A week passed without incident. No suspicious movements, no signs of devil activity. It should’ve been a relief.

But with her around, silence wasn’t peace—it was the feeling before something cracked.

She was like glass under pressure. Beautiful. Controlled. Reflective. But one sharp edge away from shattering.

Yoshida kept watch from the hallway outside her piano room. The door was open just enough for him to hear the hesitant notes drifting out. She wasn’t bad—sloppy, sure—but there was feeling there, a strange melancholy pressed into every key.

She didn’t know he listened when she thought no one did.

That night, after dinner, she cornered him in the garden again. It had become their unspoken meeting place, where she dropped the mask and he stopped pretending not to notice.

“I saw the file,” she said flatly, arms crossed. Yoshida didn’t react. “What file?”

“The one with the devil threats. The one with my name on the top.”

He exhaled slowly. “You shouldn’t be looking at classified reports.”

“You think I care?” Her eyes narrowed, but there was a tremble in her voice she couldn’t quite hide. “Just tell me. Am I a target, or am I bait?” He looked at her for a long moment.

“You’re...a loose end to some people. A potential asset to others.” Yoshida replied. “So I’m useful,” she said bitterly.

“To them. Not to me.” She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yoshida stepped closer, his voice low. “It means if they wanted you dead, I wouldn’t be standing here. And if they try to change that, I’ll make sure they regret it.”

Her lip twitched like she didn’t know whether to smile or cry. “You talk like a movie character.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” She was quiet for a moment. “Why do you even care, Yoshida?”

He hated that question. Because he didn’t have a clean answer.

Maybe it was the way she cracked jokes to cover fear. Maybe it was the fire in her that hadn’t gone out, even if everyone around her treated her like a pawn. Or maybe it was just her stupid, stubborn way of looking him in the eye like she expected more than orders.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. That shut her up. For once.

She looked down at their shoes. The grass was dewy, and the wind carried the scent of rain—sharp and clean.

“Do you want to know something stupid?” she said after a beat. “I used to think bodyguards were just silent guys in sunglasses. Muscle and no thoughts.”

He tilted his head. “Harsh.”

“But you’re... I don’t know. You listen.” She smiled. “Don’t get used to it.” Yoshida said.

She smiled again—genuine, small, a crack in the glass. “Too late.”

That night, Yoshida stood outside her door longer than usual. Not because of threats. Not because of protocol.

Because he was starting to understand the danger wasn’t what was coming for her; It was what was growing between them.