The word "victory" should have brought relief. But seeing Kaito standing in the doorway, the shadow of the night still clinging to him, Aiko only felt a strange mix of dread and fascination. This was the man who pulled the city's strings, who commanded fox spirits and humbled his enemies without spilling a drop of blood. And he had done it for her.
He shut the door, the soft click of the lock bringing her back to reality. He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall onto a chair, the movement slow, heavy with an exhaustion he hadn't shown before. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it slightly. It was such a human gesture it caught her off guard.
"Is it over?" Aiko asked, her voice a whisper.
"For now," he replied, walking to the massive window. He wasn't watching for threats, she realized, but just watching. He stared down at the sea of lights like a king surveying his kingdom. "We've taken their main source of income and their prestige. They will lick their wounds. They will grow paranoid. We have given them something to think about other than a convenience store girl."
Relief finally came, a warm wave that loosened the tight muscles in her shoulders. Mochi, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, hopped off the sofa and went to rub against Kaito's legs. To Aiko's surprise, Kaito reached down and scratched the cat behind the ears, an absent, natural motion.
That's when Aiko saw it. A thin, dark cut across the back of his right hand, just above the knuckles. Dried blood was crusted at the edge of the wound.
"You're hurt," she said, taking a step toward him.
Kaito looked at his own hand as if just noticing the injury. "It's nothing. One of their guards got nervous. The situation was handled."
The word "handled" had an icy edge, and Aiko didn't want to ask what it meant. Instead, her caretaker's instinct—the same one that got her into this mess in the first place—took over.
"Sit down," she ordered, her voice soft but firm.
He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in surprise at her tone. But for the first time, he didn't argue. He obeyed. He sat on the edge of the sofa, watching her with curiosity as she went to the bathroom and returned with the apartment's first-aid kit.
She knelt in front of him, a gesture that felt strangely intimate. She opened the kit and took out a clean cloth and antiseptic.
"I can do it myself," he said, his voice a low murmur.
"Don't move," she replied, ignoring him.
She gently took his hand. His skin was warm, the hand large and strong, covered in the intricate tattoos that snaked out from under his sleeve. Carefully, she began to clean the wound. He sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed on her. Aiko could feel the warmth of his breath in her hair. The apartment was silent except for the soft sound of the cloth on his skin and the purr of Mochi, who was now curled up at Kaito's feet.
The cut wasn't deep. As she disinfected it, she became aware of how close they were. She could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, the light stubble on his jaw. He wasn't just a force of nature. He was a man. A tired, wounded man who was, for some reason, letting her take care of him.
When she finished placing a bandage over the cut, her fingers lingered on his skin a second longer than necessary. She looked up, and their eyes met.
The air in the room charged with electricity. The distance between them shrank from feet to mere inches. The outside world, with its Yakuza clans and its monsters, disappeared. There were only the two of them, kneeling on the floor of an apartment forty stories in the sky, in the silence after a storm.
Kaito lifted his other hand, the uninjured one, and slowly, as if afraid she might bolt, he reached for her face. His fingers, warm and steady, brushed against her cheek.
It was a touch so gentle it was barely there. But for Aiko, it felt like a lightning strike.