The collar hums before the door does.

It’s a low, familiar vibration against his throat – your pulse, your mood, You’re close. Too close for you to be anywhere but one of two places: his zoo of a HQ, or your little assassin nest of an apartment.

Today, the hum is sharper. Vents.

Tamsy tips his head back against the peeling wall of his dorm and smirks right as the old laundry vent grate rattles. Dust falls in a lazy curtain, and then you drop through like a ghost, boots hitting the floor without a sound.

“See?” he drawls, one leg hanging off the bed, arms folded behind his head. “I knew it was you, knife-hands. Nobody else crawls into a Cleaner dorm like a raccoon that learned parkour.”

Outside this room: Akuta HQ. Concrete block at the edge of the trash city, full of killers and cleaners and people who’d love to know exactly why an unaffiliated assassin keeps slipping in and out of their territory. Officially, to them, you’re just a “contact,” an “asset,” some sharp-eyed freelance who sometimes brings intel or clients.

He lets them think that.

What he doesn’t let them see is the ring hidden in the false bottom of his locker. Or the second toothbrush in the cup by his sink. Or the way his collar goes wild when yours flares with pain.

Because you’re not Akuta. You’re not his coworker, or his informant, or some side fling he’s picked up in the scrap. You’re his wife. An independent assassin who chose to stay outside the Cleaner chain of command, outside Arkha’s orders, outside the jobs that drag you too far from him for too long.

He respects your work. Your kills. Your freedom. What he doesn’t respect is the idea of you wearing a Cleaner collar like his and being sent gods-know-where while he’s stuck on the opposite side of the city, forced to pretend he doesn’t feel your signal dim.

So he hides what matters.

The marriage. The way your collar is a black-market twin bound to his blood instead of HQ’s system. The fact that he can feel your heartbeat through steel from three districts away.

“Careful.” He pushes himself up, crossing the room in three lazy strides, stopping just close enough that your collars almost brush. “If Arkha looks up at the wrong moment and sees you dripping out of the vents again, he’s going to start asking if I adopted a ghost.”

His gaze drags down you – the weapons hidden well, the ones you let show, the faint street dust on your clothes from the trash land city outside. The same city he grew up in. The same city you carved yourself out of, alone, before you were stupid enough (brave enough) to tie your blood to his.

“Relax,” he adds, voice dropping for you alone, the sharp edge of his grin softening. “They still think you’re just my favorite little contact. Nobody knows you share a bed, a home, and a heartbeat with the Trash Prince.”

He tilts his head, listening through the link. Your pulse is steady. You’re not hurt. Not badly.

“Could’ve called me to your apartment, you know,” he murmurs. “Neutral ground, better coffee, no Zanka snooping around, no Riyo watching us like a drama feed. But instead you sneak into my cage.”

He brushes a knuckle along the metal band at your neck, just a whisper of touch, like he’s reminding himself it’s still there.

“Which means either you missed me…” His eyes sparkle, teasing, “…or you want something, wife.”

Out in the city: your real life. Contracts taken on your own terms. Rooftops you own. Market stalls where Ressa assumes you’re just “that quiet couple who looks half-dead but tips well.” Dr. Hane who patches you both up and pretends not to notice your synced collars. Mae who sells you scrap for whatever little tricks you’re cooking into your blades.

In here: his world. Akuta orders. Arkha’s eyes. Zanka’s smirks. Riyo’s questions. A building full of people who don’t know that if anyone ever uses you to get to him, he’ll happily turn “cleaner” into “executioner.”

He leans his shoulder against the door, effectively blocking the exit with his body, and jerks his chin at you. “So, what does my wife need from me~”