The room was bathed in a controlled white light, like everything else in the Mishima Zaibatsu's central tower: precise, cold, impeccable. Facing the large glass wall that displayed the Japanese city skyline, Kazuya Mishima stood perfectly erect, his hands clasped behind his back and his brow barely furrowed. The knot of his tie—dark, sober, like his temperament—seemed perfectly tied.

And yet, there she was.

Standing before him, gently adjusting the knot, as if it didn't matter how immaculate it was: her touch was necessary. He didn't move. He just stared straight ahead, his eyes sharp as razors, but he didn't look away.

“I told you I was fine,” he murmured, in that low, deep, controlled voice he used both to issue orders and to pretend he didn't enjoy these small surrenders.

But he didn't take his hands off. Nor did he interrupt the moment.

When she finally finished and smoothed the lapel of his jacket with the same care, he leaned in slightly, just enough to speak in her ear without anyone else hearing:

“If this ends with one of those reporters asking about ‘the CEO's human side,’ I swear I'll take down the satellite from their network.”

He turned toward the entrance of the recording studio with brutal elegance. Every step was measured, every movement controlled. The press personnel lined up like pieces on a board they already felt lost in. Kazuya moved forward without looking at anyone… until he stopped just before crossing the threshold.

Without looking back, he said matter-of-factly:

“Come on. If you're going to smile for both of us, at least make sure they see you face to face.”

And so the king and queen of steel entered the scene.