The last thing Sasaki remembered was the taste of blood in his mouth and the roar of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Anger had swallowed him whole — a storm of fists, splintering wood, the thunder of gunshots — and then nothing.
When he came to, it was slow, like waking in the belly of a collapsed building. His head throbbed with a dull, punishing rhythm. The air was thick with iron, acrid smoke, and fear. He blinked hard, his vision stuttering until the world steadied.
The apartment looked like it had been mauled by something not entirely human.
Tables were splintered into teeth-like shards. Chairs had been reduced to powder and kindling. A section of wall bowed inward, cracked in a perfect curve, as if something —or someone— had been thrown against it with inhuman force.
And the bodies. Six of them. Sprawled across the room like discarded dolls, their chests heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. Unconscious, bloodied, broken. But alive.
Sasaki lifted his trembling hands. His knuckles were split open, his palms raw. His whole body ached, every muscle singing with exhaustion and pain. But beneath that —beneath the bruises, the blood— there was something else.
Heat.
It pulsed faintly under his skin, coiled in his veins like a second heartbeat.
The memory of the fight was gone, a blank page. Yet his gut knew the truth. He had done this. Somehow, impossibly, this chaos was his doing.
The silence was broken by a sound so fragile it barely registered at first —a stifled sob.
Sasaki turned, scanning the shadows until his gaze found her.
A girl. Small, folded in on herself in the farthest corner. She looked like she'd tried to shrink into the wall, her arms wrapped so tightly around her knees that her knuckles were white. Her long blonde hair clung to her face in messy strands, her skin blotched with tears and dust. A bruise marred her cheek; her lip was split.
Her eyes —blue, glassy, and impossibly wide— locked onto him. Fragile as porcelain, sharp as glass. She looked less like a victim than a painting cracked across the surface.
For a long moment, neither moved. She studied him the way prey studies a predator, flinching at the red smeared on his hands.
Sasaki's throat was dry. His voice, when it came, was rough but steady. "You alright?"
The words seemed to undo her. Her lips parted, trembling, before she collapsed into sobs. Raw, unrestrained, jagged with terror and relief. She scrambled forward and clutched his torn shirt like a lifeline.
"You— you saved me," she wept. "If you hadn't come— I—" Her words broke, swallowed by the force of her crying.
Sasaki stiffened, his arms awkward at his sides. Comfort had never been his strength. Slowly, clumsily, he patted her back.
She pulled away just enough to look up at him. Her eyes shimmered in the ruined light.
"I swear I'll reward you. Anything. Please— come with me to my house. I owe you my life."
Sasaki frowned. His first instinct was refusal. He didn't know this girl. Didn't know what web of trouble she was caught in. And yet— he had nowhere else to go. Rina had seen to that. He was untethered, unanchored.
Her grip tightened desperately. "Please. You don't understand. I need you to come."
The plea in her voice hollowed out his resistance. After a long silence, he exhaled.
"…Fine."
Her shoulders eased, relief softening her features. Without hesitation, she took his hand and led him out of the wreckage.
---
The city air outside felt unreal. Crisp, almost clean, as if the alley of blood and smoke had been a fever dream. They flagged a taxi, riding in silence until steel gates rose up before them.
Royal Estate.
Sasaki's breath caught. Everyone in the city knew the name. A fortress of privilege, home to politicians, tycoons, celebrities — the untouchable elite.
The guard at the entrance scanned Sasaki's torn shirt and blood-streaked face with suspicion. "What's your business here?"
Before Sasaki could answer, the girl stepped forward. Her voice, steady and commanding, cut the air cleanly. "He's with me."
The guard blinked. The suspicion drained from his expression, replaced with deference. "Of course, Miyo-sama. Forgive me."
Miyo-sama. The name struck Sasaki like a blow.
Another guard pulled up in a sleek golf cart, bowing as he addressed her. "Miyo-sama, please allow me to escort you home."
They rode deeper into the estate. The streets were lined with towering mansions, gardens glowing with imported flowers, sculptures that belonged in museums. It was silent here, eerily pristine, like another world.
At the end of the road stood a mansion so vast it dwarfed the rest. White pillars soared skyward, ivy trailed over carved stone, balconies gleamed with glass. It wasn't a home; it was a monument.
The cart stopped. The driver bowed and departed, leaving them before marble steps.
Sasaki stared up, disbelief written plain across his battered face. "Who… are you?"
The girl turned to him, her lips curving in a small, deliberate smile. For the first time, she carried herself with grace, with elegance that hadn't shown in the apartment. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice now light, practiced, poised.
"Where are my manners?" she said softly.
She extended her hand with delicate precision.
"My name is Okamoto Miyo. Nice to meet you."
Sasaki froze. The Okamoto name wasn't just wealth — it was power, stitched into the foundations of the city itself.
And here she was, smiling like they were old friends.