curiosity tugged harder than reason.

Instagram.

It was ridiculous, but you typed his name anyway.

And there he was. Hanma Shuji. Handle set to private-joke cryptic, but not so cryptic you couldn’t find him. 

The feed was sparse—motorcycles, cars, a couple group shots in Valhalla hoodies and masks. Figures. One grainy mirror selfie where he was shirtless, tongue bar glinting, phone covering half his face. You lingered there longer than you should’ve, scrolling back and forth like the pixels might give you answers.

Tagged photos told more of the story.

Parties. Street shots. Fight rings.

Your breath caught as you stopped on one—Hanma standing tall in a ring, sweat and blood slick across his body, the judge raising his arm high. His grin was savage, teeth red, his eyes lit with something wild. The fallen opponent lay sprawled at his feet.

The comments were a warzone.

🔥🔥🔥 KING.
“I’d let him ruin me.”
“Psycho trash.”
“Unstoppable.”
“Get this clown off my feed.”

Your chest tightened. You scrolled too fast, almost guilty.

Then you froze again.

A selfie. Some girl pressed against his cheek, lips puckered in a kiss while she angled her phone just right. Captioned with a little heart.

You swallowed, then clicked through to her profile.

Her page was full of sunshine. Friends, pets, selfies in cute outfits. Just one glimpse of Hanma there—the kiss photo, bright caption and all—but you combed through anyway, like you might catch him lurking in the background of another shot.

He wasn’t.

Still, you stayed longer than you should’ve, scrolling, searching for hints. Girlfriend? Fling? Just another fan? Not that you cared. You didn’t.

Finally, restless, you jumped back to Hanma’s page and checked who he followed.

Twenty-six accounts. That was it. Mostly Valhalla members, a couple of meme pages.

And there—Itachi.

Lavender curls smiling from a profile photo like he was advertising toothpaste.

You clicked.

Itachi’s page was… exactly what you expected and not at all what you wanted to see.

The profile picture was a bright grin framed in lavender curls, his chin resting on his hand like he was posing for a school portrait. The feed itself was chaotic.

Selfies in ridiculous angles, captions that alternated between nonsense and half-poetry.

Videos of him spinning knives like toys.

A clip of him skateboarding shirtless through traffic, laughing at angry honks.

And, of course, photos of him with Hanma—grinning wide at his side, holding up peace signs like they weren’t in the middle of a blood-slick ring.

You lingered on one shot longer than you meant to. Hanma, half-shadowed, cigarette dangling, his expression bored, while Itachi leaned into the frame with a beaming smile.

The contrast made your chest ache in some confusing way.

You shook yourself out of it and scrolled down to the DMs button.

Hanma didn’t have his phone. You knew that. Which meant if anyone would know what to do about his wallet, it was probably this lunatic.

For a long moment, you just stared at the empty message box, thumb hovering. Then, finally, you typed:

You: I found something that belongs to Shuji. His wallet. Tell him I have it.

You didn’t expect a reply right away, but the screen lit up with a “seen” almost instantly.

A bubble popped up.

Itachi: Oooh 👀. And who might this be? Pretty girl on the other end? 

Your face heated as you scowled at the phone.

You: Don’t start. Just tell him.

Another typing bubble. Then:

Itachi: Shuuji lost his wallet, eh? He’ll be real happy u kept it safe.

You gritted your teeth, thumbs stabbing the screen.

You: 👍

There was a pause. Then another message came through, softer somehow, though the words still made your stomach twist:

Itachi: He’s ain’t with me rn. But I’ll come by. 

You stared at the message, your pulse leaping.

You: And when might that be?

Itachi: Probs tomorrow.

You: At what time?

Itachi: idkkk

Itachi: is the pretty boy with u?

You: Who?

Itachi: Kenji-kun😜

You: No.

Itachi: Aww😔 can u give me his number?

You: No.

Itachi: Why noot?? 

You: When are you coming to get the wallet?

Itachi: 🦟

You frowned at the screen.

You: ?

Itachi: 🦟🦟🦟

You: ???

Itachi: 🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟🦟

Your teeth ground together.

You: I can just throw the wallet in the trash.

Itachi: U can bring it to Raven 8 on Friday.

You: Wait, what?

Itachi: I’ll be there😉

You: At what time?

Itachi: Hmmm let’s say 9pm. Cya theeere

The chat window went still.

You dropped the phone onto the couch cushion, running a hand down your face. Raven 8. Of course, he’d pick some shady nightclub as the meeting point. 

Kenji’s voice floated in from your bedroom as he called your name.

Your pulse jumped. In a panic, you grabbed the wallet from the coffee table and shoved it under the couch, just as he appeared in the doorway.

“I changed your sheets,” he said, balancing a pile of laundry in his arms. 

“Thank you.” You forced a smile, though your throat felt tight. “Really. And I’m sorry I dragged you into all of this.”

“That’s what friends are for,” he shrugged, flashing you that lopsided grin.

The words sank into your chest like a weight. Comforting, yes—but guilt prickled sharp underneath. You should have told him about the wallet. But you didn’t.

And you weren’t going to.

That night, Kenji crashed on the couch, his soft breathing carrying into your bedroom like a lullaby you didn’t deserve. 

You curled up in your own bed, the wallet hidden under your pillow like contraband. Sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, your thumb kept swiping across Hanma’s Instagram grid deeper and deeper.

Motorcycles. Cars. The occasional blurred photo from some party. 

He didn’t post often—the last one was four months ago—but every image radiated the same energy: sharp edges, danger wrapped in a grin. 

You told yourself it was research, yet your gaze lingered too long on another fight picture, his bloodied smile deranged.

No Instagram stories, of course. But Itachi had plenty.

You tapped into his highlights and were instantly met with chaos: shaky videos of neon-lit rooms, half-drunk Valhalla boys shouting into the camera, bloodied knuckles flashing like trophies. You couldn’t tell if he was mocking or admiring the madness around him. Probably both.

Baji showed up in a few clips, laughing like a man with fire in his veins. And another face too—someone Itachi tagged as Q1angw31. 

You’d never met him, but he didn’t look like the others. No dyed hair, no swagger. Just a pale, closed-off man with neat glasses and black hair that fell flat over his forehead. Normal. Almost Kenji-like, except for the expression in his eyes: cold, unreadable. His own profile was private.

You stared at the darkened screen of your phone long after you’d closed the app. Was Hanma better yet? Was he still sick? Still in withdrawal? The questions gnawed at you, relentless, as if the answers mattered. As if he mattered.

The next morning, you skipped your usual run and went straight to the lab with Kenji. Aya and Rina cornered you both almost immediately, demanding details about the supposed problem with Kaito. The lie you and Kenji had rehearsed slipped from your lips like second nature—some vague excuse about running into two of his men near your home, enough to satisfy their curiosity.

You hated it. Hated how easily the lie came, how natural it felt to keep them in the dark. But it was safer this way for them.

The hours dragged. You measured chemicals, typed notes, filed reports—but your thoughts weren’t in the lab. They kept sliding back to Hanma, to the wallet under your pillow, to the unreadable look on his face when he’d asked if you and Kenji were a thing. You pushed it away, again and again, but it always crept back.

You hated it.

And then it was Friday.

The day you had to face Itachi.

At Raven 8.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

As you hadn’t heard anything from Hanma or Valhalla for three days, Kenji finally moved back to his own apartment. You’d had to plead with him to go—soft words, promises that you were fine now, assurances that you could handle yourself. The truth was simpler: you couldn’t risk him noticing your absence on Friday night.

After work, he gathered his things, and you thanked him again and again. At the door, you wrapped your arms around him, hugging tightly, unwilling to let go just yet.

“Don’t make it sound like a farewell,” he laughed into your hair. “I’m not moving across the country.”

“I know. But you being here…” You pulled back to look at him, guilt burning at the back of your throat. “It helped. More than you know.”

His expression softened, the corners of his mouth quirking into something almost shy. “That’s what friends are for, idiot. Remember?”

You smiled, even as it hurt. “I’ll remember.”

When the door closed behind him, the silence of your apartment pressed in heavy and absolute. No Kenji shuffling around in the kitchen. No reassuring warmth stretched out on the couch. Just you and the wallet.

You touched it absentmindedly as you sat on your bed, staring at the darkening sky outside your window. 

Then you stood in front of the mirror for too long, weighing options you didn’t even have. It wasn’t like you could walk into Raven 8 in heels and a dress—wrong place, wrong crowd, and you weren’t in the mood to be noticed. No, you needed to blend in. Disappear.

You pulled on black pants and a black hoodie. Low-key, forgettable. If anyone looked at you twice, it would be for all the wrong reasons, and you couldn’t afford that. 

You shoved your phone into your pocket, checked twice for the wallet, then zipped it safely into the inner lining of your bag.

Raven 8 wasn’t an ordinary club. You knew that much. Anyone who lived within Valhalla’s reach knew it. By day, it might’ve looked abandoned, an old warehouse with broken windows and graffiti crawling up its walls. But by night? It came alive. An arena disguised as a nightclub, Valhalla’s own cathedral of chaos.

The music there wasn’t just music; it was a war drum. The lights didn’t just flash; they bared teeth. And the crowd didn’t just gather; they feasted.

As you tied your laces, a thought slipped in, unwelcome but insistent: would Hanma be there?

Four days ago, the man could barely stand, a shivering husk tearing IVs out of his arm. And yet… you’d seen the photos. The fighting ring. His grin split bloody and wild, his body gleaming with sweat and violence. The crowd was chanting his name like he was both sinner and saint.

If he stepped into the ring tonight, what then?

Your chest tightened. You told yourself it wasn’t a worry. Not for him. No, it was logic: he shouldn’t be fighting so soon. It would be stupid, reckless—though “stupid and reckless” was practically tattooed across his grin.

Still, you hoped he wouldn’t be there. For once, you hoped Hanma Shuji would stay out of the spotlight.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and stepped out into the night, the city air cool against your skin. Raven 8 loomed ahead in your mind, its noise already echoing in your veins.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

Everything was shit in Tokyo nowadays, but in Valhalla’s territory, it always seemed worse. 

More graffiti, more garbage spilling onto the streets, more people sleeping on cardboard, more shouting matches that could turn into beatings if you stared too long.

You kept your head down as you moved. Streets, metro, more streets—each step a quiet calculation. Hands in your pockets, gaze sharp enough to see without ever locking with anyone else’s. Not too low, not too tense. Just another face in the city, busy but indifferent. The trick was to never look lost. Never look like prey.

Blend in, that was how you survived in Tokyo.

Sure, Valhalla had its upper-class corners too, like Toman did. Towers for the rich and corrupt, where power was traded over marble tables. But these streets? These weren’t that. Here, survival smelled like stale smoke and rotting beer.

By the time the warehouse came into view, your jaw was tight. Its outline loomed against the night sky, ugly and unmissable. People gathered outside in messy clumps, smoking, drinking, shouting. Some laughed too loudly, others looked half-asleep against the brick walls. A pair of guys were already swinging at each other, egged on by a circle of jeering voices.

You walked past it all, pulse hammering in your ears, but your steps were steady. The trick was indifference. Always be indifferent.

A bouncer stood by the door, big arms crossed, eyes sweeping the crowd. You didn’t let yourself falter. Instead, you fished your phone out of your pocket, thumb hovering over the blank screen as you lifted it to your ear.

“Yeah, I’m here now,” you said casually, weaving words into the air like a shield. “Where are you?”

The bouncer’s eyes skimmed past you, uninterested.

Relief washed through you in a hot wave, but you didn’t let it show. You pushed inside, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

The world changed instantly.

Bass thudded through the floor, through your ribs, rattling the marrow of your bones. The air was heavy with sweat, alcohol, and the acrid tang of too many bodies in too little space. Lights strobed dim and dirty, cutting shapes across faces, hands, the gleam of metal chairs dragged across concrete. Voices tangled over the music—shouts, laughter, chants already growing into a rhythm.

You glanced at your phone. Just after nine.

You messaged Itachi: I’m here.

No reply. Not even a “seen.”

Your stomach tightened, a coil of nerves and frustration. Of course, he’d do this. Of course, he’d make you wait in the middle of Valhalla’s pulsing heart, surrounded by people who wouldn’t hesitate to turn on you if they knew who you really were.

Or maybe he forgot. 

You should have probably messaged him earlier.

You stuffed the phone into your hoodie pocket and forced yourself to breathe. The wallet was heavy in your bag, and the noise around you was only growing louder.

Stay calm. Don’t look lost.

You moved with the crowd, letting yourself be carried toward the other side of the cavernous space, through wide doorways that vibrated with noise and light. The air thickened the further you went, until you stepped into a sloping pit of seats circling a stage. No, not a stage.

A fighting ring.

Rows of bodies pressed against each other, the roar of their voices crashing like waves. Down in the middle, under a harsh spotlight, two men circled.

Your gaze locked on one of them instantly.

Tall, lithe, tattooed—those familiar sharp lines twisting over bare skin. Shuji.

That fucking idiot.

Even from here, you could see the sweat gleaming on his chest, the way his movements were sharp but not as sharp as they should’ve been. He looked thinner. Slower. His opponent—bigger, heavier—landed a clean punch, and the crowd exploded, half jeering, half howling praise.

Hanma staggered, spat blood onto the floor, and grinned with teeth red as fresh paint.

You turned away fast, your stomach tightening.

Grumbling under your breath, you shoved through bodies and pushed yourself back into the club proper. Bass swallowed the sound of fists behind you. 

You pulled out your phone again. Still no reply from Itachi. 

Another message sent, another message ignored.

The bar was mercifully less crowded, though still buzzing with voices and the slam of glasses. Five bartenders hustled behind the counter, metal shakers clattering, ice tumbling into cups. 

You slid into an open spot, heart still jittering.

“Hi, sweetheart. What can I get for ya?”

The one who stopped in front of you had broad shoulders, dark hair slicked back, and a grin sharp enough to cut glass. He leaned forward on his elbows, eyes sparkling like he already knew he was funny.

“I just have a question, actually,” you said, raising your voice over the music.

“These are all natural,” he interrupted smoothly, flexing his biceps and giving them a showy tap.

Despite yourself, a laugh puffed out of you. “Ah, I see. I would’ve sworn they weren’t.”

“Hard work,” he said solemnly, though his grin gave him away. “And a disgusting amount of chicken and rice.”

“Lovely.”

“So—how can I help ya?”

“Do you happen to know Nakamura Itachi?”

He barked out a laugh. “Is there a person here who doesn’t know the bastard?”

You gave a small, knowing nod. “Fair enough. Have you seen him tonight? He left something of his at my place the other day, but I can’t find him.”

“Yeah, yeah—he was in earlier. An hour ago, maybe. Bet he’s out there watchin’ the match. Likes to throw cash around.”

“Great,” you muttered under your breath.

“Ya can stay here ‘til the round’s over. I’ll fetch ya something cold. On me.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he said easily, already reaching for a shaker. “So what’ll it be?”

You hesitated, then: “Vodka soda. Thank you.”

He winked, busying himself with ice and bottles.

You leaned back against the counter, watching the crowd shift in waves. Bodies pressed, arms lifted with drinks, voices tangled over the beat. All of it was a blur until the glass clinked onto the counter behind you.

“Here ya go.”

You turned back, took the glass. “Thanks.”

He leaned in slightly, elbows braced on the bar again. “So, ya ain’t watching the match?”

“Not really my thing.”

“I get that. I get squeamish ‘bout blood.” He gave a crooked grin, gesturing vaguely toward the pit. “Though Hanma-san—he’s good. Sometimes I like to watch his fights.”

You forced a small shrug. “So I’ve heard.”

You had seen the videos. You’d read the comments. You’d seen the way people either adored him or despised him.

“Ya Valhalla?” he asked, casual, like asking where you worked.

You almost choked on your drink. “Not part of the gang, no,” you said quickly. “I just… live in these parts.”

He nodded thoughtfully, eyes still flicking over you. “Haven’t seen ya before.”

“You remember all your customers, huh?”

His grin widened. “Only the pretty ones.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “Of course.”

“What’s your name?”

“Miyu,” you lied easily.

“I’m Niko. Nice to meet ya.”

“Nice to meet you,” you echoed, the vodka burning down your throat faintly as you took another sip.

You were halfway through your vodka soda when two figures slid up to the bar beside you. A woman with heavy eyeliner and glossy black hair swept into a braid, tossed her arm around the shoulders of the tall, wiry man she was with. She leaned across the counter, calling to Niko like she’d known him her whole life.

“You won’t believe this bullshit,” she groaned. “That snake Izanagi skimmed my cut. Again. ‘Bout ready to take his slimy ass to the ring myself.”

Niko barked a laugh, shaking his head as he reached for a bottle. “Sounds like him. Man’s allergic to playin’ fair.”

“I swear, if Itachi don’t put him in line soon—” She broke off, muttering a curse under her breath, then spotted you sitting with your glass in hand. Her gaze flicked over you once, sharp and assessing, before she smirked.

“Haven’t seen you before. You’re pretty.”

Caught off guard, you blinked at her. “Uh. Thank you?”

The man beside her gave you a quick nod, silent but not unfriendly, while Niko slid two drinks across the counter for them.

“This is—” Niko gestured vaguely at you, then grinned. “Miyu. She knows Itachi. Came here to find him.”

That got both their attention.

“Oh yeah?” The woman leaned an elbow on the counter, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Then you must know Izanagi too.”

You shook your head quickly. “No.”

“Good.” Her smirk sharpened into something almost feral. “Don’t. That bastard’s poison. Slimy as they come—stealin’ my fucking winnings like it’s his birthright.” She took a gulp from her drink, rolling her eyes. “I’d love to put him on his back just once. See how tough he is when the odds ain’t stacked.”

Her casual fire left you briefly speechless, the camaraderie between her, Niko, and the man beside her feeling… too easy. Like a family you weren’t supposed to see. You forced a smile, unsure if it was safer to agree or keep quiet.

The woman, undeterred, stuck her hand out toward you. “Name’s Rei. That’s Shun,” she said, jerking a thumb at her companion. 

Shun lifted his glass in a wordless salute, while Rei’s gaze lingered on you a beat too long, like she was already trying to place where you fit in this messy puzzle.

“Ya good with your hands?” she asked suddenly, her sharp-lined eyes cutting into you like she was weighing more than just your answer.

Your brows shot up. “Good how?”

She tilted her head, studying you in that uncomfortably familiar way Valhalla people always seemed to do, like they already knew too much. After a beat, she turned to Shun and said flatly, “She ain’t from here. I bet Izanagi won’t know her.”

Shun, who hadn’t said much yet, finally gave you a proper once-over, slow and deliberate. He didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t look dismissive either. Just calculating.

Your chest tightened, heart thudding hard against your ribs. “Uh—”

“Hmm.” Rei leaned back against the bar, swirling her drink lazily. “Just gotta change the shirt.”

Shun gave the barest nod of agreement, and the simplicity of it made your skin crawl.

“I’m confused,” you blurted, voice a little sharper than you intended.

Rei’s grin widened, foxlike and unbothered. “Interested in fifteen thousand yen?”

Your brows shot up again, this time higher. “…Excuse me?”

“You get your cut,” she explained casually, like she was offering you gum, “if you approach Izanagi and get his wallet.”

You blinked at her. 

What were you now, a professional wallet collector?

“And how exactly would I do that?” you asked, a little dryly.

Rei shrugged, sipping from her glass. “I don’t know. You look smart. And pretty. You’ll figure something out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Niko cut in, sighing like he’d had this conversation with Rei a hundred times before.

“She knows that,” Rei fired back instantly, not even looking at him. “But it’d be funny.”

Funny. That was one word for it.

You stared at her, at Shun, at the way they seemed so at ease with throwing you into the deep end of their little world. You didn’t want to get tangled up in their schemes—or worse, tangled up with Izanagi—but at the same time…

There was something intoxicating about it.

About being here. About not being just the nameless, underpaid chemist who scraped by day after day in a grey city. About wearing another skin. A sharper, prettier one. A dangerous one.

You weren’t you tonight.

“So…” you said slowly, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “A different shirt?”

Rei’s grin split wide, all teeth and trouble. “Knew you’d get it.”

Even Shun cracked the faintest smirk, and Niko groaned like he regretted ever introducing you at all.

Rei snapped her fingers with a sharp crack, then leaned across the counter, yelling over the bass, “Oi, Thao-chan! Get your ass over here!”

One of the female bartenders glanced up, irritation already written all over her face as she wiped her hands on a rag and stalked over. She had a sharp bob cut and eyeliner wings that could kill a man.

“What now, Rei?” she asked, voice flat but dangerous.

“Trade shirts with her,” Rei said, jerking her thumb in your direction.

You froze. 

The bartender blinked, then barked a laugh. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

“C’mon,” Rei whined, dragging it out like a bratty little sister. “You fucking owe me.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Owe you for what?”

“For not telling your manager about that incident in the freezer last month,” Rei sang, tapping her glass with her nail in an infuriating rhythm.

The bartender groaned, shoved her rag at Rei, and muttered, “You bitch.” Then, with a sharp look at you, she crooked her finger. “C’mon, rookie. Back here.”

Your stomach dropped as you followed her behind the bar, slipping past trays of lime wedges and sticky bottles of syrup, into a back kitchen area that smelled like grease and old lemons.

You had never done anything this reckless in your life. Trading shirts with a bartender in the middle of a nightclub arena? The sheer absurdity of it had your head spinning. You rarely even talked to new people, and now here you were peeling off your hoodie under flickering fluorescent lights while a stranger muttered curses under her breath.

“Rei’s a menace,” the woman grumbled, tugging her fitted black tank top over her head and tossing it at you. “Don’t get any ideas about thanking me. I’m only doing this so she’ll shut the hell up.”

You caught the shirt, cheeks hot. “Right. Thanks, I guess.”

“Whatever. Just don’t spill anything on it. And don’t stretch it out either.”

Sliding it on, the fabric clung tighter than you were used to, hugging your frame in a way that felt instantly… exposed. When you stepped back out into the bar, Rei’s grin widened like she’d just won the lottery.

“See?” she said, gesturing to you with a flourish. “Miyu’s ready for the big leagues.”

Shun gave you a slow, amused once-over, and Niko just buried his face in his hands.

Rei tugged the top even lower, smirking with satisfaction. “Izanagi’s a tit guy.”

Your neck burned, your pulse loud in your ears.

“That bastard. He’ll pay,” she muttered darkly, then clapped her hands like she was sealing the deal. “Alright. Niko will walk you to where he is. I’ll keep your belongings meanwhile.”

You hesitated, gripping your bag tighter. 

Her grin only widened. 

Slowly, you handed it over. 

You had your ID and bank card tucked safely in your phone case, and your phone stayed in your pocket. That much, you’d keep.

“I get a cut for this shit too,” Niko muttered to Rei, rounding the bar with a put-upon sigh. “Where’s he?”

“Watching the match,” Rei said. “VIP.”

Niko rolled his eyes. “Figures. Aight. Let’s go.”

Your stomach dropped as you followed him, weaving through the press of bodies, the smell of beer and sweat clinging thick in the air. 

“Ya sure about this?” Niko asked without looking back.

“Would he… would he kill me if I get caught?” you asked, half-joking, half-dead serious.

“Nah. Izanagi’s crazy, but I don’t think so.”

You stared at the back of his head. “You don’t think so? Not very assuring.”

He winced. “Well…”

You exhaled sharply, the weight of the crowd pressing in on you. What the hell were you doing?

The two of you funnelled through a narrow corridor of bodies until the arena opened before you again. 

Down in the pit, Hanma was fighting someone new, his movements fluid, feral, blood still streaking his jaw.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

“Hard not to look, right?” Niko said, pausing with you. His tone was more amazed than mocking, but you jerked your gaze away all the same.

“Scary motherfucker,” he added, stepping sideways to let someone pass with a tray of beers.

“You’ve met him?” you asked quickly, desperate to shift focus.

“A few times,” Niko said. “Doesn’t talk much. To anyone.”

That surprised you. “At all?”

“Not unless he has to.”

You blinked. Was he talking about the same Hanma Shuji you had met?

“Have you met him?” he asked suddenly, glancing at you sidelong.

You shook your head quickly. “No.”

“Not surprising.”

Your brows pulled together. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing to do with you. It’s just… he doesn’t like…” Niko trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Doesn’t what?” you pressed.

“Date,” Niko said flatly. “Or associate with anyone outside his circle.”

You almost stumbled, catching yourself on the back of a chair. “What does that mean?”

Niko leaned closer so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd. “You really haven’t heard?”

You shook your head.

He raised his brows, clearly surprised. “Huh. It’s famous gossip here. Everyone knows it. Hanma-san doesn’t… associate. With women, with people outside Valhalla. If he talks to someone, it’s business. If he’s seen with someone, it’s work. That’s it.”

Your pulse stuttered.

“Sometimes,” Niko continued, “you get a few who claim they’ve been with him. But it’s lies. Everyone knows it. He’s never seen with anyone. Ever.”

You stared down at your shoes, the floor sticky beneath them. Hanma hadn’t seemed bothered at all by being out in public with you. He’d even taken you to a restaurant. Anyone could’ve seen.

“Why?” you asked, your voice smaller than you meant it to be.

“No idea,” Niko said simply. Then he pointed. “That’s the VIP area.”

You followed his gesture up to the highest row of seats, where shadowy figures lounged with a perfect view of the ring. 

Your mouth went dry.

But you headed there nevertheless.

Chapter Text

The VIP area wasn’t roped off, exactly. It didn’t need to be. The crowd parted on its own, an unspoken understanding that only certain people went up there. 

Niko nudged your shoulder once, like a last warning, and then peeled off to lean against the railing, leaving you to climb the narrow stairs alone.

Your palms were slick.

Stay calm. You weren’t you. 

At the top, you spotted him immediately. Izanagi. He looked like Itachi if someone had stretched him taller, sharper. Same delicate features, same lilac base to his hair, but Izanagi’s was longer, falling around his shoulders, streaked with glinting white highlights that caught the dim light. His smile, when it came, was wide and too sharp with silver jewellery pierced under the corners of his bottom lip, his eyes gone wild from drink, from betting, from sheer hunger for whatever chaos the fight below offered him.

He lounged with one arm hooked over the back of the seat, a half-empty glass dangling from his other hand. Around him were a couple of girls in skimpy tops, laughing too loudly, and two Valhalla guys who were more focused on the fight than anything else.

You forced your lips into a crooked grin and swayed your way closer, faking the kind of careless energy you’d never once owned.

“Excuse me,” you said lightly, pitching your voice just loud enough to slice through the roar of the crowd. “Have ya seen ’Tachi?”

Izanagi blinked, slowly, and turned his wild gaze to you. His brown eyes seemed to glow under the strobes, scanning you head to toe in one unhurried sweep.

“…Who are you?” His voice was smooth, but threaded with something sharp that made the hair at your nape rise.

“Miyu.” You flashed a careless smile, though your heart thundered. “So? Seen him or not?”

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. “Why?”

You let your grin turn mischievous, leaning a little closer as though sharing a secret. “Can you loan me a few bills? ’Tachi’ll give ’em back.”

For a moment, there was silence—only the thunder of the crowd below filling the space. One of the girls beside him snorted, but Izanagi didn’t look away from you.

Then, with a slow, exaggerated laugh, he set his glass down. “Loan you money, huh? Cute.” His hand slipped into the pocket of his jacket, casual, like he wasn’t thinking about it at all.

Your pulse spiked. That was it. The wallet.

Izanagi chuckled under his breath, pulling out a thin fold of cash and flicking a few bills between his fingers. “Here. Since you’re so damn convincing.”

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his as you took the notes. Heat prickled the back of your neck, but your eyes weren’t on the bills—they were locked on his hand as he slid the wallet back into the inside pocket of his jacket. Left side. Smooth, practised.

He didn’t miss the way your gaze followed.

“And what do I get for this shit?” he asked, his grin widening, showing teeth.

Your lips curled into a sly smirk, though your stomach twisted. “Depends… what do you want?”

He leaned forward slightly, his lilac hair falling into his face, pale streaks catching the overhead lights. His gaze dragged over you, deliberate, invasive. “I haven’t seen ya before. Not once. So tell me, Miyu—” his tongue darted across his teeth, slow, wolfish—“how do you know ’Tachi?”

You rolled a shoulder in a careless shrug, trying to keep the mask intact. “Here, there. Around. Ya know how it is.”

His eyes narrowed, like he didn’t believe you for a second, but he was entertained enough to keep playing. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his knees, arms draped over the backrest like a king in his rotting court.

Before you could string together your next lie, a voice cut through the noise from directly behind you.

“Sweetness?”

Your body locked up instantly.

The crowd’s roar around you blurred into nothing.

You slowly turned.

“’Tachiii, ya makin’ me pay for yer debts, eh?” Izanagi drawled, amusement sharp in his voice.

“My debts?” Itachi answered, eyes dropping to the crumpled bills in your palm. 

Your heart thundered.

His eyes rose back to yours. “Ohhh—that debt. Sorry, sugar.” 

You forced a smile, relieved he was playing along. “It’s fine, ’Tachi.”

Itachi’s brow flicked up at the nickname, curiosity tuned to amusement, but he let it slide. He straightened, the lithe motion of someone who moved through this chaos with practised ease. “I’m booored, sweetness. Let’s go find Baji-kun.”

“Uhm, yeah. Let’s do that.” Your voice came out brittle but eager. You dipped a quick, perfunctory nod toward Izanagi. “Thanks for the money.” You meant it as polite; it felt like bargaining currency in a place where everything cost more than money.

Itachi looped an arm through yours as you walked away from the VIP, his body close and warm against yours. Once you were out of easy earshot, his tone dropped into conspiratorial mischief. “My, my. Why on earth were you hangin’ out with Izanagi?” he teased, eyes bright under the club lights.

“I, uh—” You swallowed. “I had to get his wallet.”

Itachi’s brows climbed high in mock offence. “Why? Ya collectin’ wallets now?” He sounded delighted at the absurdity of it.

“For a dare,” you blurted. “I was dared to get his wallet.”

“Oooh—exciting.” He breathed the word like a promise. “Can I help?”

“Would you?” You didn’t know why the question slipped out, but relief and a little foolish hope warmed your voice.

“Anything to annoy my brother.” He squeezed your arm once, quick and unnecessary. “Just a moment. Wait at the bar.” And with that, Itachi melted into the press of bodies—part shadow, part smile—slipping away toward the snarled rows and the ring where the fight’s roar washed everything into a single, hungry beat.

You stood there a heartbeat longer, the music thrumming under your skin, Izanagi’s eyes still on you like a slow burn. The VIP’s laughter and clink of glasses felt suddenly very far away.

Itachi’s departure left a hollow you couldn’t name—part protection, part provocation—and for the first time that night, you realised how willingly you’d stepped into another world.

You headed to the bar like Itachi had told you, trying not to chew the inside of your cheek raw. The bass pounded through your chest like a second heartbeat.

Rei was still there with Shun draped lazily beside her, both of them eyeing you the second you stepped into view.

“Well?” Rei tilted her head, smirk sharp as a blade. “Did you succeed?”

“Not yet.” The words tasted sour.

“Fuck sakes.” Rei blew out a dramatic sigh and tapped her nails against the counter.

“Where’s my bag?” you asked quickly, nerves thrumming under your skin.

Rei snapped her fingers, motioning for the bartender to fetch it. The woman shoved it across the bar, and you grabbed it like a lifeline. Relief spilt through you—Rei hadn’t been holding it. Which meant she hadn’t seen the thing you’d stupidly left inside. Hanma’s wallet.

If anyone here noticed it, questions would explode like fireworks. Not the end of the world, but being linked to the acting leader of Valhalla? Too much. Especially when no one knew you. Better to stay invisible. Just another girl, having fun at Raven 8 on a Friday night. That was the mask. That was safety.

And then Itachi appeared, sauntering through the crowd. The lights caught the curve of his smile, the glint of mischief in his eyes. Between his inked fingers, he twirled a wallet like it was nothing more than a toy.

Rei’s jaw dropped. “Wait. You put him to do it??”

You shrugged, sliding your bag strap onto your shoulder like the most casual thing in the world. “Well… you didn’t say how I’d have to steal the wallet.”

For a beat, Rei just stared. And then she burst out laughing, loud enough to draw looks from a few people.

Behind the bar, Niko lifted his brows high, clearly biting back a grin as his gaze darted between you, Rei, and Itachi.

Rei snatched the wallet out of Itachi’s fingers before you could blink. She flipped it open, rifling through the bills with quick precision.

“Ha!” She pulled out a folded wad, her grin sharp with triumph. “This is what that bastard took from me.” She stuffed the cash into her own pocket before shoving the wallet back at Itachi.

“Rei-chan,” Itachi drawled, sliding it easily into his jacket. “Shun-kun. Niko-kun.” He ticked them off like old acquaintances, then turned his gaze on you. Amusement glittered in his eyes, lazy but cutting. “And you… Sugar. How do you know these people?”

Rei beat you to it, one arm hooked over Shun’s chair. “Niko introduced us to Miyu.”

Itachi’s brow arched just slightly, his lips quirking. “Miyu, huh?”

“Yes,” you said smoothly, forcing your voice to stay steady. “I was waiting for you, ’Tachi.”

His grin widened. “Ya didn’t happen to bring Kenji-kun with you, no?”

Your stomach gave a little twist at the name, but you shook your head. “No. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Itachi’s grin sharpened, his hand resting light and deliberate on the bar. “Ah.” He tapped his fingers against the sticky surface, slow and rhythmic, like he was counting beats only he could hear. “Aight, sugar. Follow me.”

Without waiting for your answer, he turned on his heel, slipping through the crowd with that lazy, unhurried gait that still made people move out of his way.

You blinked, caught off guard, then glanced back at Rei, Shun, and Niko. “I’ve gotta go.”

Rei lifted her hand in a playful little wave, her rings catching the dim light. “It was nice meeting you. See you again, okay?”

You forced a smile and nodded. “Sure.”

“Stay safe,” Niko added, his gaze flicking from you to Itachi’s retreating back. Something about the weight of his voice made your chest tighten.

You gave him a casual salute, as if to brush it off, then hurried after Itachi, weaving between shoulders and drink-laden hands.

When you caught up, you said, “I have the wallet. I’ll just give it to you, and I can go.”

“Nah,” Itachi replied smoothly, without even glancing your way.

Your brows knitted. “What do you mean, no? I didn’t come here to hang around.”

“No?” He slowed just enough to half-turn his head, his eyes gleaming as they flicked toward the bar you’d just left. His grin widened like he was in on some joke you weren’t. “Didn’t look like it.”

Your stomach twisted. “They approached me,” you argued, a little too quickly.

“Mhm.” His hum was amused, sceptical. He stopped just long enough to let a pack of men pass, then his gaze slid to you again. “But you agreed to their little dare to bully Izanagi.”

“Well…” you faltered, shifting under the weight of his stare.

“Well…?” His tone was coaxing, but there was a sharpness beneath it, the kind that made your pulse throb faster.

“I’ve been here for too long,” you muttered finally. “It’s not safe for me to be here.”

That seemed to amuse him even more. “No one knows who you are,” he murmured. “Right, Miyu?”

Your jaw clenched. You hated how easily he could needle you with just a word. “Itachi.”

“Mm.” He lifted a hand lazily, shoving it through his hair before continuing forward. “Just follow me. Then you can leave.”

Something in the tone told you it wasn’t a request.

Itachi led you to a quieter corridor and stopped at a door tucked away in the corner, pushed it open, and tilted his head toward the inside. “Wait here, sugar.”

The room was warmer than the rest of the club, air still thick with the echo of bass, but quieter. A couch sat against one wall, a matching armchair angled toward a flat-screen TV mounted above a low cabinet. A mini-fridge hummed in the corner, bottles lined neatly on top beside a stack of clean towels. It looked like a place where Valhalla’s core came to retreat, not some random backroom.

Before you could even think of asking what this was about, Itachi shut the door behind you and left.

You barely had time to breathe before the door opened again.

Hanma stepped inside, still dressed in only a pair of black fight shorts, skin gleaming with sweat under the dim overhead light. His chest rose and fell hard, a sheen of heat rolling off him. Blood trailed from his nose in a thin, drying line, his mouth split at one corner, bruises already darkening across his ribs.

His eyes landed on you, and widened.

“The fuck are you doin’ here?” His voice was sharp, but not angry. More startled.

You lifted your hand, showing him the familiar wallet. “You left this at my place.”

For a moment, he just stared, blinking as if trying to process both the object and your presence. Then his jaw tensed. “Did you… watch the fight?”

His tone — not cocky, not smug — but… alarmed. Almost defensive.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I waited at the bar.”

The way his shoulders dropped, just a fraction, told you it mattered. He exhaled through his nose, then brushed past you toward the table stacked with drinks and towels.

“You are an idiot for fighting anyway,” you muttered, irritation bubbling up now that the shock was fading. “I doubt you have even healed.”

He didn’t answer. Instead of reaching for the bottles of alcohol, his hand closed around a chilled water bottle. The crack of the cap echoed in the room as he tipped it back and drank greedily.

“Have you healed?” you pressed, voice firm.

That earned you a glance, sharp and unreadable from the corner of his eye. Then, with his throat still working the water down, he said flatly, “Why do you care?”

Your chest tightened, frustration sparking. “’Cause I did my damn best to keep you alive, asshole.”

Hanma grabbed one of the towels and started swiping it across the cut on his jaw, his movements so rough and rushed that it made your teeth clench.

“God, you’ll make it worse,” you snapped. You dropped your bag onto the couch and stalked over, snatching the towel from his hand before he could protest. “Let me.”

You pressed the cloth to his jaw, firm but careful. 

He went still, shoulders taut, golden eyes fixed downward on you as if you’d just stepped somewhere you weren’t meant to.

You lifted the towel after a moment, checking. The bleeding had slowed, but not enough. “Do you have any first-aid supplies here?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared.

You sighed, stepping away before he could read the irritation all over your face. The bottles on the counter glinted in the low light, and you reached for the vodka. Twisting the cap, you poured some onto the towel, then came back to him.

“It’s going to burn,” you warned.

And without giving him time to argue, you pressed the towel to his jaw again. 

His breath hitched, a sharp intake, but he didn’t flinch.

Your voice softened, almost despite yourself. “How’s the cut on your side?”

“Which one?” 

You shot him a glare, then looked back at the towel, lifting it to check again. “Won’t need stitches,” you muttered, almost relieved.

You set the towel aside, picked up his water bottle, and dampened a fresh corner. 

With slow, steady strokes, you wiped the dried blood from under his nose.

“Did you win, at least?” you asked, keeping your focus on the task instead of on him.

“Yup.” The reply was low, almost casual, but his gaze didn’t leave you.

When your eyes flicked up to meet his, the air snapped tight between you. You realised what you’d done,  how close you’d come, how you’d practically caged him in with your body, pressing towels to his skin like you had the right to. The table dug into the backs of his thighs, leaving him nowhere to retreat, and yet he hadn’t moved. He just watched you.

Heat rushed to your face, and you quickly stepped back, clutching the towel like it was suddenly contraband. “And how are the withdrawals?” you asked, forcing your tone back into something clinical. “Did you start your meds again?”

“They gave me somethin’ different.”

“Oh.” You blinked, thrown. “Okay. And how have you… been?”

His brows furrowed, his gaze breaking from yours for the first time. He turned his head slightly, looking past you, almost as if the question itself was dangerous. Still leaning against the table, but his body angled away, like he needed that distance.

His voice was flat when it came: “Bunji’s gonna take you to the bar. I’ll take ya home in a moment.”

He pushed off the table and strode past you, the space between you vanishing in a brush of heat and sweat. He opened the door and called into the hall.

“Wait with her at the bar. I’ll be there in a moment.”

You blinked when a shadow filled the doorway. Then your jaw nearly dropped.

A man — no, a mountain — stepped forward. Seven feet of broad shoulders, thick muscle, and an expression like carved ice.

Your eyes went wide as saucers.

The man looked down at you, silent and cold.

“Go with him,” Hanma said from behind you.

You swallowed, grabbing your bag from the couch as if it were a lifeline. Slinging it over your shoulder, you edged toward the doorway.

The fridge of a man stepped aside to let you pass, his sheer size making the hallway feel narrower than it was.

The hallway felt impossibly long with Bunji beside you. His silence was suffocating, each step deliberate and slow. You kept your head down, hands lightly clutching your bag, trying to seem small, invisible. 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The intimidation radiated off him like heat from a furnace.

Finally, he pushed open a door and the familiar hum of Raven 8 hit you: bass thumping, shouts and laughter, the smell of sweat and alcohol thick in the air. 

The bar was quieter now; Rei and Shun were gone. But Niko was still behind the bar, wiping down glasses, eyes narrowing slightly when he saw you enter.

“Back so soon?” he asked, raising a brow as he noticed Bunji standing a silent step behind you.

You forced a small, casual smile, trying to hide the thrum of your pulse. “Yeah… I was told to wait here. I’ll just… wait.”

Niko’s gaze flicked to Bunji, then back to you, taking in the imposing figure of the silent giant looming behind your shoulder. “Told by who?”

“Uhm… just someone,” you replied, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “Is the girl still here with my hoodie?”

“Oh, Thao? Shit, she was just here.” He scanned the bar quickly and even peeked into the backroom. “No idea where she went. Probably outside, smoking.”

“It’s fine. I’ll pay for this shirt,” you said, tugging self-consciously at the fabric.

“Nah. She got to keep your hoodie. You keep her shirt. That’s only fair.”

“You sure?”

Niko nodded, his tone casual but firm. “Yeah. If she gets mad, she can take it out on Rei. It was her idea anyway.”

You let out a small laugh, relieved. “True.”

He slipped a glass of water in front of you, his fingers brushing yours lightly. “Long night?”

You sighed, letting your head rest briefly against your palm. “You could say that.”

Bunji remained motionless at your side, a sentinel carved from stone. His eyes scanned the room as if daring anyone to get too close. Every so often, they flicked toward you, unreadable.

Minutes crawled by. You sipped the water, attempting to anchor yourself in the mundane—the clink of glasses, the low murmur of remaining patrons—but your thoughts relentlessly drifted back to Hanma.

“So,” Niko said, his voice breaking through your spiralling thoughts, “what do you do for livin’?”

“I… just work in a clothing store,” you lied smoothly. “In a better part of town.”

“Shit. Nice. Ya get a lot of rich people there?”

“Time to time. They’ve got money to spend.”

“Yeah. Ain’t a lot of us goin’ shopping these days,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You nodded, taking another sip of water. 

Niko’s eyes flicked to Bunji again, but returned to you quickly. “So what’s your deal with Itachi?”

“Uhm… just mutuals,” you said, shrugging lightly.

“So ya ain’t seeing him?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, no. I didn’t even know he’d… swing my way.”

“It’s Itachi. He swings any which way,” Niko said, crossing his large arms over his chest with a grin. “Although I think he does prefer men.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Yeah… he has set eyes on one of my friends.”

“That right? How about you? Set eyes on anyone?”

You dropped your gaze to the glass in your hand. “Nope.”

Niko’s grin widened. “So would you be interested in…” he began but suddenly dropped to a small bow, “oh, Hanma-san.”

You straightened instantly, glancing up. 

Hanma had managed to find a black hoodie and black college shorts, his glasses perched on his nose, looking deceptively calm.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Niko asked, posture tenser than before.

“Nah. Did I interrupt somethin’?” Hanma asked, voice even but laced with a dangerous calm.

“No, not at all,” Niko replied quickly. “I was just chattin’ with her.”

Hanma’s gaze shifted to you, sharp and unreadable, like he was examining a stranger and yet recognising something familiar. “What ‘bout her? Yer girlfriend?”

Niko laughed, loud and easy. “No. Though I was just about to ask her out.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, I—”

You didn’t get to finish. 

Fingers suddenly clasped your cheeks hard, forcing your head to turn as full lips crushed against yours. 

Your eyes went wide at Hanma’s face so close to yours, his lips against yours. The kiss was harsh, demanding, and gone just before you could react. 

Your hand barely managed to shoot up, half to slap, half to claw at him, but he was already stepping past you, hands shoved in pockets.

“Let’s go, darlin’,” he muttered as he threaded his way through the remaining patrons.

Your lips parted, your brain still trying to catch up, your chest heaving. 

Niko blinked in astonishment, quickly recovering. “Oh… I didn’t know you were with—”

“I—” Your voice caught in your throat. 

Hanma yelled your real name, sharp and dangerous, cutting you off.

Bunji, ever silent, tugged at your arm, and you yanked away, storming after Hanma, chest heaving with a mix of fury and adrenaline.

“What the fuck?” you demanded, grabbing his arm, yanking him back hard.

He looked down at you, eyes sharp but calm. “What?”

“You can’t just kiss me!” you spat, voice trembling slightly with anger and disbelief.

“It was either that or my fist in his face,” he countered casually.

“Why the fuck would it be between those two options?!”

Hanma ignored you, striding forward through the crowd, hands in his pockets, every step deliberate. 

You hurried to keep pace, dragging your emotions and disbelief along with you.

That fucking—

That fucking idiot had no idea what he’d just done. You yanked his arm again, nearly losing your balance in the crowd. The bass of the club rattled your chest, the heat and smell pressing down on you like a physical weight. People brushed past, some sneering, others too engrossed in their own chaos to notice, but you barely registered them.

Hanma looked down at you again, unbothered. “You’re wound tighter than a spring,” he said, his voice low, yet somehow cutting through the thrum of the music.

“I don’t care how wound up you think I am! You can’t just—kiss someone like that!” you snapped, nails digging into the sleeve of his hoodie.

He tilted his head, his golden eyes glinting in the dim club lights. “Yer right. I’m sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of his words. “Well… you should be. I will stab you next time you try something like that.”

“Okay,” he replied, calm and almost too casual.

You stared up at him, your pulse hammering in your ears. 

His expression didn’t waver; it was maddeningly serene, as if nothing fazed him.

“You done?” he asked finally, the faintest edge of impatience in his tone. “I’m tired.”

“Uh, yeah—yes,” you muttered, shoving past him toward the exit, cheeks burning, and he fell into step behind you.

The cold night air hit you like a wall, shocking against your bare arms, the thin tank top you wore doing nothing to stave off the chill. 

You hugged yourself, teeth chattering slightly.

“Where’s your car?” you asked, voice tight, trying to keep your cool.

“That way,” he said, walking past you. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the hem of his hoodie, yanked it off, and tossed it at you.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, but he didn’t slow down, moving as if it were the most natural thing in the world, clad in just his shorts and a black tee. 

A gust of wind blew through, making you shiver, and you huddled into the hoodie, pressing it close. 

The soft fabric carried his scent: tobacco, pine, and something utterly manly. You wanted to find it disgusting, wanted to push him away, but instead, your body betrayed you with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

You cursed under your breath, gripping your bag tighter and hurrying to catch up. 

The streets of Tokyo seemed emptier, quieter, but not comforting. 

Every step behind him reminded you just how impossible it was to ignore his presence, the way he moved with quiet power and casual confidence, the way he owned even the cold night air.

You matched your pace to his, forcing yourself to look straight ahead, not at him, though the hoodie smelled strongly of him, a constant reminder of how close he was. And somehow, despite the anger, despite the frustration, despite the utter chaos he’d caused, you couldn’t shake the rush of adrenaline that clung to you, prickling along your skin.

"Didn't that just ruin your reputation?" you asked, voice cutting through the hum of the city as you both walked toward the car.

He kept his gaze forward, expression utterly unreadable. "What reputation?"

"That you don't hang out with women."

"That's my reputation? How incredibly lame."

"Well… that's what I heard. Apparently many talk about it."

"That so?"

"Is it true?"

"That many talk about my lame reputation?"

"No. The reputation. Is there any truth behind it?"

"Ain’t them rumors start from nothing," he said casually, eyes still fixed ahead.

"So you don't… date?"

He exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Nope."

You frowned, sceptical. "Not even one-night stands?"

"Why?" He finally glanced at you, a faint glimmer of curiosity in his golden eyes. "Ya offering?"

You smacked his arm sharply. "No!"

His lips twitched. 

You realised something. You hadn’t seen him smile tonight. Usually, there was that crazed, carefree smirk, a playful glint in his eyes, but tonight… nothing. Was it the injuries? The meds? 

"Why not?" you pressed.

"Why not, what?"

"Why don’t you date?"

He stopped mid-step, considering you as if weighing your question against some invisible scale. "Why you wanna know?"

"Curious," you admitted, shrugging lightly, though your pulse was racing.

He glanced at you, and you braced for a sarcastic remark, a flirty jab, something—anything to keep the tension like a live wire between you. But he just kept walking. "I don’t like people touchin’ me."

You froze mid-step, your brain catching up slowly. 

"What?"

Hanma kept moving, stepping up to a familiar black car, his posture casual yet tense. "Ya comin'?"

You had stopped a few paces behind, your mind spinning. 

He was… strange. 

Not what you’d expected at all. 

Every layer you thought you knew just peeled away to reveal more complexity, more contradictions.

Then it hit you. 

"Shit. I’m sorry."

He sighed, low and tired. "About what?"

"For being… so bold tonight," you said, feeling ashamed. "With the towel and your wounds. I should have asked for permission."

His brows furrowed, that same small crease forming as when you had asked how he’d been. "It’s fine."

He opened the car door and slid inside effortlessly. 

You hurried to the passenger side, opening your own door. "I didn’t know you had a problem with touching. I’m… sorry."

He groaned, the sound low, almost exasperated. "It ain’t a problem."

"But I shouldn’t have."

"I kissed ya without yer permission, so we’re even, okay?"

You blinked at him, momentarily speechless. "Why did you—"

"Why did I what?"

"Kiss me? You could have just told me to leave with you."

"Then I would’ve punched him."

"Why?"

"'Cause I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Was plannin’ to ask you out."

"I would’ve told him no," you muttered, tone clipped.

"But that was more effective," he countered, voice low. "Ain’t no one gonna get near you now."

You glared at him, frustration and disbelief boiling over. "I’m not your possession, Shuji. Like I’ve said before—you don’t know me. I don’t know you. I don’t want to associate myself with you."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said, dismissive, yet not unkind, the engine humming to life.

You exhaled, gripping the edge of your seat, trying to calm the storm of heat and adrenaline that had nothing to do with the club. He was infuriating. Dangerous. Unpredictable. And somehow, impossibly, entirely compelling.

“But have y—”

“If that’s anotha question leavin’ your mouth, I’m droppin’ ya at the side of the road,” he cut in, not even looking your way.

Your mouth snapped shut.

You eyed him, arms crossed now. “…You owe me. So you better answer my questions.”

He huffed a dry laugh and cursed under his breath, but he didn’t argue. 

“Have you ever dated anyone?” you asked.

He drummed his fingers against the wheel lazily, gold eyes flicking to you before returning to the road. “You seem awfully interested in my datin’ life for someone who doesn’t wanna associate with me, eh?”

“You are strange. A walking, talking contradiction. I can’t help but be curious.”

“Get in the line,” he muttered.

“So have you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Nothin’ serious.”

“You like women, though?”

His brows furrowed, annoyed and confused all at once. “…Yeah?”

“Could you be like… ace or something?”

“A fuckin’ what?”

“Ace. Asexual. Or aromantic.”

He shot you a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “The fuck are you on ’bout, lady?”

You lifted a shoulder, utterly unbothered. “Psychoanalysing you.”

“Could you not?”

“It’s a spectrum, you know?”

“I ain’t on any spectrum.”

“But you are on meds. So you do have something.”

He blew out a heavy sigh, shifting his grip on the steering wheel. “I regret this so fuckin’ much.”

That made you grin. Finally—finally—you were under his skin. It was satisfying in a way you couldn’t explain, like turning the tables on someone who always had the upper hand.

“So… are you asexual?”

His lip curled. “What is that again?”

“Someone who doesn’t usually feel the need for sex. Some do, sometimes, maybe just by themselves or with a trusted partner.”

The look he shot you was nothing short of horrified. “I ain’t that.”

“Aromantic then? No want for a relationship.”

“Why the hell is there a word for everything nowadays?”

“It helps people understand themselves.”

He barked out a laugh, rough and amused. “That’s dumb.”

“How come?”

“Why overthink everything? I never do.”

You smirked. “I can tell.”

That earned a low snort from him, and for the first time all night, his mouth tugged upward into something almost like a real smile. “Is that what you are then, huh? Arosexual?”

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. “No.” 

His eyes slid toward you again, unreadable, before he turned back to the road.

“So,” you pressed, voice quieter now. “Why don’t you like touching?”

Hanma tensed. His shoulders stiffened, jaw locking tight as the road stretched out in front of him, washed in pale streetlight. “I just don’t.”

Something in the way he said it told you not to push further.

“Okay. It’s fine,” you said quickly, easing back. After a beat of silence, you blurted, “Uhm, so the new meds. Have they, um… worked?”

He shot you another sidelong look, as if you’d just spoken in another language.

“What?” you asked, frowning.

“Why you talkin’ this much?”

You stared at him, then smirked. “I’m bored.”

Recognition flashed across his face, and he seemed to accept that, settling back in his seat like he finally understood. “Hm. Makes sense.” His fingers tapped against the steering wheel again, slower this time. “I dunno. Maybe. Make my brain fuzzy though.”

”Fuzzy?”

”Yeah, like I can’t hear myself thinkin’.”

”How sad. I bet you have a lot of very important stuff to think about.”

He snorted, a smile breaking through.

You bit back a smile of your own.

Soon, the car rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the engine humming low before Hanma cut it off. For a moment, neither of you moved. 

You stared at the faint glow of your building’s entryway, gripping your bag like it was an anchor.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said finally, reaching for the door handle.

Hanma shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under him. “Thanks for the… erm… helpin’ me when I was sick and shit.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his awkward phrasing. It almost sounded… human. Vulnerable. You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing the moment away. “It’s fine. Don’t do that shit again though. We’re done, Shuji. I don’t wanna see you again. Okay?”

You braced yourself for his usual indifference—for a casual “okay” or maybe even a laugh.

Instead, he tilted his head, studying you with those unreadable golden eyes. “Why?”

Your brows knitted together. “…Huh?”

He was being absolutely serious, wasn’t he?

You let out a short, incredulous laugh, thrown completely off balance. “You’re joking, right? You’re the acting leader of Valhalla, Shuji. I’m in Toman. You put me in danger just by existing next to me—and frankly, I don’t like you.”

“Why?” he asked again, deadpan.

Your chest tightened with frustration. “Because you’re obnoxious. You’re unpredictable. You’re violent and dangerous.” You jabbed a finger toward him, words spilling faster now. “Though—truth be told—you’ve been… decent with me. More than I expected. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re one of the worst criminals in Japan. I don’t associate myself with your kind. Thus,” you added firmly, “I am a mere chemist for Toman. I don’t participate in the violence. I don’t want to be dragged into your world.”

Silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. You expected him to scoff, to roll his eyes, to dismiss you entirely.

But instead, Hanma leaned back in his seat, gaze never leaving you, his expression unreadable but oddly sharp. Like he was weighing every word, dissecting them, deciding what to do with the fact that you’d just drawn a line he had no intention of respecting.

“You’re clearly not right in the head. You seem possessive, even though we barely know each other. You’ve got stalker-ish tendencies, and you kill and hurt people like it’s nothing.”

His brows drew together as if your words were physical blows; his hand tightened in his lap, and his gaze dropped to the steering wheel. 

“And besides,” you kept going, voice harder now, “you said it yourself — you don’t date. You don’t associate with women or people. I don’t want to be your friend. I certainly don’t want to date you.” You let the last sentence land like a final punctuation. “Good night.”

You opened the door and slid out, slamming it so the impact rattled the glass. Cold night air hit you like a favour. You moved up the concrete steps without looking back, breath loud in your ears, hands fisted around your bag. The building smelled faintly of old laundry and city damp; the stairwell groaned under your feet in the familiar, comforting way of an old animal settling in its place.

You only let yourself breathe fully once the apartment door shut and you pressed your forehead against the wood, forehead cool, pulse thudding. 

The adrenaline unspooled into a raw, ringing ache. You were already straightening your shoulders when a knock came; soft, expectant.

You groaned. “What now?” you muttered, opening the door a crack. “What the fuck do you want—”

“Is there a third option?” Hanma asked, standing on the threshold as if the night had never touched him. 

“What?” You blinked.

“You don’t wanna be my friend or date me. Is there a third option?” His voice was almost casual, like a thought he’d had and now offered for your consideration.

“No!” You barked. “I don’t want to be around you in any form.”

He gave you a look — not pleading, not angry, just offhand. “I don’t believe you.”

“What the fuck?” You felt your control fray.

He leaned on the doorframe, face lit by the hall light. “I owe you. And you still need help with your lab shit.”

You scoffed, every instinct flaming up. “Ah, threatening me again?”

“I ain’t threatenin’,” he said, flat. “I’m just stating facts.”

“You are sick.” The words came out too sharp; they were the truth you wanted to be a lie.

He nodded once, like accepting a weather report. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, the world tilting between fury and exhausted disbelief. 

Then you looked at him again — there, casual and dangerous and impossibly present in the frame of your doorway. Something in your chest hardened.

“I’ll make your life a living hell, Shuji.”

His grin was slow, delighted, like someone who’d been waiting for a game to start. “Can’t wait.”

You threw your hands up in a half-gesture of exasperation, slammed the door, and leaned your back against it until the heat in your lungs finally eased. 

The hallway beyond was ordinary and oblivious; inside, your heart hammered. 

And you looked down at his hoodie you were still wearing, his scent all over you like a suffocating blanket.

Chapter Text

The hum of the centrifuge and 80s music on the radio filled the lab, blending with the quiet scratch of Rina’s pen as she recorded data. Aya leaned back in her chair, twirling a pipette like a drumstick, clearly bored out of her skull. Kenji, on the other hand, was hunched over his phone, thumb scrolling, brows furrowed.

It had been days since you’d last seen Hanma. Days since his knock on your apartment door and that infuriating grin you still saw in flashes when you closed your eyes. You’d almost started to believe he’d taken the hint and stayed gone.

Almost.

Kenji suddenly straightened, swore under his breath, and pressed the phone hard to his ear.

 “What the fuck do you mean cheaper?!” he barked.

Aya and Rina both turned. You froze mid-pour, eyes darting to him.

Kenji’s jaw flexed as he listened, his hand clenching around the edge of the counter. Then, “I’ll call back,” and he hung up so fast the click echoed in the sterile room.

“What was that?” Aya asked, sitting up now.

Kenji shoved a hand through his hair, pacing. “Valhalla just slashed their prices. Like drastically. They’re moving product cheaper than us. Customers are already switching sides.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to sting.

Aya blinked. “That… doesn’t make sense. Why would they—”

“It makes perfect sense,” Kenji cut in, his voice rising. “Undercut us, ruin our demand, wipe us out.” He slammed his fist on the counter, rattling the beakers. “We can’t compete at that price without bleeding money.”

Rina whistled low. “So what, they’re ready to tank their profits just to screw Toman?”

“Exactly.”

You swallowed, your mind racing. 

Aya frowned. “Kenji… what do we do?”

Kenji didn’t answer right away. He pressed his palms to the counter, head bowed. “We wait for word from higher up. For now, we keep production steady. But if our clients keep flipping—” He shook his head.

The room felt colder somehow.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand slid into your pocket, pulling out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Hanma’s Instagram for a long beat. He still hadn’t posted in months. No stories. No videos. You weren't sure if he had a new phone yet.

But you didn’t have his number anymore.

Your chest tightened. You hated that you were even considering it. But the words spilt into the message box anyway:

You: VALHALLA SELLS CHEAPER NOW???? ARE YOU KIDDING ME??

You stared at it, biting your lip, then added:

You: Do you get off on making our life harder or what?

You hesitated, thumb trembling. Then hit send.

Aya glanced at you, suspicious. “Who are you texting?”

“No one,” you said too quickly, slipping the phone face down on the counter.

Kenji let out another curse under his breath. “If this keeps up, we’re fucked.”

The centrifuge beeped, its cycle complete. The sound was too normal, too steady, against the brewing storm.

And your phone buzzed.

You snatched it up before anyone else could notice, turning slightly away from the others.

Shuji: Wasn’t my call. Kisaki handles that shit with the suppliers.

You stared at the screen, teeth grinding. Of course. Kisaki. That snake had his fingerprints all over this.

Your thumbs flew before you could think:

You: How the hell can Valhalla even afford to cut prices that much?

The typing bubble blinked once, vanished. Then again.

Shuji: By stealing Toman’s customers :p

Your breath caught, the words burning in your chest. You glanced over your shoulder at Kenji, still pacing, muttering curses under his breath, completely oblivious to the bomb Hanma had just dropped in your hands.

Valhalla wasn’t bluffing. They weren’t bleeding money. They were feeding off Toman, off your team.

Your grip tightened on the phone. You wanted to throw it across the room. You wanted to march straight to Valhalla’s den and demand answers.

The typing bubble flashed again.

Shuji: U could drop the prices too 

You: As if Mikey would allow it 

Shuji: He'd have no choice 

You: The demand will get higher, our lab isn't equipped for that 

Shuji: Ours is ;}

Kenji slammed his phone down on the stainless steel counter, the sharp clack making Aya flinch. “This is bullshit. We’ve been busting our asses to stay ahead, and now those freaks just—just undercut us like we’re nothing?”

Rina muttered something vicious under her breath, dragging her palms down her tired face. “We can never catch a break.”

Your gaze drifted back to your phone, Shuji’s smug little ours is staring at you from the screen. You didn’t type anything back, shoving the device into your hoodie pocket before the urge to hurl it into the wall won out.

“No way Valhalla can keep up with that,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Their product must be cheap, or their working environment even worse than ours. It’s not possible to drop the prices without cutting corners.”

Aya shot you a doubtful look, arms crossed. “But if their corners cut still outsell ours, does it matter?”

That thought coiled in your stomach like acid. She wasn’t wrong. Customers didn’t care about purity, about safety. They cared about getting high.

Kenji paced, muttering to himself. “Mikey’s gonna lose his shit. If Valhalla keeps this up, we’ll lose all our distribution chains in Shibuya within a month. Maybe less.”

The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead seemed louder, grating. 

You rubbed the bridge of your nose, exhaling hard. “Then we need to adapt. Either we find a way to increase output, or we make ours better.”

Aya scoffed. “With what money? What resources?”

Her frustration echoed your own, but you didn’t show it. Couldn’t. Instead, you bit down the swell of panic and forced yourself to think clinically. Options. Risks. Workarounds.

“How is Valhalla pulling this?” Kenji groaned, raking a hand through his hair.

“Does anyone know what their labs are like?” Aya asked, leaning her elbows against the counter.

“No idea,” Rina replied, spinning a glass vial in her hands without looking at it. “I doubt it’s something we could even ask around. I have no idea who even works for the Valhalla lab.”

The room fell into uneasy silence, the hum of the ventilation system and the radio filling the space. 

Kenji’s jaw clenched as he stared at his phone, thumb tapping against the edge of the screen like a tic. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you.

Your brows pinched. 

He looked away quickly, feigning casualness. 

But when Aya and Rina finally muttered about taking a break and slipped out for cigarettes, leaving the lab’s heavy door to creak shut behind them, Kenji edged closer. His voice dropped low, conspiratorial.

“Could you…” His eyes flicked to your pocket, then back to your face. “Could you ask Hanma what they’re working with? What resources do they have?”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “As if he’d tell me that.”

Kenji’s expression sharpened. “He owes you. Owes us for helping him. For covering his ass when he was down bad. Don’t act like he’s not aware of that.”

“He’s Valhalla,” you shot back. “Why the hell would he hand over intel to Toman, to me?”

Kenji leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice further, urgency cutting into every word. “Because it’s you. You got closer than any of us could. He’ll answer you.”

You swallowed, throat tight. The weight of it pressed in; Kenji wasn’t asking; he was cornering you. And somewhere inside, you hated that he wasn’t wrong.

With stiff fingers, you pulled out your phone, the glow of the screen painting your face as you opened the direct messages. You typed quickly before you could overthink:

You: What are you working with? What lab resources does Valhalla have?

The message sent, the little circle spinning before settling into place. You stared at it, willing the three little dots to appear. For a reply to blink across the screen. 

But nothing came.

Minutes dragged. The silence in the lab felt louder with every second that passed. 

You sent him question marks, but he didn’t even open the messages.

You finally locked the screen, shoving the phone back into your pocket, jaw tight. “He’s not replying.”

Kenji swore under his breath, turning away, pacing the cramped space like a caged animal. “Do you have Itachi’s number?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Your phone buzzed.

Shuji: idk the usual shit

You read his reply aloud. Kenji rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose.

You typed fast.

You: Could you ask your chemists?

Another pause. Then—

Shuji: yeah bc that wouldn’t be weird as shit

Your jaw flexed as your thumbs flew.

You: Little help here, asshole. You owe me!

The three dots blinked.

Shuji: 🙄

Shuji: i’ll see what i can do

You let out a slow breath. “He’ll try something,” you told Kenji, though the words felt flimsy even to your own ears.

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” Kenji dragged a hand over his face, the exhaustion in his movements clear.

“So long as we don’t get caught fraternising with the rival gang,” you muttered.

“We won’t.” He said it like a fact, not a promise.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

By the time you finally got home, the lab’s fluorescent lights still burned into your retinas. 

You shoved a ready meal into the microwave, ate half of it straight from the plastic tray while the TV droned on in the background, some variety show laugh track filling the silence.

The mundanity was almost comforting. Almost.

Until the knock came.

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. A hollow thud in your chest matched the knock again, sharper this time. 

You groaned, pressing your palms hard against your eyes, dragging your hands down your face. 

You didn’t need to look to know.

Still, caution pulled you to your feet. You padded across the floor, pressing your eye to the peephole.

And sighed.

Of course.

You unlatched the door and opened it.

Hanma leaned against the frame like he owned it, hair a little messy, his long frame taking up all the space. His gaze dragged slowly, deliberately, from the crown of your head down to your toes and back again.

“I don’t know shit about the lab,” he drawled, “but I can show ya.”

You stared at him flatly. “I was eating.”

He didn’t even bother to reply. Just stepped inside, moving past you like the apartment was his.

You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling through your nose. Whatever karmic debt you carried from a past life must have been monstrous. 

You shut the door and padded back toward the couch, reclaiming your half-eaten meal.

Hanma had already claimed the other end of the couch, long legs sprawled out comfortably, leaning back like he owned the place. He wasn’t close, not quite, but his presence filled the space in a way that pressed down on your nerves.

“Whatchu watching?” he asked casually.

“Some sitcom,” you mumbled, chewing, the food rolling heavy in your mouth now that your stomach had twisted into knots.

He tilted his head, eyes flicking to the screen, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “I doubt there will be anyone. I can show you the lab.”

You gave a short, humourless laugh. “Great. Take me right into enemy territory. That’s definitely better than asking around.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Sure. And when security footage surfaces of me taking a guided tour with Valhalla’s acting leader?” you shot back. “Aren’t there cameras?”

“Qiang can handle that.”

Your brow furrowed. “Why would he? You’re helping a rival gang.”

“They work under me.”

“They work under Kisaki,” you corrected.

For the first time, something sharp flickered in him. His jaw tightened. Hanma didn’t speak Kisaki’s name, and you hadn’t either—until now.

“How do you even have time for this?” you pressed, watching his reaction. “Doesn’t Kisaki get suspicious when his ‘acting leader’ runs off?”

“He’s busy.” His tone was flat, almost dismissive.

“What about Itachi, Baji, Qiang?” you asked. “Aren’t they against this?”

“I don’t care what they think.”

“They could tell someone.”

That earned you a laugh—loud and sharp, the kind that rattled your apartment’s thin walls.

“What?” you demanded.

“Ain’t no one rattin’ out shit,” he said, grinning like the notion alone was absurd.

“They’re that loyal, then?”

“Loyal and smart.”

You studied him, your frown deepening. “So you’re saying people are just scared enough of you they wouldn’t dare cross you?”

“Ain’t they?” His grin widened, smug.

“People really fear you.”

“You don’t.”

“Itachi doesn’t either.” You couldn’t say about the other men as you really hadn’t met them to know, but it was clear Itachi didn’t fear his acting leader. Or didn’t show it.

That actually drew a real smile from him—slow and edged with amusement. “True.”

You exhaled, dragging a hand down your face. Every rational bone in your body screamed to tell him no, to throw him out of your apartment and lock the door behind him. And yet—

“Alright,” you muttered, dropping your fork back into the tray. “Let’s see this lab.”

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

“Do you have siblings?” Your question filled the quiet of the car.

Hanma visibly tensed, shoulders pulling tight beneath the fabric of his hoodie as he gripped the wheel. “Huh?”

“Do you have siblings?” you repeated, softer this time, but steady.

His eyes flicked toward you, guarded. “Why you askin’?”

Because you were dead set on psychoanalysing him, especially since it seemed to annoy him. 

“Answer me.”

His jaw worked as though he was chewing on words he didn’t want to spit out. 

Finally, he muttered, “I had a little sister.”

The word sat like lead in your stomach. “Had?”

“I suppose she’s dead,” he said flatly, though his grip on the steering wheel betrayed him. “Haven’t seen her since we were kids.”

“Why would she be dead?” you asked, curious.

“She was sold to some guy.”

Your stomach lurched. “By your parents?”

“My mom.” His lips curled into a humourless sneer. “Never knew my dad.”

You glanced at him instinctively, and he caught it instantly, his expression souring.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you in any way.”

“That was fuckin’ pity on yer face.”

“Not pity,” you corrected. “Just empathy.”

His laugh was bitter, sharp. “No need for that.”

“It’s a humane reaction,” you said softly. “What you told me was sad. And I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

That made Hanma let out a broken laugh, a sound that rattled in his chest and scraped against the air. “That ain’t even the worst of it, trickster.”

You studied him, the rare flicker of something fragile behind his usual mask of arrogance. “What was her name?”

His brows pulled together, and his knuckles went pale against the wheel. “Shiori.”

“Shiori,” you repeated, tasting the name. “Do you remember her?”

“Nah.” His tone was clipped. “Don’t remember much from my childhood.”

“Do you remember what happened to you when she was sold?”

A shudder rippled through him, though he tried to mask it by shifting in his seat. 

His jaw locked, and he stared hard at the road ahead. “Why are you askin’?”

Because you wanted to understand him. Because, despite your better judgment, you wanted to peel back the chaos and see the man underneath. But you couldn’t admit that, so you went with the safer card. 

“You owe me,” you said, though the words tasted bitter. It made you feel like an asshole.

He was quiet for so long, you thought he might never answer. Then, when he finally spoke, his voice was stripped bare of emotion—cold, distant, bored, as though that was the only way he could survive the memory.

“I was sold, too.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. “To whom?”

“I ain’t talking ‘bout that with you.”

You went quiet and didn’t probe any further. “Sorry for intruding.”

He must’ve felt the silence stretch too heavy, because after a beat, he asked, “You got siblings?”

It took you a moment to find your voice again. “No. Only child.”

“In touch with yer parents?”

You shook your head. “Not much, no. They divorced when I was young. Both have new families.”

“They ain’t keepin’ in touch with you?” His tone shifted, rough with something you couldn’t place. He looked almost offended on your behalf.

“They don’t,” you admitted.

“Strange people,” he muttered.

That pulled an unwilling twitch of a smile from your lips. “What’s your favourite food?”

He shot you another glance, like you’d suddenly grown a second head. “Strange people, but you are the strangest.”

That finally made you laugh, the sound light in the heavy space between you. “And who are you to say?”

For a second, the edges of his mouth lifted too. Then he turned back to the road. “Does cake count as food?”

“Sure,” you said, trying to hide your grin.

“Then that’s my favourite. Though it has to have chocolate.”

“So chocolate cake?”

“Yup.”

You shook your head. 

“And yours?” he asked.

You thought about it. “Probably a very hearty bowl of ramen. But cake is good, too.”

“Makin’ me hungry now,” Hanma said as he brought the car to a stop in a dimly lit parking lot between two monolithic office towers. 

You were about to open your mouth to ask more lighthearted questions but he killed the engine and unbuckled himself, stretching his long frame. “Follow me.”

Your stomach knotted with nerves, and you climbed out. The chill of the night bit through your hoodie, but you barely registered it. 

Hanma strode ahead, confident, unbothered by the darkened streets or the indifferent skyscrapers looming above. 

You followed, careful to match his long, purposeful steps.

He led you around to the back of one of the towers, where a plain service door waited, unassuming except for the faint scuff marks at the base. With a twist of the key, the lock clicked, and he pushed the door open. Then he hit a code on the wall as he stepped in, shutting off the security system.

Inside, the building felt incongruous with the glittering metropolis outside. 

A narrow hallway stretched ahead, lit with stark, fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead. The sterile white walls reminded you of a hospital, or maybe a research wing of one. 

Your stomach tightened, a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Hanma took the lead, his footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor. 

You followed closely, trying not to make noise, heart hammering in your chest. The further you went, the colder and more clinical the space felt. It was almost surreal—this wasn’t some rundown warehouse hidden in the outskirts, but a purpose-built facility, designed for precision.

At the end of the corridor, Hanma stopped before a pair of massive metallic doors. He swiped his keycard, and with a soft mechanical hum, the doors parted.

You froze in place.

The lab that lay beyond was vast, impossibly organised, and immaculate. Stainless steel counters gleamed under the overhead lights, shelves lined with perfectly labelled reagents and glassware. 

Sophisticated equipment hummed and beeped quietly, the sort of machines you’d expect in a top-tier pharmaceutical lab, not something built in secret for illicit production.

“No way…” you breathed. “This… this is your lab?”

He gave a faint shrug, hands in his pockets. “Yeah.”

You stepped inside, the door closing behind you, eyes wide as you took in the space. “This… this is where Valhalla makes drugs?” Your voice was equal parts disbelief and awe.

“Yeah,” he said casually, as if it were nothing unusual.

You couldn’t help yourself. You rounded the counters, peeking inside cabinets and pulling open drawers. Everything was precise, labelled, and functional. “What the fuck?” you muttered. “This isn’t some sketchy DIY operation… this is… professional.”

Hanma followed silently, watching you with that same unreadable expression. “Y’all’s lab ain’t like this?”

“No. Not on this level.”

Your gaze swept across the room: there were small personal touches—a few random posters on the walls, a coffee machine in one corner, a break room with a table and even a toilet tucked into a small side room. It felt lived-in, human, almost cosy despite the clinical efficiency of the lab.

You ran your fingers along the counters, your mind racing. “They—you—have everything here. Equipment, chemicals, setups… this isn’t cheap. This isn’t small-time.”

Hanma’s voice broke through your awe. “We do what we need to do.”

You spun to look at him. “You’re telling me this… all of this… this is Valhalla?”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Yep.”

You sank back against the counter, scanning the lab again, mentally ticking off all the equipment, all the organisation. “And you do all this… by yourself?”

He smirked faintly. “The chemists do.”

You peeked toward the break room, imagining the staff who must be working here. “I don’t believe it… this is insane.”

He shrugged, casual as ever, but your stomach tightened. Somehow, seeing it all laid out like this—efficient, controlled, untouchable—made Valhalla feel even more dangerous, and somehow, even more compelling.

You rounded another counter, peering into a locked cabinet of glassware. “What the fuck…” you whispered again, half in admiration, half in disbelief.

Hanma leaned back against a counter, arms crossed, letting you absorb it all. “Like what you see?”

You swallowed, eyes still wide. “Yeah.”

You rounded the last counter, eyes still scanning the gleaming lab, and asked, voice low, “How the hell can you afford all of this… and drop prices at the same time?”

Hanma’s hand rested casually on a counter, but you noticed his muscles tense slightly.

Before he could answer, a faint sound echoed from the corridor outside—a metallic scrape against the floor. Both of you froze.

“Did you hear that?” you whispered, heart thumping.

Hanma’s eyes narrowed, sharp and alert. He didn’t answer. Instead, before you could react further, his long arm shot out, grabbing yours, and he pulled you into a pitch black storage closet just as the door swung open.

You pressed against the shelves, eyes wide, as he stood against you in the tight space. His other hand grabbed the shelf beside your head to keep his body more upright in the crammed space and not too close to you. 

The smell of chemical cleaners and cardboard boxes filled the cramped space.

Outside, voices drifted closer. They were rough, deep, and unfamiliar. Men, you guessed, probably Valhalla staff.

“…Patch’s ready,” one said. “We need to move it to the buyer now.”

Heavy thuds echoed, probably crates being shifted, as another voice added, “…Better make sure it’s packed right. Can’t have Kisaki breathing down our necks again.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing. 

“Y’know he’d send that fucking psycho.”

Then one voice sneered, sharp and venomous: “That goddamn zombie. I swear he’s sucking Kisaki’s cock just to be the acting leader.”

Your stomach dropped. You stiffened, sure Hanma would erupt. 

You felt his muscles tensing, shifting right against you.

Another voice joined in, crude and mocking: “I bet he’s the one fuckin’ Kisaki’s rigid ass, bendin’ him right ova.”

You froze, horrified. Your mind screamed that Hanma would burst out, storm into the corridor and crush them all—but instead, you felt something unexpected.

His chest shook… not with rage, but with a soft chuckle.

You blinked at him, incredulous. “Shut up, Shuji,” you whispered, pressing a palm against his mouth, finding it easily.

He didn’t resist. You felt the curve of his lips beneath your hand, the faint warmth of his smile brushing your skin. His chuckle vibrated softly against your palm, low and amused, like a secret only the two of you shared.

You pressed your hand tighter against his mouth, not caring if he found your touch repulsive. “Quiet,” you hissed.

He stilled immediately, letting you hold him there, though you could feel his chest still shaking slightly with suppressed laughter. 

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pressed back against him, both of you trapped in that tiny storage closet, listening to the men outside speak with such blatant disrespect, yet knowing that Hanma’s amusement was just as dangerous as his anger.

You tightened your hold on his arm, still pressed against him, and muttered, “Stay still.”

He made no reply, only fought back hid amusement against your skin, a dangerous, intoxicating sound and feeling that made the air between you crackle in the tiny closet.

The men outside continued their conversation, oblivious to the danger waiting just feet away. And you—heart racing, palms sweaty, breath shallow—realised that standing there with him, pressed against him, hiding from voices, was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.

Soon, the voices faded down the corridor, heavy footsteps retreating with the weight of their cargo. 

Silence stretched, except for the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Hanma waited another beat, listening like a predator making sure the prey was gone. Then he leaned back, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and slipped out into the empty lab.

You followed, blinking hard against the sudden wash of harsh white lights after the dim storage closet. The sterile brightness made you feel strangely exposed, and the lingering closeness of him still clung to your skin.

“Your damn chuckling almost got us caught,” you hissed, stepping away, folding your arms tight.

Hanma turned his head, a grin sliding onto his face like a careless mask. “Yeah,” he drawled, stretching his arms as if he hadn’t just been pinned in a cramped space listening to men shit-talk him. “My bad.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You didn’t find their words disrespectful?”

“Sure,” he said easily, like it was obvious. “But it was funny.”

“Funny?” Your voice cracked a little in disbelief. “They said you’re sucking Kisaki’s cock and you—what? You laugh?”

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his pockets, shoulders loose. “They ain’t gonna say it to my face. Whatever helps ’em sleep better at night, I don’t care.”

You blinked at him, caught between irritation and fascination. “You allow that?”

"Usually not." There was something almost sheepish as he looked at you. “But I ain’t gonna get violent like that with you around.”

The words snagged something inside you. “Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes lingered on you, the grin easing into something quieter. “’Cause I don’t want you to see me like that. All violent and shit. Enough people are scared of me.”

You scoffed, though your chest felt too tight. “I already know of your violent tendencies.”

“Yeah…” he murmured, gaze flicking briefly away. “But knowing and seeing it are two different things.”

His tone was different—low, almost thoughtful. Not the brash, cocky Hanma you were used to, but a version that made your throat dry and your pulse quicken.

“Thank you for showing me the lab,” you said finally, needing to steer the air somewhere less suffocating.

Hanma shrugged like it cost him nothing. “Sure.”

“There’s no way we’re able to compete with this,” you admitted, sweeping a hand toward the gleaming counters, the organised shelves, the sheer space of it all. “There are just four of us, and less equipment, less room.”

“Why doesn’t Mikey get you a better lab?”

“Too expensive.”

Hanma cocked his head. “But you’d be able to produce more.”

“I know.” 

“What did you do with Kaito’s money? Ya could use that.”

Right. You’d forgotten about it—the envelope tucked away, blood money you’d never touched.

“True,” you admitted, hesitating. “Though… wouldn’t they wonder where I got it?”

“Would they even notice if you bought better shit yourself?”

You gave a reluctant laugh under your breath. “You’re right.”

He leaned closer, cupping his ear theatrically. “Say that again?”

You rolled your eyes. “I won’t.”

“Please,” he drawled. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You’re testing my finite patience, Shuji.”

That made his grin bloom, sharp and boyish all at once. “If ya saw enough, I’ll take you home now.”

You nodded, glancing one last time around the pristine lab. “This place just makes me jealous.”

Hanma held the door open for you, a mock flourish of his arm as if he were some kind of gentleman.

“Ya could always join us,” he said as you passed him, voice light but not joking.

You shot him a sharp look. “And mark my back with a big, red cross? Sure.”

“We’d protect you.”

“I can’t leave my team.”

“You can’t live for them.”

You laughed outright, the sound bouncing against the sterile corridor walls as you followed him toward the elevator. “I would have to move and start over in Valhalla’s territory. And Toman would assassinate me, and you know it.”

Hanma stuffed his hands in his pockets, strolling like you weren’t talking about blood and death. “Maybe. But they wouldn’t get to you fast enough.”

Something in the way he said it made you glance at him. He didn’t look at you, didn’t smile, just kept walking with that lazy gait.

The metallic doors locked shut behind you with a heavy clang, and then the city swallowed you again. Tokyo’s restless hum, neon bleeding down glass skyscrapers. The night air was crisp, but before you could even take a breath, a loud crack split the silence.

Both your heads tilted up.

Another crack, louder, followed by a bloom of light unfurling in the sky.

“The hell…?” you muttered, squinting. “Are those fireworks?”

The loud crackling and popping all around you, behind the skyscrapers, confirmed that suspicion.

And Hanma didn’t waste time gawking. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and firm, tugging you forward before you could protest. “Keep up!”

“Shuji—what are you—”

“Quick, before it stops.” He was already laughing, running with long, unhurried strides that forced you to stumble to catch up.

He pulled you around corners, weaving between clusters of people, past glowing convenience stores and parked cars, until you burst out onto a bridge overlooking the river.

And there they were—fireworks exploding over Tokyo, colours cascading across the night like scattered gems.

Hanma slowed, finally letting go of your wrist. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes… wide, glowing under the fractured lights above, lips parted like a kid staring at magic.

“Why are they being fired?” you asked, still breathless, your own awe sneaking into your voice. “Today’s not any holiday.”

“No fucking idea.” He tipped his head back, glasses catching the flares of pink and gold as another firework burst high.

“It’s so colourful,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. 

You didn’t look at the sky—you looked at him. At this version of him. Not trembling on your bathroom floor, not indifferent, not sneering with that dangerous arrogance. He looked like… a man, his mouth curved into an honest smile as colours bled across his lenses.

He turned his head, caught you watching him, and his grin stretched wider, warmth breaking across his sharp features.

“It’s beautiful,” you admitted, smiling, finally dragging your gaze skyward.

“How do they do that?” Hanma asked, his voice tinged with wonder. “All the colours and shit.”

You felt his eyes shift onto you. “Are you asking me?”

“Yeah. Ain’t it like a… I dunno… science thing?”

You bit your lip, fighting back a chuckle at how earnest he sounded. 

His gaze flicked down for a heartbeat, catching the motion before darting back to your face.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yes, it’s a science thing.” You kept your eyes on the glittering bursts above as you explained, voice steady but softer than usual. “Different metal salts burn at different wavelengths. Copper makes blue, strontium makes red, and barium gives green. And when you pack them into shells with oxidisers and binders, you get controlled explosions timed to scatter those colours across the sky.”

Hanma blinked at you, then let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s fucking sick.”

You snorted, warmth curling in your chest. “That it is.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just tilted his head back again, golden eyes wide as the sky cracked open with another eruption of light, reflecting light like he was holding it inside.

Chapter Text

Hanma Shuji did not have stalkerish tendencies.

That word—stalker—was for the sad sacks who got off breathing down someone’s neck, jerking it to a glimpse of skin through a window or the sound of a shower running. Creeps, pervs, fuckups with nothing better to do. That wasn’t him.

He wasn’t getting off on this shit. It didn’t make him hard or excited, and it sure as hell didn’t give him any sick thrill. Not much gave him that, anyway. 

No—when he followed you, when he shadowed your steps or lingered just far enough to be unseen, it was for one reason only.

To make sure you didn’t get yourself killed.

That was it.

And it wasn’t even every day, alright? He had better shit to do. He had meetings, errands, Kisaki breathing down his neck, and a hundred fights waiting to happen. But sometimes, every now and then, he’d trail you.

Like right now.

Hanma sat perched on the lip of a half-crumbling building across from yours, three stories high and ugly as shit. 

The city was alive below him—neon buzzing, engines rumbling, some couple screaming at each other down the block. Smoke curled lazily from his mouth as he drew on a cigarette, ash scattering down the side of the building. He swung his legs over the edge, heels knocking against the wall in a rhythm.

He checked his phone.

Any second now, you’d step out onto the street. You always did. Same fucking time every morning, give or take a minute. Always punctual, always routine.

Yawn.

How anyone found stalking thrilling, he didn’t know. The real rush came from chasing a mark he’d actually kill, from hearing the thud of boots on pavement as someone realised they weren’t gonna make it home. That had tension. That had teeth.

But this?

This was nothing. This was just waiting. Watching. Babysitting a trickster who didn’t want his help.

He checked his phone again.

Still nothing.

Hanma leaned forward, cigarette dangling from his lips, peering down at the street below. Empty. No sign of you.

Huh.

Strange.

Another five minutes ticked by. Then ten.

He ground the cigarette out against the ledge, flicking the butt into the gutter.

Where the fuck were you?

Hanma jumped off the maintenance ladder and stuffed his hands into his hoodie, crossing the street. 

Your apartment’s door was locked, as always, so he loitered in the hallway a moment, tapping the toe of his boot against the curb.

Maybe you overslept.

He knocked.

Waited.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

He kicked the door. The sound echoed down the hallway. Still nothing.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, crouching to pick the lock. It clicked open easily enough, even though you had clearly changed your locks. He bit back a smile.

The place was dark. Too dark.

Your bedroom was empty, sheets untouched. The kitchen was cold. No half-finished mug of coffee, no sign you’d rushed out late. The whole apartment looked like you hadn’t been there in days.

Hanma’s mouth flattened into a scowl.

What the shit?

He tugged his phone from his pocket and checked his screen. No location sharing, no little dot telling him where you’d run off to. Of course not. Your phone had been off for a day, but he thought you’d been at home. Sundays were usually your days off anyway, and now it was Monday.

Why the fuck was your phone off?

He stalked out of your apartment, shoving the door shut behind him. 

His steps echoed sharply and clipped against the concrete as he made his way down the street.

Not many places you could be. And if you weren’t here, then…

The lab.

He tugged his hood up over the cap he’d jammed on earlier. The hoodie was black, the cap was black, and his hair was hidden—though not much could hide his height, his inked hands, the glint of those damn glasses. If someone wanted to spot him, they would.

Whatever.

People could look all they wanted. They could talk, too. Hanma didn’t care.

Still, Toman territory was a shitty place for him to be caught hanging around. He’d stick to the alleys, the quieter routes. If anyone started sniffing, he’d come up with something slick for Kisaki later.

But first, he had to find you.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

Your world was smaller now. White walls. Fluorescent buzz. The stench of chemicals that had long since worked their way into your hair and your clothes and your skin.

It had been like this for two days straight, and you’d barely left the lab. Neither had the others. You’d all fallen into a rotation that wasn’t so much organised as desperate—two people awake, mixing and measuring, running calculations and setting up reactions, while the other two tried to catch sleep curled up in chairs, or on the couch in the corner, or just slumped over the counter with a jacket for a pillow.

You were running on fumes.

Every nerve in your body was stretched tight, muscles aching from standing too long, eyes burning from the sharp fluorescent lights overhead. 

On one counter, a bubbling bath kept the temperature steady for a flask of crystallising solution—your latest batch mid-process. Another was littered with trays of powder drying under lamps, alongside beakers and funnels crusted with residue. 

Digital scales blinked their numbers, precise down to the milligram, while glassware stacked precariously in the sink waited to be scrubbed before the next cycle.

Aya hovered over a scale, weighing out the last portion of a pale crystalline product into a glass dish, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the figures with the permanent glaze of caffeine in her eyes. 

Rina stood at her own station, scraping dried product into a tray, sweat clinging to her hairline. 

Kenji was bent over paperwork and calculators, running numbers on purity, weight, and street value.

It was chaos disguised as precision—an endless loop of grinding, mixing, dissolving, drying, packing. Your product was solid, good quality, but Tokyo Manji Gang had also made the decision to drop the price; therefore, the higher demand meant you had to work more. The pressure was relentless, and the exhaustion carved into everyone’s faces showed it.

“Where the fuck are the bags?” Rina snapped suddenly, slamming her spatula down onto the tray. Her voice cracked in the haze of fatigue. “Kenji, I asked you to go get them!”

“You go fucking get them,” Kenji snapped back without looking up. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here?”

“We need more bags, dude. I can’t just let this sit out. I need to get this shit packed so I can start the next patch!” Rina gestured at the tray of crystalline shards on her counter.

“I’ll go get them,” you sighed, shoving your chair back. Your bones protested, your body threatening to fold if you slowed down for even a second. “Stop fucking bickering.”

“I wouldn’t have to if people did their part,” Rina muttered, eyes cutting toward Kenji.

“Fuck you,” Kenji muttered back.

“Can everyone just calm down?” Aya snapped, her patience finally cracking. She shoved her glasses up her nose and went back to scribbling notes, the tension still hanging heavy in the air.

You shook your head, tired to your core. You didn’t have the energy for this.

The lab was in the basement-level garage of the building, concrete walls lined with metal shelving and humming refrigerators stuffed with precursors, reagents, and samples. But the real bulk supplies—bags, ziplocks, gloves, disposable masks—were stored in a smaller room just off the stairwell at the back.

You slipped off your gloves, tossing them into the waste bin, and pushed through the door into the stairwell. The harsh lab light gave way to the dimmer, cooler air of the concrete stairwell, the echo of your steps hollow against the steps. 

You unlocked the small storage closet, where the smell of plastic and dust met you as you grabbed a bundle of vacuum-sealed packs and a roll of ziplock bags.

With your arms full, you turned back toward the lab, stepping into the stairwell—

And froze.

A figure was descending the stairs, shadows stretching long across the wall, the faint outline of a cap pulled low over their head. For half a heartbeat, your chest seized in panic, heart thudding hard enough to make your grip falter on the bags.

Then the light caught on the edge of his glasses.

“Shuji—” the bags nearly slipped from your arms, rustling loudly as you clutched them tighter. Your pulse spiked, anger and shock colliding in your chest. “What the fuck?!”

Hanma stopped halfway down the stairs, head tilted, his hand in his hoodie pocket like he hadn’t expected to be caught. For a moment, he just looked at you—wide-eyed, like you were the one who’d startled him.

Your breath hitched, pulse racing as the plastic bags crinkled in your arms. “How—why are you here?!” Your voice pitched higher than you meant it to, panic threading through the edges.

Your eyes cut instinctively to the heavy steel door that led back into the lab, heart pounding harder at the thought of anyone hearing. If one of your team stepped out and saw him—if anyone from Toman came sniffing around—this whole operation could go up in smoke.

Hanma’s gaze flicked briefly toward the door, then back to you. His voice was casual, but quiet. “Your phone’s off.”

You blinked at him. “So?!”

“And you weren’t at your apartment.”

You just stared at him, your face twisted in disbelief. That was his explanation? He’d broken into your space, tracked you down, and now stood here like it was the most normal thing in the world?

“You can’t be here!” you hissed, shifting the weight of the bags in your arms as if they could shield you from him. “Anyone from Toman could walk right in!”

Hanma only tilted his head, eyes running over you in a way that made your skin crawl—not in the way men usually watched you, but in assessment, like he was taking stock. His grin didn’t come. Instead, there was something else flickering across his face, something disarmingly close to concern.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

The question hit harder than you expected. His voice was softer than usual, stripped of the usual mockery. Almost careful.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

So instead, you said, “You can’t be here,” clutching the bags to your chest as if they could muffle the panic in your voice.

Hanma didn’t answer right away. He just stood there on the stairs, head cocked, watching you with that unblinking gaze that made it hard to tell whether he was calculating or just… waiting. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “Charge your phone. Message me when yer heading home. I’ll drive you there.”

Your mouth fell open, the protest already on the tip of your tongue. “You—”

“Wasn’t a fucking request.”

The words cracked through the stairwell like a whip, harsh and sharp in a way that left you stunned. Hanma Shuji had teased you, taunted you, made a game of everything—but this wasn’t a game. This was command. The kind of tone he hadn’t used with you before.

And it rattled you more than you wanted to admit.

You just stood there, staring at him with wide eyes, the bags digging into your arms. Before you could form an answer, he turned and ascended the stairs, long strides carrying him up and out of sight, leaving you blinking at the curve of his back until the stairwell was empty again.

Your pulse refused to settle even as the heavy lab door swung shut behind you.

“Finally,” Rina snapped when she spotted you. She snatched the bags from your arms before you could reply.

Kenji was bent over the table, his stained gloves working fast and messy, muttering curses under his breath. 

Aya stood at the sink, scrubbing down a glass beaker, her hair tied up but strands escaping to frame her flushed, tired face.

You threw on your lab coat again, shoulders sagging with the weight of exhaustion, and joined them.

The next few hours blurred together—measured powders, boiling solutions, dissolving, filtering, crystallising, drying. The familiar smell of solvents clung to your hair and skin, making your stomach turn every now and then. 

You caught Rina snapping at Kenji more than once, and Kenji slamming a flask down harder than necessary. 

Aya’s eyes were bloodshot, her hands trembling slightly even as she moved with practised precision.

No one said it out loud, but you all felt it—the crash was coming.

Finally, after another endless batch was sealed, labelled, and stashed in the storage cabinet, Rina dropped onto the battered couch in the corner. “I’m done. If I don’t sleep now, I’ll start putting sugar instead of sodium bicarbonate.”

Aya peeled off her gloves, flexing her sore fingers. “Ten hours. We rest for ten hours and then come back.”

You hesitated, glancing at the stack of unfinished notes, the clutter of glassware that still needed to be cleaned. Your chest tightened with guilt at the thought of leaving it all. But then you saw Kenji’s head tipped back, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and Rina already pulling a blanket over herself. Aya leaned against the doorframe, her expression saying what none of you wanted to admit—you’d all pushed too far.

You exhaled slowly, tugging off your gloves. “Fine. Ten hours.”

Your words sealed it.

The lab went quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation fans.

And even as you packed up your things, exhaustion clawed at your muscles.

You’d charged your phone in the break room while waiting for Aya to finish scribbling the last of her notes, the screen glowing like it was mocking you. Hanma’s words gnawed at you the entire time.

Message me when you’re heading home.

It felt stupid—no, worse, it felt like obeying him. And yet, with your body sagging against the counters and your eyelids burning, you knew you didn’t have the energy to argue. After a moment’s hesitation, you thumbed out a message.

You: Heading home now.

He replied almost immediately: Car’s a few streets down. Come find me.

You stuffed your phone into your pocket, muttered a half-hearted goodnight to the others, and trudged out into the night air. The city felt sharper after hours in the chemical stink of the lab, but your body was too wrung out to enjoy it. 

You spotted the familiar car under a half-dead streetlight, its frame hulking like it was waiting for you.

Hanma leaned back in the driver’s seat, hood up, long fingers tapping on the steering wheel. When you yanked open the passenger door and slid inside, you muttered, voice rough with fatigue, “Last time you order me like that, asshole.”

He didn’t shoot back a grin or a cutting remark, didn’t even look at you with that usual spark of mischief. He just shifted the car into gear, his jaw tight, profile lit by the glow of the dashboard. Oddly sour. Oddly tense.

You blinked at him, the retort halfway formed on your tongue, but you were too tired to press. Too tired to care. 

The seatbelt clicked into place, the hum of the engine a lullaby you couldn’t fight against.

By the time the car rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, your head had lolled to the side, breath slow and even in sleep.

Hanma killed the engine and sat there for a moment, looking at you. 

Then he reached over, nudged your shoulder with the back of his hand, and said, low, “Wake up. You’re home.”

You stirred at the nudge, blinking blearily at the building outside your window. Your mouth tasted stale, your limbs heavy.

“You could’ve woken me up earlier,” you mumbled, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“You needed the sleep,” Hanma said flatly, eyes forward, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

That tone again. Not playful, not biting. Just clipped.

You frowned, studying him, but he didn’t look your way. The golden reflection of the streetlights glinted off his glasses.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said finally, voice edged with fatigue.

“Mm.”

You lingered, waiting for him to crack a joke, to toss some ridiculous comment your way—anything that felt like him. But he didn’t. His jaw flexed, his knuckles tapped the wheel once, and then he reached across you to push the passenger door open.

“You should go.”

You blinked at him. “What the hell’s your problem tonight?”

That got him to look at you. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, but not cruel. “Nothin’. Just… tired.”

For once, you couldn’t tell if he was lying.

You stepped out, the chill of the night wrapping around you. He didn’t wait for you to close the door; the car peeled away from the curb before you even made it to the building entrance.

Inside, you leaned against the door after locking it. The silence of your apartment pressed in, broken only by the muffled hum of pipes in the walls.

Hanma Shuji being off unsettled you more than if he had stormed in uninvited like usual.

Whatever.

Eight hours of sleep.

That was more important.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The next few days bled together in a haze of chemicals, arguments, and exhaustion.

Every morning felt like your body was stitched together by sheer willpower, your eyes burning as you dragged yourself back to the lab. 

Aya tried to hold the group together, but even she was cracking—her voice snapping sharp when Rina misplaced a set of samples, her hands trembling as she tried to measure out powders with precision.

Kenji had lost his temper twice, slamming a glass beaker hard enough against the counter that shards scattered across the floor, Aya screaming at him to “pull it the fuck together.” He muttered apologies, but the tension never lifted.

And then the Toman members started showing up.

They yelled at you about deadlines, about shipments not being ready fast enough, about clients threatening to switch to Valhalla permanently. Their shadows filled the cramped space, looming like storm clouds, their anger always directed at your team but never softened by understanding. They didn’t care that you hadn’t slept. They didn’t care about the bruises beneath your eyes or how your hands shook from too much caffeine and too little food.

They just wanted results.

Every night, you stumbled home feeling like you were dragging your bones behind you. Every night, your bed called to you like a siren, and yet you never slept well—waking in fragments, dreaming of bags of powder and boiling flasks, of Toman’s demands ringing in your ears.

On the fourth night, the lab doors slammed shut behind you, and you trudged to the metro station, shoulders aching under the weight of your backpack, your whole body swaying like you were held up by invisible strings.

The city lights blurred around you, your vision stinging. You rubbed your face, muttering curses under your breath, wishing you could disappear into the concrete. Just for a night. Just for a few hours.

The honk cut sharply through your haze, dragging your heavy head up from the cracked pavement. 

His car. 

Him.

You didn’t even think—just opened the door and slid inside. The familiar smell of cigarette smoke clung to the air, and for once, you didn’t complain. You just buckled yourself in, staring straight ahead.

“You good?” His voice was lighter than the look in his eyes, like he was trying to pass the question off as casual.

“Yes.” The word came out too fast, too brittle. ”Never been better.”

Your chest tightened, and suddenly you couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears blurred your vision, hot and unrelenting, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them. 

You pressed your palm over your face, trying to hide, your breath catching. “Don’t mind me,” you choked out between shallow sobs.

Hanma’s hands stayed tight on the wheel. His lips parted like he might say something—anything—but nothing came. His golden eyes darted to you once, then back to the road.

He didn’t fill the silence with jokes or mockery. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. He just drove, the quiet broken only by the soft hum of the engine and your muffled sobs.

And maybe that was worse, his silence. Because you couldn’t tell if he was ignoring you or if he simply didn’t know what the hell to do with you falling apart in his car.

By the time he pulled up to your building, your throat ached raw and your body felt hollow, wrung out. 

He killed the engine but didn’t move, waiting.

You sniffed, wiping your face with your sleeve. “…Thanks.”

He only nodded, eyes on the windshield, knuckles still pale against the steering wheel.

You reached for the door handle, pausing just a moment. For some reason, you half-expected him to say something—some cutting remark, some strange comfort. But he didn’t.

So you got out. The night air stung your tear-warmed skin, and you didn’t look back as you went inside.

Hanma lit a cigarette before the door even closed behind you. The flare of the lighter briefly illuminated his face.

You stared at your building, at the familiar cracks in the steps, at the dim yellow light buzzing above the door, at the weight of everything waiting inside. Your keys sat cold in your hand, but your body wouldn’t move.

Hanma leaned back in his seat, cigarette burning between his fingers, smoke curling out the cracked window. He hadn’t left yet. He just sat there, like he had all the time in the world. That made you jealous.

Your chest felt tight, tears still crusting your lashes. Before you could stop yourself, you yanked the car door open again and leaned down, voice raw.

“Can you take me somewhere?”

His brows lifted. “Like where?”

You shook your head, desperate. “Anywhere but here.”

“Trickster,” his voice softened, almost scolding, “you need to go to sleep.”

“Please.” The word fell from you like a confession, thin and breaking.

For a moment, his golden eyes studied you through the smoke. Then he sighed, flicking the cigarette out the window. “Fine. Get in.”

You slid back into the seat, pulling the door closed. He shifted the car into gear without another word, and the city lights began to blur past again.

You didn’t ask where he was taking you. You didn’t care.

It wasn’t until the familiar outline of the warehouse came into view—the one you remembered from before—that realisation hit. The heavy, industrial building squatted between other forgotten shells of Tokyo, lights glowing faintly inside.

Hanma killed the engine, pocketed his keys, and pushed the door open. “C’mon.”

Your legs felt like lead, but you followed him, climbing out into the cool night. 

He shoved the warehouse door open with his shoulder, the scent of faint cigarette smoke washing over you.

The inside was the same as before—half lived-in, half battlefield, big couch, huge TV, a kitchen cobbled together with mismatched furniture, the hum of a fridge filling the silence.

He tossed his keys onto the counter, glanced back at you, and jerked his chin toward the couch. “Sit. You look like you’ll collapse.”

You took off your shoes and left them by the door. 

Then you pulled off your jacket and sank into the couch, the worn cushions swallowing you whole. For the first time in days, your body stopped fighting against itself, exhaustion dragging you under in a single, merciless wave.

Hanma opened the fridge. “You want somethin’ to eat? Drink?”

No answer.

He tilted his head. “Oi, Trickster—”

When you didn’t reply, he walked over to the couch.

You were already out cold, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

“…Shit.”

Hanma dragged a hand down his face, glancing toward the hall. The house was quiet—no sound of Baji yelling at some game, no footsteps from Itachi or Qiang. Good. 

Hanma exhaled through his nose, then pushed off the counter. For a long moment, he just stood over you, looking at the shadows under your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped even in sleep. You looked wrecked. Tired down to your bones.

“Always so fuckin’ stubborn,” he muttered, crouching.

Carefully, he slid one arm under your knees and the other beneath your back. You were a bit lighter than he remembered, but his ribs still ached as he straightened, grunting under his breath.

You stirred only slightly, face pressing against his chest as if searching for warmth. 

Hanma froze for a heartbeat, the unexpected contact hitting him in a place he didn’t have a name for. Then he shook it off, carrying you down the hall.

His room wasn’t much. A bed pushed against the wall, blankets half-tangled, a desk with a computer and papers scattered across it, a chair pushed out just enough to look lived in. Still, it was better than leaving you on the damn couch.

He lowered you onto the bed, adjusting you so your head rested on the pillow. For a second, he just stood there, towering over you. Then he bent, grabbed the blanket, and pulled it over your body.

He went to get your backpack and jacket and set them down on his chair.

Hanma straightened, scratching the back of his neck, eyes still on you. He thought about lighting another cigarette, about heading back to the couch and forgetting you were here.

Instead, he lingered in the doorway, watching you sleep in his bed.

Then, feeling like a damn creep, he closed the door, leaving you alone in your slumber.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The first thing you registered was the smell. Not sharp chemicals or acrid smoke, not the faint metallic tang that clung to the lab. This was different. Warm. Musky. Manly in a way that made you inhale before your brain caught up. It was… nice. Comforting, even.

Then realisation crashed down like ice water.

Your eyes flew open.

You weren’t in your apartment. Or the lab.

You were in a bed—his bed. Hanma’s sheets pulled over your body, your face buried against a pillow that smelled like him.

You sat up too fast, rubbing your eyes, heart pounding as your brain scrambled to figure out what year it was, what day, what time—

The lab.

“Fuck!” You lurched upright, nearly tripping over the blanket tangled around your legs. 

You stormed out of the room, through the hallway, only to freeze as you reached the kitchen.

Two pairs of eyes met yours.

A man sat at the table, a spoon halfway to his mouth, cereal milk dripping back into the bowl with wild amber eyes and a scowl carved into a face you recognised instantly—Baji. Shirtless, long hair mussed, like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into breakfast.

Beside him sat a man you’d never met in person, though you’d seen his face in tagged photos—Qiangwei, you realised. He looked like an ordinary guy, black hair, glasses, his build average, a mug paused halfway to his lips as if someone had hit “pause” on him.

They stared.

You stared.

Before you could think of what the hell to do, a door creaked open and footsteps padded closer.

Itachi emerged, yawning, scratching lazily at his stomach with one hand. He was shirtless too, and your eyes caught on the ink that crawled from his neck down to his waistband, black patterns that shifted with every step. He stopped mid-stride when he spotted you.

Silence thickened. The air in the kitchen felt suspended, charged.

Then a slow, delighted grin split his face.

“Well, morning, sugar!” Itachi drawled, voice still hoarse with sleep but dripping amusement, like this was the best thing he could’ve woken up to. His grin widened when your eyes darted nervously between the three of them. “Didn’t know you were here. What a lovely surprise.”

He turned casually to the table, nodding at the man with the mug.
“Qiang. This is the girl I've been tellin’ you about. Ain’t she pretty?”

Qiang didn’t even blink. His gaze cut over you, unimpressed. “This is the Toman chemist,” he said flatly, more accusation than question.

Your throat tightened.

“Why’s she ‘ere?” Baji barked suddenly, his spoon clattering against the bowl. He leaned forward, amber eyes narrowing on you like you were some intruder that had broken into their den.

A mix of a groan and a yawn cut through the thick tension, dragging all eyes toward the couch. Long arms stretched over the backrest, joints popping.

“Aw, man. You slept on the couch?” Itachi’s brow furrowed, as if that was the thing worth commenting on.

Hanma sat up slowly, rolling his neck, hair sticking out in messy tufts, rubbing the heel of his palm against one eye. 

“Why the fuck is she here?” Baji snapped again, his voice sharper this time, teeth bared.

Hanma turned his head lazily toward you, lids heavy, gaze unreadable. Then he looked back at Baji. His voice came low, flat.
“Put a fuckin’ shirt on.”

Baji’s nostrils flared. “He’s without a shirt.” He jabbed his spoon toward Itachi.

“You’re lucky I even decided to put on pants,” Itachi replied, unbothered.

Your skin crawled under the weight of all their eyes. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Itachi’s grin returned in full force, warm and wicked. “There are two, sugar. I’ll show ya.”

You followed him down the hall, each step echoing in the silence. Part of you expected the bathroom to reek of piss, towels strewn everywhere, toothpaste caked in the sink—four men living together, how could it not? But when you pushed the door open, it was surprisingly neat. Clean tiles, folded towels, the faint scent of soap. You almost laughed in disbelief.

After using the toilet, you leaned heavily against the sink, staring at your reflection. You turned on the tap and let the water run, splashing your face, cold drops sliding down your cheeks. It did little to wash away the exhaustion coiled in your bones. You pressed your palms to the porcelain, breathing in slow, steady pulls. 

When you stepped back into the kitchen, the atmosphere had shifted—but only slightly.

All four men were dressed now, though that did little to soften the sharp edges of their stares. Baji was holding a tissue against his nose, the white already blotched deep red, glaring daggers at you like you’d been the one who had struck him in the face.

Hanma stood at the counter, broad shoulders filling out the black wifebeater he’d pulled on, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He busied himself with the coffee machine, back half-turned to the room, silent.

Itachi hummed lazily at the stove, frying eggs like this was the most normal morning in the world, spatula in hand. He, too, had found a shirt for himself.

Qiang sat rigid, still scowling your way, one arm resting on the table, mug gripped in his hand like it might shatter. His stare was heavier than Baji’s, darker, weighted with something you couldn’t read but didn’t like.

You shifted on your feet, the tension pressing down on your shoulders like lead.

No one said a word.

“Got any allergies?” Itachi’s voice cut through the silence, warm and easy, as if he’d just noticed you standing there like some stray cat at the door.

You blinked. “No.”

“Good,” he said with a grin, turning back to the stove, flipping an egg with practiced ease. “Would’ve been a tragedy if I killed you with breakfast.”

Hanma finally turned around from the counter, mug in his hand. His golden eyes flicked over you, unreadable, before he asked, “Did ya sleep well?”

Before you could answer, Itachi muttered just loud enough, “Can’t believe you brought her here just to sleep. By herself. Alone in yer bed. Missed a chance there, brother.”

A sharp thud echoed as Hanma smacked the back of his head.

“Ouch.” Itachi laughed, rubbing the spot.

“I slept alright,” you said quickly, desperate to redirect the attention. “Thanks.”

Baji shifted in his seat, practically vibrating with restrained energy. His amber eyes burned holes into you, jaw flexing like he was chewing on words too sharp to spit out.

“I apologise for invading your space,” you offered carefully, trying to ease the tension. “It’s not Shuji’s fault. I asked him to bring me somewhere.”

“Like it would even be his fault,” Baji muttered, voice low but edged.

“I mean no harm to any of you,” you pressed, unsure why he was this angry at your presence.

He scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Like we’d be worried ‘bout that.”

You tilted your head, exhaustion shortening your patience. “Then why are you so hostile?”

“Hostile?!” Baji repeated, voice rising, chair legs screeching as he half-stood.

“Bajiii,” Itachi sing-songed, clicking his tongue. “Better watch out now. Your bloody nose’ll soon have a black eye to match.” He threw a pointed glance over his shoulder at the acting leader.

Hanma was glaring daggers at Baji, one hand still tight on his coffee mug.

“I agree with Baji,” Qiang said, calm and monotone, but it only made the words heavier. His dark eyes flicked toward you, sharp and assessing. “She shouldn’t be here. If Tetta-san knew—”

“Oh, excitin’,” Hanma cut in, a crazed smile curling on his lips. “How would he find out?”

“People are already talking, Shuji-san,” Qiang replied, steady as stone. “They’re watching you. Soon they’ll start asking questions.” His gaze swept toward you again. “Paying closer attention.”

Hanma leaned back against the counter, looking almost thrilled at the idea. “And then?”

“Then Tetta-san will have her killed. Unless Mikey gets there first.”

Your stomach twisted violently. Their casual tone, like they were discussing the weather, made it worse.

“Tetta won’t say shit,” Hanma said with ease. “I dunno about Mikey, though.”

That earned you another round of stares—sharp, curious, lingering.

“Very much possible,” you admitted softly, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.

“Then why risk it?” Qiang asked you bluntly, head tilting just slightly. “Why sit here with Valhalla at all?”

You lifted one tired finger. “This is the first time I did it willingly. And I didn’t exactly plan on ending up… here.”

Qiang’s eyes rolled skyward as he stood, chair scraping harshly against the floor.

“Don’t worry ‘bout Qiang-kun, sweetness,” Itachi chimed in, dropping bread into the toaster. “He’s territorial when it comes to Shuuji.”

“Shut up, Nakamura,” Qiang snapped, colour rising in his face instantly, ears pinking despite his tone.

Itachi only laughed, delighted. “Am I wrong, though?”

Qiang shot a look at Hanma, who had his head in the fridge, completely ignoring the exchange. That seemed to frustrate him more.

Then his glare snapped back to you, sharp enough to cut, before he turned and stalked off down the hall without another word.

Baji was still perched at the table, vibrating, eyes trained on you.

You gave him your sweetest smile, sharp at the edges, and pulled out a chair. Sitting down at the table felt almost defiant, like you were daring them to kick you out.

You let yourself breathe in this strange Valhalla bubble, even if only for a few more minutes, trying not to think of the life that waited you outside these walls.

Itachi turned with a plate in hand, grinning. “Alright, sugar. Time for breakfast!”

Chapter Text

Being around these men was strange because everything seemed so mundane. And it shouldn't.

You sat at the table, quiet, watching them devour breakfast and argue over a rugby game from last night. Their voices overlapped, sharp but familiar, like they’d been doing this every morning for years.

Baji had long abandoned cereal for something heartier—four slices of toast stacked on his plate, two bowls of miso soup, and a pair of egg rolls he was tearing into with single-minded focus. He ate like someone was about to snatch the food away from him, talking around mouthfuls as he argued with Itachi, amber eyes flashing, crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth.

Hanma, sitting beside you, seemed perfectly at ease in the chaos. He sided with Itachi every chance he got, just to rile Baji up. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief behind his glasses, lips quirking whenever Baji’s temper spiked.

“Bunji would fuckin’ agree with me,” Baji snapped, slamming his chopsticks against the table for emphasis.

“I’ll go wake him up,” Itachi said with mock solemnity, dropping his chopsticks and pushing to his feet. His grin was wolfish.

“He lives here too?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“Yup.” Itachi’s grin widened as though the idea entertained him, and then he disappeared down the hall, whistling.

The table quieted for a moment—just the scrape of chopsticks against bowls, the clink of mugs.

Two minutes later, Itachi burst back into the kitchen, eyes wide. “Protect me!”

You jerked back as thunderous thuds shook the hall. 

A massive man followed him, shirt clinging wetly to his chest, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping in rivulets down his face. His scowl was murderous, eyes locked on Itachi as he tore into the room.

“Help!” Itachi yelped, darting around the table like a fox with hounds at its heels.

You blinked rapidly at Bunji and the sheer size of him, dripping like some furious beast dragged from a river.

“You’re on your own,” Baji said flatly, returning to his food as though this scene was perfectly normal.

Bunji planted himself at the far end of the table, chest heaving, glaring at Itachi like he was about to snap him in half. Drops of water fell in steady plinks to the floor, gathering at his feet.

“Truce?” Itachi offered weakly, lifting his hands like a peace flag. “I made breakfast.”

Bunji didn’t speak. He just breathed like a bull, nostrils flaring, a low rumble caught in his chest.

“We have a guest,” Itachi said quickly, gesturing at you with both hands. “So ya gotta behave.”

For the first time, Bunji’s gaze shifted. Heavy, unblinking eyes settled on you, pinning you in place. 

You sat straighter instinctively, unsure what to do under his scrutiny.

After a long pause, he exhaled hard through his nose, a sound almost like a snort. Then, without a word, he straightened to his full, daunting height and stomped back down the hall, each step shaking the floor.

Itachi blew out a dramatic sigh, shoulders slumping. “Dodged a bullet there. Damn.”

“Yer a fucking idiot,” Baji said without looking up, stuffing more toast into his mouth.

“Better fix him a plate,” Hanma mused, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

Itachi groaned, dragging his hands down his face, but moved back to the stove anyway, already pulling another pan from the cabinet.

The domesticity of it all sat heavily in your chest—so at odds with who they were and what they did. 

At some point between Bunji’s stomping retreat and Itachi humming at the stove, you remembered.

The lab.

Your job.

Shit.

You pushed your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping the floor. “Uh—where are my things?” you asked, glancing toward Hanma.

He didn’t even look up from the mug of coffee he was nursing. “In my room. On the chair.”

You nodded quickly, excusing yourself.

Slipping down the hall, heart already picking up pace, you ducked into his room. You grabbed your jacket off the chair and dug into the pocket until your fingers closed around your phone.

Your screen lit up. Not dozens of missed calls and frantic messages like you expected. Not even a text from Aya or Rina.

Just Kenji.

Ten missed calls. Six messages.

Kenji: lied to aya & rina. told them you had a fever. don’t make me regret this.
Kenji: where the fuck r u actually???
Kenji: did you sleep in or what??
Kenji: …ur not in danger again are you???
Kenji: ANSWER ME

You chewed your lip, hit call before you could think better of it.

He answered on the first ring. “WHERE the fuck are you?”

“I’m… with Hanma.”

A beat of silence. 

Then: “WHAT? WHY?!”

You winced, pulling the phone slightly from your ear. “Relax. I’m… snooping. For information.”

A complete lie but you couldn't tell him that you were actually with Hanma Shuji because you didn't want to be at home. Kenji would have skinned you alive for that.

“Snooping?” He sounded strangled. “What the fuck does that even mean? You’re—what, undercover now? Jesus Christ, you’re insane.”

“It’s fine. He doesn’t suspect anything.”

“Doesn’t—” Kenji cut himself off, swore under his breath. “Whatever. Just don’t get caught. I can’t cover for you twice.”

“I’ll be careful,” you promised, though your voice lacked conviction. Maybe because it was complete bullshit to the t.

Kenji groaned. “Aya’s already pissed. Rina too. You’d better come back soon.”

“Yeah,” you said, though your chest tightened as you ended the call.

Because the truth was… the idea of going back right now—back to the cramped lab, the sharp words, the constant weight of responsibility—made something in your stomach turn.

You rubbed at your temples, guilt biting at your insides. You’d left them on their own. You should feel desperate to return.

So why did this place, with its mismatched furniture and arguing men and the faint scent of frying eggs, feel… easier?

A soft knock at the doorframe startled you. 

You turned to see Hanma leaning there.

“You wanna go home already?” he asked, tone neutral, but his eyes searching.

Your mouth opened—then stalled. The thought of your apartment, silent and empty, waiting for you to curl up in bed alone, pressed in on you. And the lab… your throat closed up.

To your absolute horror, the idea of leaving made you feel… unpleasant.

“I mean…” You forced a laugh that sounded all wrong in your ears. “Are you busy? Got plans for today or…?”

He tilted his head, watching you too closely. Then, with a shrug, “Not yet.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Wanna, uh, stay here for a bit?”

Your pulse jumped. 

What a ridiculous idea. What a dangerous one.

And yet…

“I mean, if it’s okay with you.”

“Sure.” Hanma’s answer was slightly hesitant. His gaze darted around his room like he’d only just realised what a mess—or maybe how bare—it was. “Whatchu wanna do?”

Right. What would you even do here? You weren’t about to sit cross-legged on his bed and watch him chain-smoke or, worse, stare at each other in awkward silence.

“Uhm.” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, swaying slightly. “What do you usually do?”

Hanma tilted his head, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he was thinking it over. Then his expression brightened. “You like playin’?”

Your brow furrowed. “Playing?”

“We got a bunch of games on the console.” He said it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal, but there was something almost boyish in the way his eyes flicked to you, like he was testing whether you’d laugh at him for suggesting it.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile from breaking loose. It always happened when he was being… earnest. Earnestness wasn’t supposed to fit on someone like him, but when it slipped through, you never knew what to do with it.

“Show me,” you said finally, and that small, crooked grin of his broke free. 

He pushed himself off the doorframe and nodded toward the living room.

The warehouse common space was still cluttered with mugs and dishes from breakfast. “You ever played before?”

“I have,” you admitted, hovering awkwardly on the couch edge. “It’s been a while, though.”

“It’s alright,” he said, rooting around for controllers. “We’ll pick somethin’ easy.”

The way he said we made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He found two controllers and tossed one to you without warning. You fumbled, almost dropping it, and his laugh cracked through the space—light, genuine. Then he leaned forward to power the console on, the screen flickering with a soft hum.

The glow lit up the living room, reflecting against his glasses as he scrolled through a cluttered library of games. Fighting titles, racing, co-op shooters. It was more variety than you’d expected.

“Alright,” he said, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “Dealer’s choice. Want somethin’ violent, or somethin’ cute?”

Your lips twitched. “You have cute games?”

His grin sharpened. “Don’t underestimate us. Even criminals need Mario Kart.”

You arched a brow. “You play Mario Kart?”

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Sometimes. Loser does the dishes.”

That earned a small laugh from you, though you tried to smother it behind your hand. “And who usually loses?”

Hanma leaned back on his heels on the floor, looking up at you with mock offence. “What kinda question’s that? Obviously not me.”

“Mhm. Sure.”

“Better not be talkin’ shit before the game even starts.” 

The opening theme blasted from the TV, cheerful and upbeat, and it felt bizarrely out of place in Valhalla’s hideout. 

Hanma sank into the couch beside you, knees sprawled wide. The controller looked small in his hands, and his grin was sharp, all teeth and confidence.

You picked your character carefully—Peach, because why not? 

Hanma whistled low. “Figures. Princess treatment, huh?”

“And you?” you asked, glancing sideways.

He chose Bowser without hesitation. “Big bad villain. Fits me better, don’t it?”

The countdown began. Three. Two. One.

You shot off the starting line with surprising ease, drifting into the first corner. 

Hanma cursed under his breath, fumbling with his acceleration.

“Don’t tell me you talked big just to choke on the first lap,” you teased.

His head snapped toward you, smile widening. “Don’t get cocky. I’m just warmin’ up.”

Sure enough, by the second lap, he’d gotten his rhythm back, tailing you close, throwing shells and laughing every time you swerved too late.

The third lap was brutal—he rocketed ahead, only for you to nail him with a red shell seconds before the finish line. His controller clattered against his knee when you slid in first.

You couldn’t hold back your smile this time. “Guess you’re on dish duty.”

He tilted his head, watching you with that half-lidded gaze of his, but there was no malice in it—only amusement. “You got lucky.”

“I won,” you corrected.

Before he could bite back, a voice came from the hallway. “The fuck am I lookin’ at?”

Both your heads whipped toward the hallway.

Baji stood there, hair wild, a half-eaten chocolate bar in his hand. His eyes flicked between the screen and the two of you on the couch, narrowing like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“…Are you—playin’ Mario Kart?” he asked, disbelief dripping off every word.

Hanma leaned back, controller dangling loose in his hand, grin wide as ever. “Yup. What’s it look like?”

Baji took a slow bite of his chocolate bar, chewing, glaring. “Looks like ya went soft.”

“Oh, don’t be salty ‘cause nobody asked you to join,” Hanma fired back.

“I wouldn’t want to join,” Baji scoffed. “Sittin’ around like kids—”

“Sounds like loser talk,” you cut in before you could stop yourself.

Both men looked at you.

Baji’s brows shot up. “Loser talk, huh? Alright, princess.” He cracked his knuckles. “Move over. I’m playin’ next.”

Hanma’s grin stretched wider. “Knew ya couldn’t resist.”

You shook your head, laughter bubbling in your chest. The Valhalla hideout, of all places, and here you were—caught between two men who looked like they could kill with a glance but were now dead serious about a video game.

Before the next round began, Baji grabbed the third controller from the shelf like he’d been waiting for this moment all along, and shoved himself onto the couch beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he wanted you to know he was there. 

Hanma leaned forward, elbows on his knees, competitive fire in his eyes as he watched the screen.

And for the first time in days, you felt yourself relax.

Then, the lobby music chimed again, cheerful and taunting. 

“Who d’you play as?” Hanma asked, smirking.

Baji didn’t hesitate. “Yoshi. Fastest little fucker alive.”

“That’s debatable,” you said, choosing Peach again just to spite them both.

Hanma leaned back, Bowser flashing on screen. “Princess, Yoshi, Bowser. Guess I’m the only villain here.”

“Fitting,” Baji muttered, rolling his shoulders.

The race kicked off.

Instant chaos.

Baji slammed into your kart before the first turn, cackling when you skidded off track. “Hope you packed a lunch, princess. You’re dead last!”

You clenched your teeth, steering back onto the road. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Hanma, meanwhile, was already barreling forward, drifting around corners like he was born for this. “Catch up, losers,” he drawled, tossing a green shell that nailed Baji straight in the back.

“Motherfucker!” Baji roared, shaking the controller like it’d help. “Cheap shot!”

You laughed so hard you nearly missed a boost pad.

By the second lap, all three of you were neck and neck. 

Baji elbowed Hanma in the ribs, and Hanma elbowed him right back so hard that Baji hit your side, making you almost drop your controller.

“Oi—no physical attacks!” you said, gripping your controller tighter.

“Everything’s fair game!” Baji barked, eyes glued to the screen.

“Yeah, quit whinin’,” Hanma added, grin sharp.

The final lap was pure chaos. Blue shells, banana peels, lightning—every dirty trick in the book. 

You were inches from the finish line when Hanma’s Bowser sideswiped Peach into the grass.

“You bastard!” you yelled, laughing despite yourself.

Hanma threw his head back, laughing, while his kart crossed the line first. Baji came second. You, humiliatingly, third.

Before you could demand a rematch, a slow clap echoed from the kitchen.

Itachi leaned against the table, mug in hand, eyes crinkled with mischief. “Ain’t this precious? Baji’s hangin’ out with the chemist.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Baji growled, pointing his controller at him.

“Ya want in, Itachi?” Hanma asked, grin wicked. “Make it a four-way?”

“Oh, hell no. I’d mop the floor with you and ruin the fragile lil’ egos you got.” He winked at you, raising his mug. “Lookin’ cute when you’re competitive, sugar.”

You flipped him off, cheeks hot.

Hanma caught it, a smirk curling deeper. “Think she just challenged you, ‘Tachi.”

Itachi eventually set his mug down on the counter and strolled over, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a fight. “Alright, kids. Scoot over. Time to teach ya how it’s really done.”

Baji snorted. “Tch. Big talk.”

Hanma smirked, tossing him a controller. “Y’all know no one ever wins Nakamura.”

“‘Cause he’s a fuckin’ cheater,” Baji grumbled.

Two minutes later, you realised with dawning horror that Itachi nor Hanma had been bluffing.

He was terrifying.

Perfect drifts. Strategic item usage. Not a single misstep. Every round, his kart soared over the finish line while the rest of you fought each other like idiots in the back.

“Cheating,” you accused between laughter, clutching your stomach. “There’s no way—”

“Not my fault, y’all drive like you’re drunk,” Itachi replied smoothly, not even looking stressed.

Baji was vibrating with rage, controller clutched in white-knuckled fists. “I will end you, Nakamura. Just you wait.”

Hanma just cackled, letting himself fall sideways against the couch. “He’s whoopin’ yer ass, Bajiii. That’s hilarious.”

Then Hanma suddenly perked up, a glint in his eye. “A’ight. New rule. Halfway through the race—we switch controllers.”

“What?” you said.

“Yup.” He grinned widely. “Whoever’s winnin’ gets their hard work ruined. Makes it more fun.”

Itachi arched a brow. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. I’m in!”

“Bring it,” Baji said, eyes wild.

And so it began.

The first race went as expected: Itachi was leading by a mile, Baji was screaming at the screen, and you were laughing so hard you nearly fell off the couch.

Then, halfway through the second lap—switch.

Controllers went flying into new hands.

You suddenly found yourself holding Baji’s controller, Yoshi spinning in circles against a wall. “Oh no—oh no, what the fuck is this—” you wheezed.

Hanma, now piloting Itachi’s flawless run, immediately slammed Mario into a banana peel. “HAH! Look at me ruin your legacy, Itachiii!”

Itachi, now stuck with your kart, just sighed, straightening Peach out and calmly weaving back onto the track like it was nothing. “Figures you’d hand me this mess, sugar.”

Baji had inherited Hanma’s kart and was immediately swearing so loudly you were half sure the walls rattled. “SHUJI, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO THIS—”

By the end, everyone was howling with laughter, voices overlapping with curses, insults, and gasps. Your stomach cramped so badly you had to drop the controller and clutch your sides.

Hanma was doubled over, shoulders shaking, while Baji looked like he was about to combust from sheer fury at losing to Itachi again.

And Itachi? He leaned back on the couch, smug as hell, arms stretched over the backrest like a king. “Still the champ. Even handicapped.”

You threw a pillow at his face.

He laughed, shoving it to the floor. “Alright, alright. New game. Somethin’ co-op. Let’s see if any of you dumbasses can actually work together instead of sabotaging each other.”

Hanma snorted. “That’s rich, comin’ from you.” 

But he swapped games anyway, booting up a split-screen challenge where you had to work in pairs to complete missions and puzzles against another pair.

“Alright, teams,” Itachi announced grandly, like he was about to start a tournament. “Shuuji and I versus you two first.” He nodded at you and Baji.

Baji gave you a doubtful look. “Don’t drag me down.”

You rolled your eyes. “Try not to scream at me, and maybe we’ll be fine.”

The match started.

Immediately, Itachi and Hanma were yelling at each other.

“No, the switch—flip the fuckin’ switch, Shuuji!”

“I am—no, not that one!”

“God, you’re useless.”

“You’re the useless one, dumbass.”

Meanwhile, you and Baji… were weirdly efficient. He barked quick instructions, and you followed, your reflexes sharper than you expected.

“No, turn the handle the other way!” you yelled.

Baji scoffed. “What the fuck do you mean the other way– Oh, shit, yer right.”

On the screen, the door clicked open, and your characters could proceed to the next room.

“Okay, okay, princess, come on,” Baji said, perked at the edge of the couch. “Follow me.”

The chaos on the other side of the screen gave you time to focus.

“Turn the fucking handle, ‘Tachi!”

“I'm turnin’ it!”

“No, the fuck you ain’t!”

“You don’t call this turnin’ it?!” Itachi showed his controller, pressing the arrow buttons.

“Look at the fuckin’ screen!” Hanma gestured at the TV. “Is it turnin’?”

And then—victory.

You and Baji won.

Baji froze, controller in hand. “…The fuck?”

You grinned, chest still shaking with laughter. “We did it!”

 “No way. No fucking way.” He stood and pointed at Hanma and Itachi. “You two are pathetic. Me and princess are a fucking dream team together.”

Hanma cackled, falling back against the couch. “Fair enough. We’re a disaster.”

Itachi only grinned, smug despite losing. “Round two. Shuffle the pairs.”

This time, it was you with Hanma, and Baji with Itachi.

Itachi cracked his knuckles. “Let’s end this quickly.”

What followed was pure chaos.

Baji screamed at Itachi every five seconds. “Why the fuck did you—NO, NOT THERE—STOP KILLING US!”

Itachi only laughed harder. “Oops. My bad, Bajiii.”

You and Hanma? You weren’t perfect—but at least you were laughing too hard to care.

By the end of the round, the scoreboard flashed.

Winners: Shuji + You.

Losers: Baji + Itachi.

Baji threw his controller down so hard that the back flew out. “I’m done.”

Hanma snickered, leaning into your shoulder, his laughter bubbling. “He’s salty as fuck.”

You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying and failing to smother your grin. Your stomach actually hurt from how much you’d been laughing.

Itachi stretched, cracking his back. “Alright, I’ll be merciful and order food. Nobody’s cookin’, not after this mess.” He was already pulling out his phone, scrolling through menus like a man on a mission.

Hanma gathered the controllers and glanced at you. “Don’t worry, I’ll take ya home after we eat.”

You hummed. The thought of leaving made something sink in your stomach. You didn’t exactly mind being here, though you reminded yourself you’d promised Hanma to make his life hell eventually. But after he’d seen you crying in his car, seen you desperate to get out of Toman territory even for a night, you didn’t really have the upper hand to make him miserable. Not right now.

You’d bide your time. Once you weren’t so exhausted, you’d give him hell again.

For now… it was nice.

“Baji,” Itachi called without looking up. “You lost more games than anyone. You’re on dish duty.”

“The fuck I am,” Baji muttered, but he was already stomping to the sink, sleeves shoved up, glaring at the pile like it had personally wronged him.

“Punishment fits the crime,” Hanma said lazily.

Baji threw a wet rag at him in response.

You stood, padding over. “I’ll help. I came in third, after all.”

Baji gave you a sharp look, like he wanted to argue, but finally huffed and shoved a plate at you. “Fine. But if you fuckin’ break it—”

“I won’t break it,” you said, rolling your eyes.

Standing side by side at the sink, you scrubbed dishes under the warm water while he rinsed and stacked them. 

Behind you, Itachi’s voice floated from the couch: “Hey sugar, don’t let him rope you in. That’s his penance.”

Baji muttered something under his breath, and you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he almost wanted to smile but refused to let himself.

“I don’t mind,” you replied, scrubbing at a plate until it squeaked clean. “It’s a good way for me to pay for spending the night here.”

Itachi’s voice floated from the couch, too low for you to catch the words—something drawled and teasing—but you definitely caught the sharp yelp that followed when Hanma shoved him right off the cushions.

“You have no sense of humour whatsoever,” Itachi groaned from the floor, holding the back of his head dramatically.

Hanma didn’t even look sorry, glaring down at him with that sharp, unimpressed expression of his.

“Hah!” Baji barked, delighted, grinning wide as he stacked a rinsed bowl beside you. Then, as if to cover up that moment of mirth, he went back to scowling at the mountain of dishes.

You bit back a smile, passing him another plate. The warm water had numbed your fingers, the repetitive motion almost lulling—scrub, rinse, stack, repeat. Strangely enough, it felt grounding. 

From the corner of your eye, you caught Hanma watching you with that half-lidded, unreadable gaze. A cigarette between his lips burned slow, smoke curling toward the ceiling. He looked strangely content for once, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself while you washed dishes with Baji like some misplaced housemate.

“Spendin’ a night here don’t mean you’re part of us,” Baji muttered, breaking your thoughts. 

You shrugged. “Good. I’d never want to be part of you.”

He glanced at you, expression unreadable, then grunted and went back to rinsing.

By the time the last glass clinked onto the drying rack, your shoulders sagged with relief. “Done,” you said softly, drying your damp hands on a towel.

Right on cue, a knock rattled the door.

“Saved by the bell,” Itachi sang, springing up. He practically skipped to the door, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Food’s here!”

The scent hit first—fried noodles, grilled meat, warm broth. 

Itachi returned with paper bags stacked up his arms, spreading them across the table like a feast. Plastic containers clattered as he pulled them free, the room filling with the mingled aromas of soy sauce, sesame, garlic, and spice.

That was enough to draw Bunji in, his heavy steps announcing him before his massive frame appeared. Jaw set as if he still hadn’t forgiven Itachi for whatever happened earlier. He grunted, grabbed a chair, and dropped into it, the wood groaning under his weight, arms crossed until the food was within reach.

Not long after, Qiang emerged too, expression tight as ever. He took in the scene—Itachi unpacking, Baji already reaching for chopsticks, you hovering at the table—and sighed, like this circus was beneath him. Still, he sat down, sliding into a chair with all the reluctant grace of someone too disciplined to skip a meal.

And just like that, the table was full: you caught between the Valhalla wolves, the air alive with the scent of hot food and the hum of too many personalities pressed together.

You didn’t feel unsafe among them.

That was the strangest part.

You knew you should. These were men who lived in violence, men whose names were whispered like warnings in Toman territory. Strangers, rivals, enemies, depending on how you frame it. Any sane person would’ve been calculating how to escape, not sitting at their table with a container of steaming noodles and chopsticks in hand.

You were terrified of the members of Tokyo Manji Gang after all. Surely, you should feel worse about Valhalla.

But as you chewed quietly, your eyes drifted over the scene, and unease gave way to something more complicated.

They weren’t what you expected.

Itachi cracked jokes between bites of fried rice, goading Qiang until the man’s sharp replies grew more clipped with every jab. Baji leaned halfway across the table to snatch food from Itachi’s box, grumbling when he got smacked on the hand for it. Even Bunji—scowling, arms crossed, silent as a wall—relaxed enough to focus entirely on his meal, barely acknowledging the chaos around him.

It was messy. Loud. Familiar.

A group of people who knew each other’s habits, who fell into rhythms like clockwork.

And then there was Hanma.

Sitting on your left, long frame sprawled lazily, cigarette balanced between his inked fingers. The smoke curled upward, caught briefly in the glow of the ceiling light before vanishing. His golden eyes were half-lidded, unreadable, sharp when they darted across the table. He didn’t argue like the others, didn’t tease or prod—it was enough for him to sit there, an axis everything seemed to spin around.

You should’ve been afraid of him most of all. And yet, staring at his profile, you felt only that same disorienting confusion, the kind that twisted in your chest and made you want to look away and look closer at the same time.

The vibration of a phone against the table broke the mood.

Hanma checked the screen, his expression flattening instantly. “Shit,” he muttered, already rising to his feet. He stubbed his cigarette out in a half-finished bowl. “We gotta go.”

Baji dropped his chopsticks with a groan. “Now? I haven’t even—”

“Now,” Hanma cut him off, sharp enough to slice the complaint dead.

Bunji was already standing, grabbing his jacket without a word.

Hanma flicked his gaze toward you. “I’ll take ya home when I get back.”

Your stomach dipped. When he gets back? That didn’t sound like something that could be measured in minutes. Or even hours.

Before you could ask, Itachi spoke up, all easy grin as he leaned back in his chair. “I can take her, brother. No problem.”

You glanced between them. Surely Hanma would shoot that idea down.

But he didn’t.

He just tugged his hoodie on, sparing you one last look. Something unreadable flickered there, sharp and quick, and then it was gone. He turned, motioning for Baji and Bunji to follow.

The three of them disappeared out the door, the sound of boots fading.

The apartment seemed emptier without him, like the centre of gravity had just left the room.

And then Itachi clapped his hands together, his grin wide and unbothered. “Well. Looks like it’s just you and me, sugar.”

“Fuck you,” Qiang said.

Itachi looked at him. “Oh, you’re still here?”

Qiang made a face and stood. 

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

The night air was cool as Itachi walked you out of their home, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, humming some tune under his breath. 

You followed, your backpack weighing on one shoulder, still a little dazed from the whirlwind of the day.

He led you to a beat-up sedan parked crookedly on the street. The inside smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and something sweet, like gum or cheap cologne.

“Shuji seems to trust you,” you said once you’d buckled in, breaking the quiet as he started the engine.

“Yup,” Itachi replied easily, his voice light as ever. “He’s my best friend and I am his.”

Something about the way he said it—so casual, so certain, so childish—made your lips twitch into a faint smile. “That’s… cute.”

He barked a laugh, eyes flicking to you in amusement. “Cute? Ain’t no one ever called it that before.”

You shrugged, fingers fidgeting with the zipper on your jacket. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, we go way back.” He tapped the wheel as if keeping time to a song only he could hear.

“Where did you meet?” you asked.

For the first time since you’d known him, Itachi didn’t answer right away. His grin faltered. His gaze stayed fixed on the road.

It was jarring—seeing the unfiltered, chaotic lunatic hesitate, his perpetual mischief replaced with something… heavier.

“Well, shit,” he muttered, low. “Uhm. How much do ya know ’bout him?”

“About Shuji?” Your voice was careful, uncertain. “Not much. I know he had a sister. And he… was sold.” The last word made your throat tighten painfully.

The way Itachi’s head jerked slightly, the way his eyes widened—he was surprised. “Shit, he told you about that?”

You shook your head quickly. “Well—no. Not exactly. Just that he was sold, but… I don’t know what it means. Or in what way he was… sold.”

Itachi blew out a breath through his nose, shoulders sinking as though he’d suddenly remembered just how small the car was. “Well, that’s his story to tell, but we met there.”

You wanted to leave it there. You should have. But curiosity clawed at you. “Where?”

He glanced at you, lips twisting like he was telling something funny, then looked back at the road. “There was like… five of us there. No, wait six. No, five. I think?”

Your stomach dropped. “Where?”

“The place that bought us.” His tone was strangely light, as if he were talking about a game he saw last night. “It was this weird as shit family. I'm pretty sure it was five.”

Your voice was thin, breaking. “Why would they… why would they buy you?”

Itachi’s smile was sharp, careless, cruelly playful. “Surely yer smart enough to figure out why anyone would buy little boys, eh? And Shuuji—” He shook his head, almost fond, sad. “—Shuuji had it the worst. I mean, he was always the prettiest one, y'know? And I was 'too annoying'. Fuck that. No, wait... was it actually four?" 

The world tilted. Your chest tightened. Heat rose to your throat, and you couldn’t breathe.

"'Cause it was me, Shuji, Thắng... then this other kid with only one hand. And I swear there was—"

You fumbled with the seatbelt. “Stop the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Stop the fucking car!”

Itachi swore under his breath but obeyed, pulling over with a sharp swerve. Before the vehicle had fully stopped, you shoved the door open, stumbling out onto the side of the road. The cold air hit your face as you bent over and heaved, bile burning your throat, the contents of your stomach hitting the asphalt in violent waves.

“Damn,” Itachi muttered, climbing out to pat your back with a big hand. “Was the food bad?”

You shook your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “No.”

“Then why you throwin’ up?” His voice was lighter than the weight in your chest.

You turned to him, vision blurring, his wide brown eyes meeting yours. And before you could think twice, you reached forward and wrapped your arms around him.

He stiffened at first, arms half-raised as if unsure what to do. Then, awkwardly, he lowered them, hugging you back the best he could while standing on the side of the road, his hand patting your back in something close to comfort.

You didn’t know why you hugged him. Maybe because you wanted to hug Hanma. Maybe because you wanted to hug the child version of Hanma. Maybe because you wanted to hug the child version of Itachi, too.

“You good?” he asked after a long moment, his tone as cheerful as ever despite the weight pressing on you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice small against his neck.

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry about, sweetness. It's just vomit,” he replied cheerily, and you held him tighter.

You clung to him for a long time, something inside you splintering, and yet his hands felt like the only thing holding you together. 

It was as if the first flicker of understanding always arrived hand in hand with the quiet wish to crumble apart and disappear.

Chapter Text

You: Hi! Thank you for letting me stay over and for the food. Hopefully, your job went well.

Ugh. What the hell. No.

You groaned and erased it. Too stiff. Too… formal.

You: Hey! Thanks for letting me stay over.

You winced at the words, muttering to yourself, “Uhm. That’s lame.”

Sitting cross-legged on your bed after Itachi had dropped you off, you rubbed your thumb against your lip, debating.

You: Thanks for helping me. Again.

“Technically true,” you whispered, and before you could second-guess yourself, you hit send.

You set your phone down, waiting for a reply.

The buzz came twenty minutes later, just as you were brushing your teeth and spitting toothpaste into the sink.

Shuji: No prob.

You frowned at the screen, lips pressing together. What a dry reply. 

Still, you typed out another.

You: And thanks for the food.

The second it was sent, you regretted it. You felt… pathetic.

Shuji: No worries.

That was it. Nothing more. 

You scowled at the glowing screen, muttering, “Whatever.” 

Not that you wanted more. Not that you wanted an actual conversation with him. Because if you did… then what? That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your thumb betrayed you, pressing his profile anyway. Just curiosity. Just reconnaissance. Know thy enemy and all that.

No new posts.

You scrolled through the old ones, scanning the comments. That’s when you saw it—someone tagging a new fight, Raven 8, Friday.

You padded to your bedroom and sat on your bed. 

It would be insane to go, right?

Stupid idea. Idiotic, even.

On so many levels.

You didn’t even have the free time.

Why would you go?

Would Kenji go with you?

If you told him you wanted to snoop, to gather information?

No. That was reckless. That was how you would get caught.

You sighed and slid from Hanma’s profile to Itachi’s. 

His page was the usual chaos, clips and photos stacked one after the other. 

You stopped on a video. Itachi’s voice behind the camera, coaxing Hanma into showing the underside of a skateboard with a flashy design.

Your eyes didn’t linger on the board. They caught on the man holding it. The way he turned it in his hands, smiling—genuinely smiling—at the art on it. The way his voice had this boyish lift when he explained something.

You tapped the screen, freezing it on that frame. That fleeting, unguarded grin. His eyes crinkled. His mouth curved, softer than you’d ever seen it.

And something shifted inside you.

Sadness. Confusion. Empathy that had no business existing. Irritation, because all you wanted was to shake him by the shoulders and scream stay away from me.

But there was warmth, too. That dangerous, treacherous warmth blooming in your chest you had felt when you fed him when he was sick, when he watched the fireworks, when you played Mario Kart. You wanted to find him. Hug him. See what it took to make that smile stretch wider, softer, until his guard fell completely.

Your throat tightened.

“No,” you muttered, swiping the video away, forcing those thoughts back down, ignoring the heat in your chest that refused to settle.

You turned off your phone, slid beneath your blankets, and closed your eyes.

And in the morning, you did the only thing you could: you went back to work.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

Grinding. Mixing. Dissolving. Drying. Packing.

Measuring. Pouring. Double-checking formulas you already knew by heart.

Running numbers in your head until they blurred.

Glassware clinking. Burners hissing. Powder staining your cuticles, no matter how often you scrubbed.

The endless cycle had a rhythm, but it was the rhythm of chains clinking.

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

Every morning, walking back into the lab made your stomach twist. The smell of chemicals clung to the walls, sweet and acrid all at once, and already you felt your chest tightening.

You were so tired, strung taut between fear and sheer survival. Stress curled in your gut like rot.

But you had to endure. What else was there?

。 ⋆✩⋆。 ﾟ☁︎。 ⋆。 ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆✩₊˚.⋆

And then—like stepping through a portal—there was air again.

The bass rattled your ribs, music thumping so loud it stole thought from your head. 

The club smelled of sweat, perfume, alcohol, smoke, and fried food—all mixing into something heavy but alive. Neon washed over strangers’ faces, bodies brushing past you, a tide of movement and laughter. 

You could almost disappear in it. Just another shadow in the crowd, anonymous and safe for once.

You slipped into the arena, where the real draw lay. Rows of seats wrapped around the pit, the floor sticky underfoot with spilt beer. You found a spot and sat, clutching the rail. 

The fight hadn’t started yet, but energy was building like static in the air. 

People filtered in, arms stacked with drinks, wads of cash folded in hands, voices buzzing with bets and trash talk.

The atmosphere was the same as a stadium before kickoff, before the band struck the first chord. Heavy with anticipation, vibrating with excitement.

Someone leaned down, gesturing to the empty chair beside you. “Taken?”

You shook your head.

She slid in, offering only a quick nod before checking her phone. The glow lit her face as her thumb hovered over a betting app.

“Who’d you bet on?” you asked, surprising yourself. Maybe you just wanted to hear someone talk like this was normal.

“Hanma-san,” she said without hesitation. “He’s the best fighter they’ve got. You betting?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Probably smart.” She laughed softly, a warm sound. “At least you won’t lose anything.” She studied you with kind eyes. “So, who’d you come for?”

Your throat went dry. “Uh… Hanma-san. As well.”

“Figured.” She smiled knowingly. “Most people do.”

Your lips twitched into a small smile back, nervous but real.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Miyu,” you lied easily, your voice steady.

“I’m Shreya.” She held out her hand, and you shook it, her grip firm. 

“Are you Valhalla?” you asked.

“No,” she shook her head. “My husband is. Sheri—works under Hanemiya-san. You?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. Just live around here.”

She accepted the answer with a small hum.

Then the lights dimmed, plunging the arena into shadow.

“Ooh, here we go!” Shreya squealed, bouncing in her seat.

Excitement prickled through your veins despite yourself. The crowd roared as the music cut low, building suspense. 

Then—like the floor itself shifted—Black and Yellow blasted through the speakers.

You couldn’t help the laugh that snorted out of you. Corny as hell. But everyone else shouted it at the top of their lungs— “BLACK AND YELLOW, BLACK AND YELLOW—”

And then he appeared.

Hanma strode into the ring, tall and loose-limbed, like he owned the very air in the place. 

The crowd screamed, hands thrown up, drinks spilling as people surged forward. Spotlights cut across the pit, washing his skin in gold and shadow.

Your teeth caught your knuckle, biting down to stop the smile that crept across your lips. It was ridiculous. All of it. The noise, the chanting, the performance.

And yet—your heart hammered as the other fighter entered, the commentator’s voice booming, hyped to the point of cracking.

The bell rang.

The fight began.

And you couldn’t look away.

The first punch cracked through the air like a gunshot.

The crowd erupted—screams, whistles, feet stomping against the concrete. The other fighter, broad-shouldered and built like a boulder, swung again, aiming for Hanma’s jaw.

Hanma slipped under it like it was nothing. His movements were almost lazy, like he wasn’t even trying, but his grin… oh, that grin—wide, sharp, golden eyes glittering under the lights.

Your stomach twisted.

He looked alive in there. Alive in a way you’d never seen him before—no shadows, no bitter indifference, no madness barely kept in check. Just this: his body flowing like water, his fists snapping out like vipers.

Every strike he landed was precise. A knee to the gut that sent the man staggering. An elbow across the cheek that split skin and drew blood. 

The crowd howled, money waved in the air, people shoving and cursing as they yelled odds and cheered his name.

“Hanma! Hanma! Hanma!”

Shreya was on her feet beside you, shrieking with the others, her phone forgotten.

You sat frozen.

Something sick churned in your chest—not disgust exactly, but not admiration either. Watching him fight was like staring at fire. You couldn’t touch it without getting burned, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away either.

The other fighter lunged, pinning Hanma against the ropes. For a second, you thought he might be in trouble.

But then Hanma laughed. Actually laughed. A sound so reckless and gleeful it cut through the noise of the arena. He shoved forward, twisting, and in a flash, he had the man on the ground.

The commentator’s voice broke, almost shrieking with excitement. The audience surged, chanting louder, stomping harder, the floor trembling beneath your shoes.

Hanma straddled the man’s chest, fists raining down. Blood sprayed, sweat shone, the crack of knuckles against bone echoing until you flinched.

“Shit,” Shreya gasped, clutching your arm in excitement. “He’s insane.”

You couldn’t answer.

Because for the briefest moment, when Hanma lifted his head, blood speckled across his cheek, his grin stretched wide—his golden eyes locked on the crowd.

Heat flared through you, sharp and confusing.

Then he slammed his fist down again, and the man beneath him went limp.

The bell rang.

Hanma rose, rolling his shoulders like it had been nothing more than a warm-up. The referee tried to raise his hand, but Hanma yanked it away, pacing the ring, soaking in the screams, the money, the chaos.

The king of it all.

You pressed your fingers to your lips.

This man—the one you’d seen curled on your bathroom floor, trembling, broken—was nowhere to be found.

This was someone else entirely.

And yet, he was still him.

And that realisation terrified you most of all.

This was the Hanma Shuji you had always heard about but never truly witnessed. Rumours painted him as chaos incarnate, a monster in human skin, but until now those words had somehow felt distant, exaggerated. 

You’d seen a flash of it when he shot Kaito’s leg—that cold, reckless grin—but that had been nothing compared to this.

Here, inside the ring, he wasn’t just violent. He was an animal, pacing, grinning, feeding on the roar of the crowd as if every scream was gasoline poured onto a fire that already raged within him.

Knowing and seeing it are two different things.

The next fighter vaulted into the ring—thicker, faster-looking, the kind of man whose presence drew a low murmur from the audience. Money exchanged hands, voices shouting odds, tension spiking.

Hanma didn’t even wait.

He stretched his arms wide, golden eyes alight, grinning with a madness that seemed too sharp to belong to a man.

“GOLD EYES! BIG SIZE! SURPRISE! SOMEONE DIES! HANMA’S PRIZE! HANMA’S PRIZE!”

The chant caught like wildfire. The whole arena thundered it back, stomping, clapping, howling his name like he was some blood-soaked deity.

“HANMA! HANMA! HANMA!”

You sat frozen, pulse hammering in your ears, adrenaline threading into your veins as though you were the one climbing into that ring.

When the bell rang again, you found yourself leaning forward, breath held, completely sucked into it.

The fight blurred in flashes of fists and knees, in the smack of skin against skin, in the metallic tang of blood hanging heavy in the air. Every time Hanma staggered, your stomach lurched; every time he retaliated with a sharp, vicious strike, something inside you thrilled in spite of yourself.

You hated it. You loved it. You hated that you loved it.

By the time half-time was called, your throat felt tight, your palms damp. The crowd surged with noise, bodies shifting, drinks spilling, everyone buzzing from the violence they’d just witnessed.

You shot up from your seat.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” you told Shreya, forcing your voice steady.

She grinned, cheeks flushed from shouting. “Okay!”

Really, you just needed to escape—needed space, air, something before your thoughts tangled too tightly. The arena had you in its grip, thrumming in your chest, and you felt both overwhelmed and strangely lightheaded, a wild buzz running beneath your skin.

You slipped out, weaving through the press of bodies, the chant still echoing behind you.

Even outside the main arena, the bass of the music rattled in your bones. You leaned against a wall for a moment, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself, trying to feel indifferent about it all.

“You okay?”

You flinched at the sound of your own name and turned. 

Niko stood there with a tray of empty glasses balanced on one hand.  “Everything alright?”

You forced yourself to smile. “Yeah. Fine.”

His eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, like he didn’t believe a word of it. But instead of pressing, he gestured toward the bar. “Come on. You look like you need a drink.”

And you did. God, you did.

You followed him through the throng of people, weaving between shoulders and half-spilt beers until you reached the counter. 

The other bartenders were moving quickly, serving impatient customers, but a few of them glanced at you—glances that slid sideways into quiet whispers. You caught the flicker of mouths forming words, caught the curious glint of their eyes.

You ignored it. Sat down. Folded your hands against the cool bar top as though to ground yourself.

Niko set a glass in front of you, amber liquid sloshing against the sides. 

You didn’t ask what it was—just tipped it back, swallowing the burn that trailed fire all the way to your stomach. 

It was whiskey.

You coughed.

Yup, definitely, whiskey.

Niko was still watching you. Too closely.

“Did you come to see Hanma-san?” he finally asked.

You wrapped your fingers tighter around the glass, trying to keep your expression flat, unreadable. “Yeah.”

Niko’s jaw flexed, his whole body carrying the kind of tension that suggested there were a million questions pressing against the back of his teeth. None of them left his lips.

You raised your hand, gesturing for another. “One more, please.”

He hesitated, but filled it anyway. 

You slid a few yen across the counter.

Niko shoved them right back. “On the house.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Just polished a glass, lips pursed as though he was weighing something dangerous. Then his gaze flicked to you, sharp and restless.

“You’re with him,” Niko said finally. Not as a question—like a statement he was testing, seeing how you’d react.

“It’s busy tonight,” you only said, lifting the glass to your lips. The whiskey burned down your throat, a distraction more than anything.

“Yeah.” Niko leaned on the counter, his hand busy with a bar rag. “Fridays always are.”

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach only tightened. The hum of voices felt like static against your skin. You could feel eyes on you, prickling against the back of your neck. When you glanced around, sure enough—bartenders whispering between orders, patrons stealing glances at you over their glasses of beer. Some looked away when caught, but others didn’t bother, their stares heavy and unashamed.

You shifted. “Why are they staring?”

“Because of Hanma-san,” Niko answered without missing a beat, as if that explained everything.

Your brows knit together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He hesitated, poured more whiskey into your glass. “Word travels fast.”

You grimaced. Definitely a mistake to come here.

Then someone settled right beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. The sudden weight of his presence made you stiffen.

“Oi, Niko. One Suntory. Neat.” The voice was rough, familiar, and too loud.

Your head turned. Amber eyes locked onto yours.

“Why are ya here, princess?”

Your lips parted, but honesty tumbled out before you could think better of it. “I don’t know.”

Baji sighed like you were the most exasperating thing he’d encountered all night. “Did ya come alone?”

“…Yeah.”

Niko slid the Suntory across the counter, and Baji snatched it up, downing it in a single gulp like water. He exhaled sharply, then turned to you again. “Want me to go fetch Itachi?”

Suspicion prickled at you. “Why?”

“‘Cause ya need to leave. Before Shuji finds out yer here.”

Your frown deepened. “Why?”

“Just trust me,” he muttered with a sharp glint in his eyes. “So… Itachi?”

“No. I’ll take the metro.”

“At night?” He gave a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nah. Shuji’ll hang me by my balls if I let that happen. I’m drivin’ ya.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Shit, what are you, a cop now?” He scowled at you. “Come on, peach. While I’m feelin’ friendly.”

“You, friendly?” 

“Don’t test me.”

You sighed, sliding the glass back toward Niko. “Thanks for the drink.”

Then you straightened, letting Baji lead the way through the thrumming crowd. But you didn’t make it far.

“Keisuke!”

Baji turned, shoulders tensing. “Whaat?”

A man shouldered through the crowd, leaning close to mutter something. His eyes flicked toward you, then back at Baji. “Boss wants her.”

Baji froze. His head swivelled toward you, and the smirk was gone. “Shuji?”

The man nodded.

Baji cursed under his breath, raking a hand through his long hair. He turned back to you, his expression somewhere between reluctant and resigned. “I’ll take her.”

A cold shiver trickled down your spine. “How does he know I’m here?”

The man gave a small, humourless smile. “Word travels fast.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “…So I’ve heard.”

Baji didn’t say much as he guided you through the crowd, one broad hand hovering near your back, nudging you forward whenever the throng of bodies pressed too close. 

The roar of the arena still pulsed behind you, but the deeper he led you through the corridors, the quieter things became—concrete walls swallowing the sound, footsteps echoing against linoleum.

You recognised the hallway instantly. The same one from last time. A cold pit settled in your stomach.

Baji stopped outside a heavy black door, gave it two sharp knocks, and pushed it open without waiting for a reply.

The air inside was heavy with cigarette smoke and sweat. Hanma was there, shirt discarded, knuckles raw, his hair damp and some strands sticking to his forehead. 

Itachi sat sprawled on a couch, drink in hand, grinning. 

Another man you didn’t recognise leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“Hey, doll!” Itachi sing-songed when he saw you. “What a nice surprise—”

Hanma’s head snapped up. “Out,” he barked.

The easy grin slid off Itachi’s face. He glanced between the two of you, then lifted his hands. “Sure thing.” He pushed himself up, gesturing to the other man. “C’mon.”

They slipped out, Baji hesitating for a half second until Hanma’s eyes cut to him like blades. 

Baji shot you a look and left, shutting the door behind him.

The silence that followed was worse than the noise outside.

Hanma stepped toward you, jaw tight, golden eyes dark with fury. “The fuck are you doin’ here?”

Your mouth went dry. “I—”

“Alone? You came here alone?” His voice rose, sharp, cutting through the smoky air. “Are you fuckin’ stupid?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, anger bubbling up to meet his. “Don’t yell at me—”

“Don’t yell?” He laughed, harsh and humourless, pacing a short line before whipping back to face you. “You think this place is a game? You think I’m playin’?”

“I didn’t—”

“Did you watch?” he demanded suddenly, stepping in close enough that you could smell the sweat and blood and cigarettes on his skin.

You blinked at him, startled by the rawness in his tone. “What?”

“Did. You. Watch. Me. Fight.”

Your heart hammered, but you forced yourself not to look away. “Yes.”

For some reason, that answer made his fury snap tighter, like a wire pulled to breaking. He turned away from you, shoving both hands into his hair, tugging hard before letting out a growl of frustration. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Your own temper snapped then, anger rising to meet his. “What’s your problem? Why are you so mad at me?”

Hanma spun back around, eyes blazing. “Because you don’t fuckin’ belong here!”

The words cut sharper than you expected, but you lifted your chin, refusing to flinch. “And yet I’m here. I came. I watched. I survived. What’s so terrible about that?”

His jaw flexed, fists clenching at his sides. “What’s terrible is you sittin’ out there in that crowd—” he jabbed a finger toward the door, voice low but seething, “—with those vultures, watchin’ me bleed for them like it’s a damn circus act. You got no idea what you walked into.”

Your chest tightened, but you pressed back anyway. “Then explain it to me! Don’t just stand there and scream at me like I’m a child who wandered somewhere I shouldn’t have. You’re the one who brought me into this world, Shuji. You can’t be furious now just because I saw it up close.”

His laugh cracked, bitter and sharp. “You think that’s it? You think I want you seein’ me like that? Like some fuckin’—” He stopped himself, dragging a hand down his face.

Your anger wavered, confusion slipping in. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at you with something raw flickering in those golden eyes. Finally, his voice came low, almost strangled.

“Because you ain’t supposed to look at me like that.”

The words slammed into the space between you, heavy and unsteady, and for the first time tonight, Hanma looked less like a furious beast and more like a man cornered by something he couldn’t fight with fists.

Hanma stared down at his arms, at the smeared, drying streaks of blood up to his elbows. His expression went blank, almost like a child staring at paint on his hands.

“Shit,” he muttered. He grabbed a towel from the corner and began rubbing hard at his skin, frantic, as if he could scrub himself right out of existence. “Shit, shit, shit—”

“Shuji,” you said carefully, stepping closer.

“Shit’s not coming off,” he gritted, dragging the towel over the same spot until it went raw.

“Shuji. Stop.” Your voice softened, reaching for him without actually touching. “You need a shower to get it all off.”

He kept scrubbing, eyes unfocused. “Why did you come here?”

You hesitated. “Because I wanted to escape.” Your gaze slid down his trembling hands. “Why don’t you want me to see you fight? I’ve seen plenty of violence in my life already.”

“’Cause I didn’t want you to look at me like this.”

“Like what?”

“This.” He dropped the towel and gestured at your face with a flick of his fingers, eyes darting over your expression. “With knowledge.”

You frowned. “Knowledge?”

“Yeah. Knowledge. Ya looked nervous around me at first, shit, maybe even scared, but it wasn’t like this. Not like this. When ya actually see what I’m like…” his voice cracked just a little, “…makes ya look fuckin’ scared.”

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re seeing on my face,” you said steadily, “but it isn’t fear, Shuji. So get down from your high, high horse, asshole.”

He stepped closer—fast, deliberate, like a predator testing prey—to see if you’d flinch. 

You didn’t.

He stopped just a breath away, looking down at you. “Ya sayin’ you ain’t scared of me?”

“Yes.” Your pulse roared, but you held your ground. “I probably should be, but I’m not. Wanna know why?”

He tilted his head. “Enlighten me.”

“Because I know you won’t hurt me, Shuji. You wouldn’t lay a hand on me. I don’t know why I’m so sure of it, but I am. Hell, I’d be a very easy victim for natural selection with this shitty deduction.”

For a second, his eyes flickered—surprise, maybe. His gaze swept your face as if trying to decode something.

“Am I wrong?” you asked quietly.

“No,” he said at last. “I would never hurt you.”

“See?” You gestured at him. “Still, I have no idea why that is. I’m your rival. And I haven’t exactly made your life easy with me, but—”

“’Cause I like you.”

You blinked. “…Yeah, okay, you’ve said that. Like a few times. But…” You considered him. “Why is that, do you think?”

“’Cause you don’t want me.”

“What?”

“Everyone always wants somethin’ of me,” he said, voice low, rough. “They want to kill me, fight me, fuck me, play me, take me, use me. But you…” his gaze turned wilder, “…you want nothing of me. And yet you are so nice to me.”

You stared up at him, completely thrown. “Nice?! Were you struck too hard just now?”

“You are.” He swallowed. “You don’t take.”

“If you mean by ‘nice’ the times I patched you up… I literally did it because you threatened me.”

“I know.”

You blew out a long breath. “You’re so fucking confusing. Look, I–”

He reached out suddenly, fingers clasping your chin, tilting your face up. His mouth descended on yours.

Your eyes went wide, body locking up as his lips brushed yours, warm and soft and trembling. 

He pulled back almost immediately, eyes full of panic. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”

You didn’t even think. You grabbed the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his damp hair, and kissed him back.

This time, he froze under your touch—then melted, just slightly, like a man who hadn’t been touched without expectation in years.

For a heartbeat, there was only the press of your mouth against his. His breath hitched, sharp in your ears, and you felt the rigid strength in his body falter, soften, like the fight had drained out of him all at once.

Then his hands hovered uncertainly at your waist, not quite touching, trembling with restraint. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes burning, searching for anger, disgust—anything to confirm this was a mistake.

“Why’d you do that?” His voice cracked, caught somewhere between suspicion and wonder.

“Because you kissed me first,” you shot back, though your chest ached with the force of your racing heart.

“Fuck. You shouldn’t let me—”

You tightened your grip at the back of his neck, dragging him closer. “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Shuji.”

That shut him up.

For a moment, he just stared, lips parted, gilded eyes stormy. He looked like he might devour you or shove you away—or both. His hands finally settled on your waist, rough and hot, pulling you against him like he’d been holding back too long.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered against your lips, almost desperate. “I don’t want you seein’ me like this.”

“Don't worry,” you whispered back. “Seeing you violent or bloody doesn't change how I feel about you. You don’t have that kind of power or effect on me. Not now. Not ever.”

“And how do you feel about me?”

“Annoyed. Irritated. Confused.”

Something in him snapped. He kissed you again, harder this time, feverish and uneven, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to taste you or punish himself. The metallic tang of blood lingered on him, the faint stench of sweat and smoke clinging to his skin. You didn’t care. You clutched at his neck anyway, reckless in your defiance but too scared to touch anywhere else on his body.

He deepened the kiss, his mouth crushing against yours with a bruising urgency. His pierced tongue claimed your mouth, chasing away the shock and leaving only a roaring heat. His lips were relentless, and a sharp nip of his teeth against your lower lip elicited a gasp you never had a chance to fully draw. 

And when he broke the kiss again, his breath came ragged and uneven, as though the act of kissing you had taken more out of him than the fight ever could. His forehead pressed to yours, hot as fever.

“So you like me,” you said, your voice breathless, a whisper that trembled in the thin space between you.

“Yes,” he rasped without hesitation.

“Alright.”

His brows flicked, incredulous. “Alright?”

“Alright,” you repeated, firmer this time, like you were sealing some unspoken deal.

His mouth curved, but not into a smile. Something darker. “We are still not friends?”

“No.” You leaned back slightly, head pressing against the door behind you, tilting so you could still look up at him. Your hands stayed at the back of his neck, fingers brushing the damp strands of his hair. “We’re the third thing.”

“The third thing where you make my life hell?” His voice was mocking, but the faint pull at his mouth betrayed curiosity.

You considered it, chest aching as though your heart were clawing at the inside of your ribs. “Your life might already be hell enough as it is.”

“That better not be pity on your face,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp, like a warning.

“It’s disgust, actually. You’re a sweaty, bloody mess.” You gave him a deliberate once-over and finally let go of him, your touch falling away. “And none of that better be your blood.”

Hanma dropped his gaze to his arms, his torso—still streaked and splattered in drying red.

“I drank a few too many, so my stitching abilities might not be that good right now.”

He arched a brow. “They were good before?” 

You leveled him with a flat stare, refusing to rise to the bait, and brushed past him toward the table littered with towels and bottles of water. The air smelled of iron and sweat, heavy and sour. You cracked open a bottle, soaking a clean towel until it dripped, then turned back.

“Sit.”

He didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the armrest of the couch, sprawling like a lazy king pretending not to be tired, his long limbs folding in awkward ways. His eyes stayed on you, following each step as though daring you to get close again.

You walked right up to him, closing the distance, and clasped his jaw without hesitation. 

His skin was hot under your fingers. He didn’t flinch, didn’t resist, just watched you with that too-intense stare as you pressed the towel to his cheek and began wiping away the streaks of someone else’s blood.

“Do you like fighting?” you asked, your thumb pressing firmly to tilt his jaw.

Hanma’s eyes narrowed, watching you. His lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’m good at it,” he said at last. “That’s enough.”

You didn’t answer, just walked back to the table, soaking the towel again, the cold water splashing your fingers. Your lips still buzzed with the phantom press of his kiss, your whole body uncomfortably warm, as if the heat radiating from him had sunk into your bloodstream.

When you came back, you aimed for a different patch—his collarbone, streaked and sticky, the blood already drying in thin, flaking lines. Your hand slowed as you neared his skin there. Something in you hesitated.

Hanma let out a short snort, low and rough. “You can touch me,” he drawled, like he was amused by your hesitation.

You froze. The towel hovered just above his chest.

Itachi’s words slid back into your mind, sharp as a blade: “Shuuji had it the worst. He was always the prettiest one, y’know?”

And just like that, bile rose in your throat, hot and bitter. Your vision blurred before you could stop it, tears welling unbidden, unwanted, stinging at the corners of your eyes.

You pressed the towel down harder than you meant to, scrubbing at the dried streaks of red, if only to anchor yourself.

Hanma’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Oi,” he muttered, quieter now. His head tilted, searching your face. “What’s that?”

You sucked in a shaky breath, fighting it, swallowing it back down. “Nothing,” you said, but your voice cracked, betraying you.

He grabbed your wrist. Not hard—just firm enough to halt the slow drag of the towel. “Ya look like you’re ‘bout to cry.”

Your gaze fell instantly, not daring to meet his eyes. You studied his hand instead—the long fingers, the ink that curled over his skin, the bruised and split knuckles. A map of violence and survival. 

“It’s nothing,” you murmured.

After a beat, he let go.

You swallowed, steadied yourself, and returned to the task, dabbing at the dark stains along his arm.

“Is it—” he cleared his throat, the rasp in his voice rougher than usual—“‘bout yer work?”

You froze for the briefest second, then kept moving, pressing the damp cloth over the expanse of his right arm. It was hard to tell where blood ended and ink began; his tattoos were a labyrinth, swallowing everything. Still, you tried to clean what you could. 

“Yeah. It’s stressful.” It wasn’t a lie, though it wasn’t the truth either.

“Mikey breathin’ down your necks and shit?”

You gave a short nod. “They cut our paychecks and—” you leaned closer, narrowing your eyes at his skin. Raised bumps caught the light, small ridges beneath the red smears. You brushed the towel across them carefully.

Hanma followed your gaze. “They’re just burns.”

You frowned. “From what?”

He answered without hesitation, so casual. “Cigarettes.”

Your heart lurched.

The towel froze in your hand. It was the way he said it—light, almost flippant, like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t carved into him, flesh remembering what someone had done.

“From cigarettes,” you echoed under your breath. Your voice barely carried, just a whisper, your eyes glued to the pale, scarred marks.

He said your name, softly for once. There was confusion in his tone, as though he couldn’t piece together why this was the thing that rattled you.

You looked at him at last. 

Really looked at him. 

At the sharp line of his jaw, the small cut still weeping at his temple, his eyes glittering with something unreadable. 

Pretty eyes. Pretty nose. Pretty lips. 

The prettiest one with the prettiest face. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, but there was no bite in it this time. Just an edge of bewilderment.

There was a lump in your throat. “Nothing.”

His brows drew together, furrowing deeper as his gaze sharpened on you. And then, suddenly, something lit behind his eyes—a spark of recognition. “You’ve got it on your face again.”

Your lips parted. “What?”

“Knowledge,” he said flatly.

The word hit like a stone. You dropped your eyes, forcing your breathing to steady, to push down the lump in your throat, the stinging in the backs of your eyes. 

Without answering, you crossed to the table to soak a new towel. Cold water stung your fingers as you wrung it out. You hoped it would ground you and stop the swell of feeling you couldn’t contain.

“Give me your hand,” you said once you returned, voice steadier.

Surprisingly, he obeyed, stretching it out toward you.

You clasped it gently and began cleaning the raw knuckles, the skin torn from fists meeting bone.

“They cut our paychecks,” you said quietly, as if filling the silence with something safe. “And they keep threatening us. Kenji said it’s as bad—maybe worse—in the higher divisions. Some of his friends work further up the ladder. At least we’re nameless, so it’s not personal-personal, but it’s still scary. Stressful.”

The towel swept carefully over his bruises, your hand holding his with more tenderness than you intended.

“Kenji heard Black Dragon’s been making moves into Toman’s territory,” you added, your eyes flicking up briefly. You thought he’d been staring at you the whole time, but no—Hanma’s gaze was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere distant, detached.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Valhalla and Black Dragon been workin’ together. We been givin' them weapons.”

“And what do you get in return?” you asked.

He lifted a shoulder. “Cooperation. And Toman outta picture.”

You paused mid-motion, the towel pressed lightly to his hand, frowning at the bluntness of it. The way he said these things like they were simple transactions.

Before you could answer, a knock came at the door, and an unfamiliar man opened it. “Hanma-san. Kisaki wants to see you.”

Hanma exhaled sharply through his nose. “Tell him I’ll be there in twenty.”

The man nodded.

“And tell Keisuke to drive her home.”