Chapter Text
The boy is waiting for him when Reo steps off the elevator—positioned like a turret on standby, slouched on the office penthouse’s leather couch.
Waiting—like he has nowhere else to be, like this penthouse is already familiar to him. He’s slouched on the leather couch that faces the skyline, limbs spread out with the lazy sprawl of someone unconcerned with posture or propriety. Long legs stretched across the floor, wrists draped carelessly against his knees. Shaggy white hair falls forward, curtaining half-lidded, indifferent eyes that don’t so much as flicker at the sound of the elevator doors sliding open.
He doesn’t move when Reo enters. Doesn’t shift, doesn’t rise, doesn’t even blink when the two armed guards at the door snap to attention in unison, as if the air itself has become sharper with their young master’s arrival.
It would be a surprise, but alas, Reo’s darling mother told him to expect this much. Her motivations are not clear but pure in heart: she won’t set her only son up to fail. Her motivations were never clear, never simple, but Reo had learned long ago that her word was the closest thing to certainty he would ever have in this house.
“You’re early.” Reo’s tone is even, practiced, a touch inquisitive.
“I was told to wait,” the boy says, soft but unafraid.
Reo circles the sofa slowly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored slacks, his gaze never leaving the boy. Observation is habit—drilled into him since he was old enough to stand behind his father’s chair and pretend to listen. The boy is younger than Reo expected. His age, perhaps—twenty-one, if Reo had to guess—but broad-shouldered, built with the kind of slow, patient strength that doesn’t come from vanity or indulgence. A faint cut mars his lower lip, and the shadow of a bruise lingers on his jaw, fading but visible. Signs of recent violence, though his posture betrays no soreness.
Ah. Like someone who’s spent years training his body into a weapon. Not much unlike Reo himself, he supposes. A point of resonance Reo didn’t expect to find so soon.
So, this is the “gift” his mother sent him.
A boy. A thing.
‘Yours alone,’ she said. ‘The first person in this entire family who will have no ties to your father. No conflicting loyalties. No doubts about who he serves.’
“Stand up,” Reo orders, the first test.
The boy rises at once. Smooth, efficient. No wasted movement. No hesitation. He pushes off the couch with a kind of unstudied grace, unfolding to his full height.
He’s taller than Reo by a few centimeters. Annoyingly so. Reo feels the difference like a thorn beneath his skin, but the boy’s loose posture—half-slouched even as he stands—takes the edge off. Careless, almost disrespectful. Like he doesn’t quite grasp who stands before him.
Perhaps he does understand, and he simply doesn’t care. (That’s worse, Reo muses.)
“Your name?”
“Nagi.”
“That’s it?”
“Nagi Seishirou,” Nagi reveals with a shrug. “I was brought into the Jinpachi syndicate after the Isezakichō massacre, sold to one of the branch families.”
All factual—Reo knew as much from the detailed report sent by his mother’s men. The Isezakichō massacre was the result of impulse, rather than a genuine territory dispute—Nagi’s mother and father had unfortunately been caught in the middle due to the incompetence of his uncle, rather, his father’s younger brother. Whether or not ‘Seishirou’ was with his parents at the time was left vague in the reports following, and the subsequent police records have been altered to fit the post-engineered “clean-up” narrative by the Jinpachi syndicate—that of which cites a ‘consensual’ ordeal of Nagi’s parents, prior to their death, relinquishing custody to his uncle, who, in his forged living will (obviously doctored and fingerprint stamped mere hours before his execution at the hands of the party he betrayed, the former head of the then-ruling owners of Saitama’s underworld) left him in the care of Ego Jinpachi, the ‘black sheep’ son of the Jinpachi syndicate.
Despite the grim subject and the memory of the brutal slayage of his parents, there’s no inflection in his tone, no shame or resentment, no pride. He recites his past like he’s reading it off a scrap of paper. Reo studies Nagi. No fear. No reverence. Not even a flicker of resistance. A blank canvas his mother has handed him with a bow tied around it.
He hums. It’s an amusing thought. “You’re mine now.”
Nagi tilts his head, eyes finally meeting Reo’s. There’s something unreadable in the pale gray of them—not defiance, not submission. Just quiet acknowledgement. Reo doesn’t know what it means, nor what it implies.
“Okay.”
He frowns. Too easy. Too simple. Almost insulting in its brevity. Something about it unsettles him. Reo squares his shoulders, steps closer, until there’s barely an inch between them. “Do you understand what that means?”
Nagi blinks, slow and sleepy. “I protect you. I follow your orders. I don’t ask questions.”
“Good.” Reo’s mouth curves into something sharp, but not a smile. There’s nothing warm in the shape of it.
“Because you’re not just a bodyguard, Na-gi,” he draws out each vowel. “You’re special. The first thing in this damn family that belongs only to me. You don’t so much as breathe for anyone else. Not my father. Not my mother. Not even yourself.”
Nagi doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t drop his gaze.
“We’ll start small,” Reo murmurs. “Stay at my side. And don’t ever make me doubt you.”
“Sounds easy.” Reo’s grin sharpens like a blade. “But if I don’t?”
“I won’t kill you, probably,” Reo shrugs. “But you’ll sure wish I had.”
‘Break him in,’ his mother had said.
“I understand.”
No problem. He’s been waiting his whole life for something that was his and not his father’s. “Good.”
Reo’s suite is quiet in a way that feels curated, as though silence itself is another ornament of wealth. Only the faint hum of city traffic bleeds in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering sprawl of Tokyo lying obediently beneath him. The penthouse air carries the scent of polished leather and aged liquor, of money that has been scrubbed and preserved into the atmosphere.
At the bar, Reo tips a crystal decanter, watching the amber liquor catch the light. It drips, then floods, into the waiting glass like molten honey—or blood, depending on his mood. Tonight, it looks like both.
He swirls the glass, takes in the burnished gleam, and sips. The whiskey drags heat down his throat, smooth but sharp, just how he likes it.
He doesn’t offer Nagi a drink.
A deliberate omission. Another test, veiled in nonchalance. To offer would be a gesture of camaraderie, equality. To deny is to reinforce the hierarchy: Reo above, Nagi below. Always.
“You’re comfortable with guns?” Reo asks finally, his voice carrying lazily over his shoulder. He doesn’t turn. He prefers to gauge answers without the crutch of expression.
Behind him, Nagi stands several meters back, just beside one of the velvet barstools. Hands tucked neatly behind his back, shoulders loose. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t lean. His eyes sweep the atrium once—doors, corners, exits—before fixing unerringly on Reo.
“Mm,” Nagi hums, the sound vague but unhesitant. “I specialize in knives, though. Hand-to-hand.”
Reo’s lips twitch faintly, though whether in amusement or approval, even he doesn’t know. “Good. I don’t like dead weight.”
Nagi doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you won’t need to worry.”
Reo glances at him again, furtively (stupid and pointless. He’s Reo’s—Reo can look and stare at him as much as he damn wants. Habit’s a bitch).
Nagi stands like a posed doll, like he was set there by someone else, hands at his sides, posture loose but ready. Even now, there’s no tension in him. No sign of nerves or anticipation. So casual, he could be waiting for a train instead of a test.
Long bangs, Reo observes. Unkempt.
It’s a wonder that he manages to still be able to see. Reo snorts at his own joke.
Nagi’s expression doesn’t even flicker, much less change. Reo wants to push, see what could possibly get this moon-eyed boy to crack.
He downs his whiskey in one swallow. It burns all the way down, leaving fire licking in his insides. That’s the point. He’s not drunk, nor does he in any way plan to be, but he still wants to feel something—bravery, heat, sting, audacity, proof that he’s in control, and he can walk all over those omnipresent things called ‘limits’.
That much he learned from his father.
The thought curdles instantly. Reo’s grip on the glass tightens before he sets it back on the quartzite counter with deliberate calm. His father’s lessons were poison. Reo never asked for them. Never wanted to inherit his methods, his empire, his stench. Reo’s never wanted anything of his father’s. Never wanted to be like his father. The name ‘Mikage’ is a prison. Reo’s going to blow this fucking birdcage to pieces.
He turns, leaving the empty glass behind, and crosses the room. The leather sofa creaks faintly as he drops onto it, sprawling deliberately. Every movement is calculated, theatrical.
“Strip,” Reo says.
Finally, emotion; a flash of surprise dances across Nagi’s face. His gray eyes narrow slightly, not anger, but calculation. “Why?”
“Because I told you to,” Reo yawns and crosses his legs, fiddling with the loose back of one of his earrings. “You said you’d follow my orders. Without question.” He pushes his lips out into a mocking pout and tips his head to the side. “Or was that just talk?”
Nagi’s gaze lingers for a long beat. Then he sighs—like it’s a chore, like he’s bored—and peels his jacket off. His shirt follows, revealing pale skin stretched over sinewy muscle.
Reo despises the way his face heats slightly as his eyes travel Nagi’s body, the stretch of his tendons, the lines of his tight abdomen. It isn’t covered in tattoos like most syndicate dogs (personally, Reo appreciates this—it lends itself to subtlety, he’ll be able to take Nagi with him wherever, even into more covert situations without worrying about appearances; he’s tired of his father’s hand-me-down excuses for ‘men,’ all burly and old and about as conspicuous as a hot pink revolver shooting rounds of rainbow glitter), but there are faint scars here and there—white lines across his ribs, a puckered mark on his shoulder. Proof of violence. Proof he can take it. He’s perfect.
Nagi drops his shirt on the armchair, the muscles in his back rippling. His belt clinks as he unbuckles it, pops the button with a simple flick of his thumb. Sharp hipbones peak out as the leather slides out of the loops, underneath the waistband of stretched-taut Calvin Klein briefs. Shame, if he wasn’t a victim to circumstance paying for someone else’s mistakes, he’d do just fabulous as a model. Maybe in another life.
“Stop there.” Reo says, threading dangerously between command and curiosity.
Nagi pauses, calloused fingers still hovering on the waistband of his jeans.
“Do you know why my mother gave you to me?” Reo asks, rising to his feet and crossing the room toward him.
“To protect you.”
Reo laughs, delighted. He’s not upset about it, see, because at the very least, he knows his mother’s concerns are genuine, albeit amusing. This really is much, much more exciting than any of his father’s ugly machines with shaved heads and wedding rings. It’s even better than the poor excuses for ‘imported’ aides, bleach-blonde pasty men with bad Japanese; Mandarin tattoos that don’t mean what they think it does, done by prostitutes in the backstreets of Shanghai; and cross necklaces that have long since lost their meaning.
“How cute. So, that’s what she told you. I don’t need protection. I’ve never needed it. But she gave me a dog she expects me to break in. A thing that’s mine, and mine alone. And that’s the important part. I couldn’t care less about protection. I need loyalty. I need you to devote every cell in your body to me.”
He’s standing close enough now to feel the heat coming off Nagi’s bare skin. He presses a palm flat against his chest, over his steady heartbeat. He hopes Nagi can’t hear the rabbity skips of his (he blames it on his excitement, not any synonym of anxiety). “Do you understand?”
Nagi’s lashes lower; his eyes darken almost imperceptibly. But his voice doesn’t waver, “This is a test. You want to see if I’ll let you.”
Reo grins—sharp, pleased. “Bingo. Good boy.”
For a moment, he lingers there, hand against Nagi’s bare chest. Measuring. Threatening. Maybe even seducing. He’s not sure himself. Then, he steps back.
“Put your clothes back on,” Reo says smoothly. “You pass, for tonight, at least.”
Nagi blinks, then picks up his shirt without complaint.
Reo’s mouth twitches as he watches him.
“You’re not curious why I stopped you?” He presses.
“No.”
With a raised eyebrow, “Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t care why,” Nagi says simply, tugging his shirt back over his head. “I’ll always do what you ask of me.”
The indifference in his tone makes Reo’s nerves flare hot. He doesn’t know if it’s irritation or fascination with how little Nagi seems to care for himself. He opens his mouth then promptly closes it again. Finally, “Go sleep in the next room. You start shadowing me tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Nagi turns on his heel and pads toward the guest room hall without another word. No hesitation, no backward glance.
Reo watches him go, jaw tight.
—
The sound of Reo’s coffee being stirred breaks the stillness of the early morning air. A soft, metallic clink against porcelain, steady, almost meditative. The quiet is otherwise complete, thick and weighty, like a blanket pressed over the suite.
The city is awake beyond the glass—horns and engines and the distant drone of helicopters—but inside, everything feels suspended.
Reo sits on the edge of the velvet couch, one ankle resting on his knee. His shirt is white and loose, still faintly wrinkled from the wardrobe valet’s hands, and his black slacks cling sharp around his thighs. Damp strands of hair curl against his forehead, the rest pushed back lazily, still drying from the shower. The faint trace of his newest cologne—cedarwood, smoke, something citrus-sharp—clings to his skin. He likes it.
Across the room, Nagi leans against the wall. Unmoving. Silent. He’s been there since Reo woke up—like a statue, or a shadow given shape.
“Do you always stand like that?” Reo questions idly, swirling his spoon.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting, hoping for a bomb to drop.”
“Isn’t that my job?” Nagi’s voice is a dull monotone. Yet, it’s oddly soothing.
Reo hums. “Maybe. But it’s unnerving. Sit down.”
“I prefer standing.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
Nagi blinks at him, slowly, in that way he often does, like a cat trying to decide whether to tolerate its owner. Then, he pushes off the wall and lowers himself into the armchair opposite Reo, long limbs folding with lazy grace.
“Better?” He drawls.
“Marginally.” Reo takes a sip of his coffee. A touch more bitter than he’d like. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Not unless I have to.”
“That’s going to be a problem.”
“Why?”
Reo sets the cup down with a deliberate clink. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze locking with Nagi’s. Up close, his eyes are unreadable—clear, pale, but opaque all the same.
“Because I like knowing the people around me,” Reo says, setting his cup down with a clink. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, violet eyes fixed on Nagi’s face. “Tends to help in the long run. Builds trust. And blackmail.”
“You need blackmail on me?”
Reo lifts his brows, feigning innocence. “Not necessarily. But you’re a bit unsettling, so I feel compelled to get some.”
“Unsettling?”
Reo studies him carefully. The clean line of his jaw. The faint scar near his temple, thin and pale, like a careless brushstroke across otherwise flawless canvas. He doesn’t fidget under the scrutiny. Doesn’t avert his gaze.
“You’re very still,” Reo observes. “Most people aren’t.”
“I don’t see the point of wasting energy.”
“Is that how you’ve survived this long? Conserving energy?”
Nagi’s gaze flicks to him, unblinking. “That, and not asking too many questions.”
“I see,” Reo smiles, all promises of blood and teeth, gears turning with satisfying clicks. “Ask me something, Nagi Seishrou.”
Nagi casts him a veiled glance, a touch of tensity wobbling the line of his shoulders. “Why?”
“Because if you’re going to be my shadow, you should know what you’re in for.”
For a moment, Reo thinks Nagi will ignore him. But then: “What do you want from me?”
It’s not accusatory. Just flat, curious.
Reo exhales. “Simple: loyalty.”
“You bought that,” Nagi counters with a slight inquisitive frown.
“Did I?” Reo leans back against the couch, draping an arm lazily across the backrest. “Loyalty you pay for doesn’t mean anything. It can always be bought by someone else.”
“Then what kind of loyalty do you want?”
“The kind that can’t be shaken.” Reo softens now, but there’s steel underneath. “The kind that says: ‘I’d rather die than betray you.’”
Nagi doesn’t answer, but looks pensive.
Reo watches him closely. “Can you give me that?”
A long pause. And Nagi says, “I can try."
Something sparks in Reo’s sternum, unexpected, bright, like friction sparks. He leans forward again, resting his chin on his hand. “Good enough. For now, at least.”
“You’re strange,” Nagi says, unbidden. He speaks his mind so easily, Reo is almost jealous; although, he can’t tell if it’s unchancy innocence or a simple lack of discipline.
“Oh?”
“You don’t act like a syndicate heir.”
Reo smirks. “Maybe that’s why I’ve survived this long, hm?”
Nagi looks at him for a moment, and something flickers in his eyes, the first real crack of something behind the cool exterior. It’s something startlingly earnest, almost childishly innocent.
“Anyway,” Reo dismisses, tearing his gaze away. “Go change. We have places to be.”
—
Reo hates these meetings. Even the hall outside is sterile in a way that makes his teeth itch. He strides down the corridor toward the conference room, Nagi two steps behind him.
Reo doesn’t bother looking back. He can feel him there—a physical presence in his periphery.
“Oh, I forgot to ask—did you sleep well?” Reo inquires casually, the words edged with amusement.
“Mhm.”
“That’s it?”
“You didn’t ask for any details.”
“It was implied.”
“Where?”
“Smartass.” Reo laughs, a real one this time, not for minacious purposes. Nagi’s total lack of filter is oddly refreshing in a strange way—a way that makes Reo feel lighter. Younger. “You’re either very smart or very stupid. Haven’t decided which yet.”
The guards open the double doors for him.
Yeah. Reo hates these meetings. But alas, he still steps into the room where six territory bosses lounge around a long obsidian table, expressions all thinly veiled suspicion and rivalry. All older than him. All staring.
The room beyond reeks of cigar smoke and testosterone.
Reo tailors his smile to be one of a stalking feline predator as he takes his seat at the head of the table. Posturing, “Gentlemen.”
“Reo,” one of them—Kuroda, who runs one of the more important ports—speaks up. “A surprise to see you—is your father still busy in Shanghai?”
“That’s one way to put it.” Reo’s tone is smooth, pleasant, just shy of disrespectful. “But you didn’t hear that from me. He sends his regards, nonetheless. Anyway, he sent me in his place. But fret not, good sirs, trust me, I’m much more fun.”
There’s a murmur as the men exchange glances, chuckling (Reo rolls his eyes internally; God, he fucking hates the diabetic hag humor routine, however, he was raised to adapt and entertain). Then, all those sets of eyes flick to Nagi, who’s standing just behind Reo’s chair, hands clasped loosely behind him, like a formal gesture aborted halfway.
“And this?” Kuroda gestures lazily. “New pet?”
Nosy motherfuckers. Whoever decided women were the gossips is full of shit. One day in Reo’s shoes and they'd realize there’s no bigger priss than a man in a tailored three-piece. Reo’s smile tightens. “New shadow. Don’t mind him.”
“A personal guard?”
One of the others snorts. “You’re bringing private hired muscle into a captain’s meeting?”
“He’s not private nor hired.” Reo fires back, drumming his fingernails on the plastic armrest, crossing one leg over another. He squares his shoulders subtly. “He’s mine. A recent gift from my dearest mother. Say hello, Nagi.”
Nagi’s expression doesn’t change as he bows his head. Not when half the men in the room size him up like a piece of meat, not when West Border’s district runner Ryota glares at him, dripping with derision. He stands there, still as stone, pale eyes scanning the table with a slow, almost lazy sweep.
Reo notices. ‘Good boy,’ Reo thinks, pleased, ‘he’s already mapping the room.’
The meeting drags on—attack disputes, shipment delays, whispers of another family encroaching. Reo’s answers are smooth, calculated. He’s been playing this game since he was nine, and he’s good at it. But he’s unusually yet acutely aware—every second—that Nagi is behind him.
He’s dressed to blend—a black suit, slacks, not expensive but not cheap—but he doesn’t. His stillness draws eyes like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. He’s not shifting his weight, not fidgeting, not doing anything to suggest discomfort.
Which, in this room full of men who earned their positions through blood and betrayal, is discomforting in itself. It’s really, so perfect.
“I really am curious about your new shadow,” interrupts the head of Minato territory: a heavyset, oily-haired man with a scar down one cheek, gold rings flashing as he gestures at Nagi. “It’s odd. You’re usually so careful about showing your hand, son.”
“I’m not your son. Don’t call me that,” Reo answers with a deadly smile that has several of the guards standing closest to him recoiling, startled. “And this isn’t my hand. This is my shadow. I truly dislike repeating myself.”
The Minato head just laughs, though. Another boss—Sakai, a thin, slinky man with offensively beady eyes—leans forward. “And yet your shadow doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.” His gaze flickers to Nagi and sticks. “Is he deaf? Or just stupid?”
Reo’s grin widens, pleased. “Neither. He listens. Closely.”
Ryota scoffs, as eager to stir up drama as ever. He’s several years older than Reo, yet cosplays an edgy teenager half the time. “He’s glaring at me. Is that it, boy? You’ve got something to say to me with those big eyes of yours?”
Nagi’s gaze meets Ryota’s briefly, calm and unreadable. “No.”
No tacked on ‘sir,’ not even an illusion or attempt at formality or respect. Reo beams before he’s forced to push it down, maintaining his air of professionalism.
His mother truly chose a special gem. Reo really odd to thank her for this. Without a doubt, she hadn’t even realized what she had offered Reo when she sent him an unassuming statue of a boy with still eyes like water and next to no experience.
This isn’t simply a gift.
No, Nagi Seishirou will be his treasure.
“No, he says,” Ryota mocks, turning to Reo. “Did you train him to speak only when spoken to? How obedient.”
The room shifts—laughter from some, wary silence from others. Reo watches it all like a cat playing with a mouse, tapping the toe of his shoe against the nearest table leg.
“Obedience isn’t just something you train by being a brute,” he flips his hand. “Not that you would understand.”
“Big words for a boy born with silk gloves,” Ryota sneers. “Why don’t you show us. Let’s see how deep this obedience of his runs.”
Thank you so much, you predictable, sniveling, snot-dribbling idiot. Reo’s expression doesn’t falter, despite how much he wants to grin. Your lack of self-awareness and constant addiction to ejaculating your tadpole-less sperm into the asscrack of your inflated ego just so happened to give me the perfect opportunity for another test. “Nagi.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Kneel.”
The room stills. All eyes turn to Nagi.
There’s no visible tension in his posture, no flicker of defiance—neither does he move immediately. He’s assessing, determining if it’s worth it.
Reo leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.
Nagi exhales faintly through his nose and lowers himself to his knees beside Reo’s chair. Not hurried. Not ashamed. The act feels less like submission and more like a predator crouching low, choosing patience over action. Not a negative thing, to be honest, Reo thinks. It’s like being the villain in a grossly offensive medieval manga and having a sleepy tiger snoozing, curled around his ankles.
Ah, that’s a good idea—Reo rests his elbow on the armrest and his fingers find Nagi’s hair, brushing idly through the pale strands.
They’re fluffy, but coarse. He makes a mental note to ask Nagi if he uses proper conditioner. If not, Reo’ll have to buy him some better products. After all, pet or not, Reo will offer him only the finest. He’s never been in the habit of neglecting his favorite things.
“Satisfied?” He asks.
Ryota smirks, but there’s something wary in his eyes now. Good. Reo can’t afford to have people questioning his authority before he puts his plans in motion. “I suppose your mother’s gift wasn’t useless after all.”
“Careful,” Reo murmurs. He was waiting for it, for him to take it a step too far. “Insult my mother again. I dare you.”
Ryota’s jaw promptly snaps shut, eyes in the shape of panic, lips in the shape of apology. Reo ignores him.
He continues to stroke Nagi’s hair, mouth twitching when Nagi starts to lean into it, his blinks turning slow and sleepy.
The rest of the meeting proceeds on brittle ground. Nagi remains kneeling, still, his presence quiet but radiating.
“You didn’t hesitate long,” Reo remarks.
The words fall casual, tossed over his shoulder as he strides down the dimly lit hallway of the syndicate’s headquarters. The glossy marble floor reflects the muted glow of overhead fixtures, his polished shoes tapping a measured rhythm against the stone. Behind him, Nagi follows with the soundless tread of someone who’s learned to erase himself from the world.
Reo doesn’t even have to check—he can feel the presence shadowing him. Too steady. Too quiet.
“You wanted to prove something,” Nagi answers evenly, voice so calm it almost blends with the hum of the ventilation. “Arguing would’ve gotten in the way.”
Reo tilts his head, violet eyes narrowing as though the act alone might pry more from him. “Did it bother you?”
“No.”
The single syllable lands like a stone dropped in still water. No ripple, no weight carried. Just final.
Reo clicks his tongue softly, though a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Good.” He slows, letting Nagi close the distance between them, then shoots him a sidelong glance sharp enough to cut. “You did well today. Want a reward?”
For the first time, there’s a pause. Nagi blinks, slow, as if the concept takes a moment to translate. “Reward?”
Reo’s grin widens, quicksilver and dangerous. “Whatever you want. No limit, no price tag. Name it.” He lifts his hand and ticks the possibilities off on slender fingers. “A ticket, a trip, a trust fund, a jewel, a building, a fucking island—whatever it is. Yours.”
The offer is real. He means it. His family’s empire has more wealth than sense, and Reo’s never cared about tossing it around if it gets him what he wants. Money is the least valuable thing he owns.
Nagi shrugs, the motion loose, almost lazy. “Sure. Could it be dinner? Like, can we get dinner? I’m hungry. And craving seafood.”
Reo stops walking. Just—stops. The echo of his halted footsteps bounces off the corridor walls.
For a beat, silence stretches taut between them.
He turns, stares. Nagi looks back at him with the same blank calm as always, as if what he’s asked for is obvious. As if “dinner” is in the same category as “a jewel” or “a building.”
It’s such a simple request that it shocks him.
Reo didn’t know what he actually expected—maybe something dramatic. A payout. A one-way ticket to another country. A false identity. Maybe even freedom, if the boy was ambitious or stupid enough to name it.
But this? Dinner. And with him, no less.
Reo cackles, laughter bursting out of him, ricocheting against the pristine marble like glass shattering. “Dinner? That’s your grand reward?”
Nagi doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away, or even for a second, seem to reconsider his request. He just says, “I’m hungry,” like it’s explanation enough.
Reo presses his tongue against his teeth, fighting another fit of giggles, and then lets it spill anyway. It feels good, in a way—like something unclenching in his chest.
“Whatever you want, treasure,” he purrs, drawing the word out, savoring it.
My treasure.
It fits perfectly.
—
The Mikage building’s top floor smells faintly of leather, polished wood, and ink—expensive ink, the kind that clings to paper like oil and leaves a whisper of scent.
Quiet, save for the occasional muted click of Reo’s pen and the rustle of papers as he turns a page.
Nagi leans against the wall by the window, one hand loose in his pocket, the other scrolling through the continuous incoming reports on his phone.
He tugs at the collar of his button-down, where it’s gaping just slightly, enough for the air conditioner to graze his throat pleasantly.
His eyes flick to Reo instinctually—the way they have been all week, since the day Reo picked him up. A week since he’d pledged loyalty to violet hair and a violent smile.
Reo sits behind the massive desk, jacket draped over the back of his chair; sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing wrists too delicate to seem dangerous, but Nagi knows better.
Nagi doesn’t know how other people could ever miss it—the beautiful and deadly air that follows Reo when he moves, when he breathes. It’s unmistakable, and unignorable. To Nagi, at least.
Although, it’s still a mystery as to what Reo wants from him. Nagi can’t relate much to ‘wanting’, as he’s never really desired much at all. Even before the blood-stained, black suited men had opened the closet where the seven year old Nagi Seishirou was hiding and told him both his parents were dead, he’d never really wanted much at all.
His placidity unnerved teachers. His pacifism upset the branch family that took him in. His apathy irritated his peers. Yet the concept of ‘changing’ the person he was didn’t seem really plausible either. Nagi doesn’t mind it all, after all.
But now, in a rare twist, since Reo first stepped into the room, he’s felt something else, beyond neutrality, crawling at the base of his spine—curiosity.
Reo. There’s a faint crease between his brows as he reads through the latest numbers from Shibuya’s operations.
His fingers, slim and elegant, curl lightly around the pen, spinning it once before setting it down with a click that sounds louder in the silence.
“You’re staring,” Reo says without looking up. “Something the matter, treasure?”
Ah. And then there’s that. That nickname.
‘Gift’ and ‘ treasure. ’ Safe to say Nagi doesn’t really understand it, nor does he understand the muddled feeling in his chest when he hears it, but he can’t be bothered to tell Reo to stop—it’s clearly not malicious. In fact, it’s the one thing that sounds entirely earnest when it leaves Reo’s sharp tongue. Which is confusing in his own right. But Nagi’s actual job description isn’t confusing at all, so maybe he should focus on that instead of—yeah.
(He continues staring at Reo. Because Reo doesn’t seem to mind.)
“Any movement on Ryota’s side?”
“Not yet,” Nagi replies. He scrolls lazily to the next report. “But his men are restless. Picking fights on territory lines. Testing security at the south ports.”
“Typical,” Reo groans. His fingers drift to the back of his neck, massaging the tension there. “Predictable too. If I have to complain to his father one more time, I’ll remove him myself and put his younger brother in his seat.”
The movement draws Nagi’s eyes—to the way the fabric of Reo’s shirt pulls against his shoulder blades, to the faint shadow of his throat in the dim light.
Reo inhales deeply, and sighs, expression softening into something tired and honest.
“They don’t think I can hold my own,” he says. “They just see a pampered heir who doesn’t get his hands dirty. That won’t change.”
They could mean several things. It could mean the men who sit at the meetings Reo often attends. It could mean his family, although Reo seldom mentions his bloodline. It could mean ghosts Nagi won’t ever know by name.
“Are they wrong?” Nagi asks. His tone doesn’t shift, but there’s a weight to the question.
Reo’s lips twitch, lopsided. “Wrong question. Try again.”
Tipping his head back, he ponders over it for a second. Then, “Does that bother you?”
Reo’s eyes flash with satisfaction, and something warm, vaguely almost—fuzzy, like pride, centers in Nagi’s chest for a beat, knowing he got it right.
“I don’t mind. It’s better, actually.”
“Why?”
“Because if they’re underestimating me, they definitely won’t expect anything I’m planning. They won’t expect the ticking bombs I’m planting. Or suspect I’m about to built something new and burn this pathetic excuse for an ‘underground syndicate’, to ash.”
Reo’s eyes lift, catching Nagi’s reflection in the window glass. There’s a flicker of amusement there, edged with something sharper. “What do you think?”
Nagi meets his gaze. “About what?”
Reo’s mouth curves faintly, not a smile exactly. “That I’m stupid. Or delusional.”
“No.”
“No?” Reo parrots, like he’s musing over the word as if it’s a declaration.
“I see it in the way you move.” Nagi’s thumb hovers over his phone screen. “You’re more dangerous than they think.”
“Dangerous?” Reo lilts, teasing but soft. “To them, or to you?”
“Both.”
Reo laughs then—a ringing, warm sound that rolls through Nagi like a pebble’s ripple in still water. “Honest answer. I like that.”
He pushes back from his chair, standing with effortless grace. He crosses to the window, footsteps muted on the plush carpet. Nagi doesn’t shift to give him space.
So, Reo steps closer. Invades space like it’s a birthright. (What’s more concerning is the way Nagi doesn’t mind, nor feel the slightest urge to push him away.) He smells clean, sharp, expensive—citrusy. His shoulder brushes Nagi’s arm as he peers out at the city sprawled far below them. Tokyo’s lights glitter in the sky like spilled salt reflected on black glass.
“You’re—not like the others I’ve had around me.”
“Others?”
“Childhood servants. Caretakers. Tutors. My parents’ men. My father’s affairs. My mother’s escort boys. Hired loyalty.” His reflection in the window darkens and consolidates into sharp lines as he tilts his head. “They all wanted something. Power. Money. A way into my bed. Usually all three.”
“Did you give it to them?” Nagi inquires earnestly.
Reo’s lips curl bittersweetly, “Sometimes. Sometimes I didn’t have a choice.”
Nagi doesn’t want to think about what that means. What that implies about what Reo has had to give up to stand in front of him right now. “And me?”
Reo turns his head slightly, his eyes catching on Nagi’s again in the reflection. His gaze holds strong. Searching.
When he speaks, it’s just shy of a whisper, “You haven’t asked.”
Silence stretches, slow and heavy. Nagi opens his mouth, but doesn’t manage a reply. His chest feels oddly tight.
Nagi’s silence earns him a wider, realer smile from Reo, one corner of his mouth pulling higher before it fades into something quieter, subdued, soft-petaled.
Airily, “You’re dangerous too, Seishirou.”
Nagi’s breath stutters. The words hang there, unchallenged. His head spins like a glitch, like a loading screen—he can’t remember the last time someone called him by name, much less like that.
After a beat, Reo steps back. The space between them fills with cool air, but the tension lingers like a thrum in Nagi’s brain.
“Come on,” Reo says, slipping back into his practiced, heir-apparent calm. “We’re meeting the Shibuya lieutenant. You’ll drive.”
“Yes, boss.” As Nagi straightens, slipping his phone in his pocket, Reo’s hand brushes his sleeve in passing.
It means something. Nagi doesn’t know what.
—
The private room reeks of cologne and moonshine. Bass from the dance floor below rattles faintly through the walls, muted overtop cigarette smoke and voices.
Reo sits at the head of the table, cross-legged and casual—distressed black jeans a silk silver shirt, shirt of which matches the fancy silver tie looped around Nagi’s neck (Reo had cornered him into it during the drive, lips curved into an evil little smile as he leaned over the console to slip it over Nagi’s shoulders as Nagi changed lanes on the highway, “Go ahead, crash, I dare you,” while Nagi glared at him) adorned with a bar stamped with the Mikage family’s symbol. Nagi tries not to overthink what it means. And tries not to fret about Reo’s intentions. Nagi can’t afford to be riled up by such simple, meaningless provocation, right? It likely means nothing.
And if it means something, it’s just the games of a spoiled and sharp-tongued heir. Yeah.
Nagi scans the room once again, mechanical but alert, keeping eyes on the doorways and hands of the room’s occupants.
Reo’s hands cradle a glass of amber liquid he hasn’t yet touched. His violet eyes are steady, sharp, catching the room’s attention without asking for it. Nagi takes up position by the door, arms folded loosely, still like a shadow.
The Shibuya lieutenant sits directly across from Reo, flanked by two underlings who smirk like hyenas.
They talk business—numbers, imports, territory lines—but Nagi can feel the shift underneath.
It starts small: the way the lieutenant’s eyes linger too long on Reo’s mouth when he sips his drink. The way he says “Reo-kun”, curling the honorific like something filthy, leering.
“You’ve got quite a reputation for someone so young,” the man says, swirling his glass. “Mikage Kazuo’s boy. His prized only son. I’d heard you were easy on the eyes, but in person,” his grin stretches, lecherous, and not trying to hide it, “You’re almost wasted on this life.”
Reo doesn’t flinch. He meets the stare coolly, fingers tapping the rim of his glass.
“Careful,” he warns. “You’re forgetting who you’re speaking to.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Jus’ wondering if a pretty thing like you knows what it takes to survive, when you’re so—delicate.”
Nagi’s jaw tightens painfully. He doesn’t move—because Reo hasn’t signaled. But his hands itch. He feels compelled to shut the man up before his words curdle into something uglier.
Reo leans back, crossing one leg over the other. He doesn’t take his eyes off the lieutenant.
“Delicate,” he echoes, tasting the word. “That’s new.”
The lieutenant cackles. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I love delicate things. I like seeing how long they last before they break.”
Something flares in Nagi as he watches the man’s greasy hand gesture suggestively.
The lieutenant shifts his gaze—past Reo for a fraction of a second—right to Nagi.
“What about your watchdog?” he asks lazily. “Does he bite? Or is he just here to look pretty like his boss?”
Reo’s lips curl—not a smile.
“He’s here to kill you if I tell him to,” he says calmly.
The lieutenant chuckles, but there’s a flash of unease in his eyes.
“I’d like to see that,” he says.
Nagi’s moving before he even realizes—crossing the room, visualizing snapping the man’s neck, fingers at his side, reaching for his—
“Nagi.”
He freezes, halting dead misstep. Why is Reo stopping him? Why—
Reo uncrosses his legs, leaning forward just slightly. His voice drops a fraction. “Seishirou.”
Nagi straightens, hands falling back to his sides, his attention snapping fully to Reo.
“Down.”
Nagi doesn’t ask why. He lowers himself to one knee beside Reo’s chair, head bowed, exhaling languidly.
The room quiets. The lieutenant smirks, but wavers nervously.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs with a forced chuckle, desperate to maintain his air of—whatever. “Both of you. A shame.”
Reo’s glare is ice. “I suggest you self-reflect.” Smooth, velvet liquid. “If this is how you welcome allies, I can see why your territory’s falling apart.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, sweetheart.”
“You think I’m weak,” he cuts him off. Nagi notices the subtle way his fingers press into his knee—controlled tension.
Nagi doesn’t move. His knee pressed into the plush carpet, his eyes fixed on the floorboards, but his body hums with tension. He’s aware of Reo—of the faint heat radiating from him, of the way his fingers tap twice against the armrest like a signal only Nagi can catch—stand down.
“It was simply a compliment,” the lieutenant backtracks, sensing the derailment of the meeting, and beginning damage control.
“Is it, now?” Reo lifts a brow. “Well, I suggest you stay careful. Because your mouth’s making jokes and writing checks your crew can’t cash.”
When Reo finally stands, he places his amber glass on the table, the scrape of it loud in the silence. Nagi rises fluidly, taking his place again.
“Meeting’s over,” Reo states, polite. Deadly. Something has already been decided.
The lieutenant doesn’t argue.
The drive back is silent.
The kind of silence that clings—stuffed with the weight of everything unspoken. The hum of the engine feels too loud, the faint hiss of tires on asphalt grates on Nagi’s nerves. Neon streaks bleed across the windshield, painting the world outside in shifting blues and reds, but inside the car, it’s just shadows and the faint scent of Reo’s cologne.
Reo sits on the passenger side with one elbow propped against the door, chin resting lightly on his hand, violet eyes turned outward. He looks calm. Content, even. The city blurs past in ribbons of light, but Reo watches like he owns it all, like every tower, every streetlight, every heartbeat belongs to him.
Nagi flexes his fingers against the steering wheel, the leather creaking faintly under his grip. He can still feel the floor beneath his knees. Still feel the weight of Reo’s command like a chain wrapped around his neck.
He can’t let it go. The irritation’s been simmering ever since they left the club—persistent, like an itch he can’t scratch. It gnaws at him until the words slip out before he can stop them.
“Why?”
Reo doesn’t look at him. His reflection in the dark window tilts, amused. “Why what?”
Nagi’s jaw tightens. “You made me kneel.”
The admission tastes bitter in his mouth. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t let it crack, but the anger is there, thrumming beneath the flatness. When they were insulting you, you didn’t let me stand up for you. You didn’t let me protect.
Reo’s reflection smiles faintly, the curve of his lips sharp even in the warped glass. “Because it distracted him. And you needed a reminder.”
His gaze shifts then, turning away from the window, landing on Nagi with deliberate weight. “It reminded you—you’re mine. No one else’s. Not even your own pride’s.”
Heat spikes in Nagi’s chest, sharp and suffocating. His teeth grit together until his jaw aches. He keeps his eyes on the road, refuses to turn his head, but his hands betray him—knuckles tightening, fingers flexing against the wheel. A flicker of defiance, small but real.
The city streaks by in silence again. Reo doesn’t rush to fill it. He just watches, violet eyes tracing the lines of tension in Nagi’s shoulders, the faint twitch of his jaw. The quiet stretches until Nagi can almost feel it pressing into his skin.
Then, Reo’s voice—gentler now, smoother, yet no less cutting. “You didn’t hesitate.”
“You told me to,” Nagi mutters, low.
The corner of Reo’s mouth curves. “Would you have, if it had been someone else giving the order?”
The answer is immediate. “No.”
Reo hums, pleased, leaning back into the leather seat as though the confirmation had been inevitable. His eyes soften in the dim wash of passing lights, but his tone sharpens, humming with that dangerous warmth that always unsettles Nagi.
“Good boy.”
Two words, laced with satisfaction. Approval. Ownership.
It makes something coil tight in Nagi’s stomach—anger, humiliation, something hotter he refuses to name. He doesn’t respond. His grip on the wheel doesn’t ease. The only sound in the car is the low growl of the engine and the faint hitch of his own breath, too shallow, too fast.
Reo doesn’t need a reply. He just keeps watching, a small, knowing grin playing at his lips.
—
The elevator ride up to Reo’s penthouse loft is silent.
Reo leans against the polished brass rail, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone but not really looking at it. The violet is distant, unreadable in the slightly warped reflection of the mirrored walls.
Nagi stands a step behind him, hands in his own pockets, watching the floor numbers climb—forty-eight, ding, forty-nine, ding, fifty, ding.
He suppresses the urge to call out to Reo, just to get him to look up, look at Nagi. But he doubts Reo would find it funny.
His mind keeps looping back to the Shibuya club. To Reo’s voice, to the way Reo’s fingers had tapped against the armrest like a leash, tugging just enough to remind Nagi just who held it.
It had felt—feels—unfamiliar. And not in the way most things are unfamiliar to Nagi.
The elevator dings one final time, and the doors slide open into the penthouse’s dimly lit foyer, all polished marble and clean lines. Reo steps out first, his stride unhurried, almost languid.
“Take your jacket off,” he waves at him offhandedly, not looking back.
Nagi pauses.
He hesitates—not because of the command itself, but because of the casual way it’s delivered. With absolute certainty that it will be obeyed.
Nagi debates ignoring him for a second. But, in the end, he shrugs the jacket off, draping it over his arm.
“Shoes too,” Reo adds.
By the time Nagi complies, Reo’s already halfway across the atrium, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs as he goes. He snaps his hair tie in one swift motion, dropping the now useless string on the floor; fishes his phone out of his pocket, discarding it on the nearby leather armchair.
“You’re tense,” Reo turns to him, pulling the constricting top buttons of his shirt undone. Nagi follows the action with his gaze, tracing the slope of Reo’s collarbones as the fabric falls and brings them into view.
He doesn’t answer.
Reo smirks, almost teasing. “I can tell.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mm.” Reo wanders toward the kitchen, his voice drifting back. “You don’t look fine. You look like you’re still thinking about earlier.”
Nagi doesn’t deny it. He’s thinking of a lot of things—few of which actually make sense to him, but they’re thoughts nonetheless.
“You really don’t have to let it bother you,” Reo says conversationally, opening the fridge. He takes out a bottle of water and leans back against the counter. “What happened back there was just strategy and game pieces. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“It wasn’t nothing.”
Reo’s head tilts, eyes narrowing in intrigue. “No?”
“You shouldn’t let people talk to you like that.”
A shadow of something darker than amusement flickers on Reo’s face—previous open-eyed inquiry replaced with a taste sharp and bittersweet.
“You think I had a choice?”
He twists the cap off the bottle and takes a long drink. His throat moves with the swallow. The faint sheen of water left on his lips catches the light. Cherry red, shining, looks candy-sweet.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Reo clicks his tongue.
Nagi blinks. “Like what?”
“Staring.”
“I wasn’t—”
“—you were.” Reo doesn’t waver, sharp enough that Nagi feels it prick at his skin, not sharp enough to cut. Reo breaks the tension with a shrug. “Though, suppose I’m used to it.”
Nagi frowns. “I don’t want to be something you have to get used to.”
Reo hums. “Come here.”
Nagi steps closer. Not enough to crowd him, but enough that they both can feel the shift in air, the warmth of Reo’s body radiating. He smells of bergamot and mint. Nagi’s eyes catch on the line where the silver chain on his neck pools in his collarbone.
“I’ve never let a subordinate this close to me before. Do you know why I let you stay this close?” Reo asks.
Nagi exhales through his nose. Says, “Because I’m yours.”
Mouth twitching, Reo licks his lips—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. It’s softer, stranger than either.
“Yes.” His eyes hold Nagi’s steadily. “But you don’t act like you understand what that means.”
“Then tell me,” Nagi beseeches.
Reo studies him for a moment longer, head tilted, trying to decide if Nagi even wants the answer. Whatever he finds makes him let out a sound—between amusement and resignation.
“Another time.” He steps back, the heat of his presence dissipating. His shoulders loosen, as if some invisible decision has been made, but not the way one was made in Shibuya. This is different. The way Reo looks at Nagi is different. “Ask me something else.”
Nagi doesn’t ask, but he wants to know what kind of life lessons could make a boy this young, this pretty, seem like he’s been living under siege his whole life.
Instead he asks, “How young were you when they started throwing you into these meetings?”
Reo snickers with frayed edges. “What an unsubstantial question. Twelve. Officially. Unofficially, I was sitting in on them at nine. Want to ask something that matters?”
“Every answer you give matters.”
A faint pull of his lips. “You’re still so hard to get a read on, Seishirou.”
“I could say the same about you,” Nagi replies in the same breadth.
“But the difference is I want you to read me. I’m giving you the chance.”
“You’re testing me again.”
“Always.” There’s no apology in Reo’s voice, just the shadow of something quieter than wind. “Force of habit.”
Force of habit. Nagi’s fingers twitch. He doesn’t want to think about what Reo means. What it entails and what it insinuates about the treatment Reo has received up to this point from men and women older, larger, meaner, more powerful than him.
“But,” Reo murmurs, looking down, where he’s flicked the silver ring on his index finger loose, thumbing absently at the carved design on top, “there are moments like tonight. When I wonder what it would feel like to have someone who isn’t just waiting for a moment of weakness to take.”
“You have me,” Nagi says. He doesn’t expect to—the words push through his trachea like a gust of wind.
Reo’s eyes lift to his, bright and glowing in the dim lights. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
Something unreadable passes over Reo’s face, gone before Nagi can name it. “You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.”
The air between them feels tight, like a bowstring pulled taut. Reo’s hand twitches at his side, like he might reach out (Nagi wants him to, because if he reaches out first—). He doesn’t.
“Get some rest,” he says finally, lighter now. Tinged with something akin to relief. “We’ve got more vipers to charm tomorrow.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Good boy.” Reo turns, disappearing down the hall toward his bedroom. The sound of his door shutting is soft, but final.
Nagi stays by the kitchen, eyes fixed on the corridor. He tells himself he’s only standing watch.
That’s his job.
But he’s really just marinating in the ghost of Reo’s presence, scorching heat fizzled out to lukewarmth, and lingering in his abdomen like a brand.
A brand—he reaches, rubs the fabric of his tie, Reo’s tie, between his thumb and index finger.
Just his job—right?