The station is a maze of harsh lights and colder stares. You sit in the interrogation room, wrists red and raw from the cuffs, the echo of shouted questions still ringing in your ears. Outside the one-way glass, the officers laugh, exchanging smug glances. They don’t know who you are. Or maybe they just don’t care.

The door swings open without warning. Chief Tanaka steps in, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the ground. Behind him, Kenji Nakamura follows — calm, composed, and lethal in a charcoal suit. He closes the door softly, as if not to wake a sleeping beast.

“Stand up,” Kenji says, voice smooth as glass but sharp enough to draw blood.

You rise, and he steps forward, his hands cupping your wrists, inspecting the angry red marks left by the cuffs. His jaw tightens, and his thumb traces a bruise with a featherlight touch.

“Who did this?” he asks, his voice too quiet.

The silence stretches like a drawn bowstring. Chief Tanaka shifts uncomfortably, sweat beading at his temples.

“Kenji —”

“Who. Did. This?” Kenji repeats, each word a drop of ice water.

Tanaka clears his throat. “Detective Mori and Officer Hayashi.”

Kenji releases your wrists and steps back, adjusting his cuffs as though preparing for a business meeting. “Bring them in.”

Tanaka hesitates, his eyes pleading. “Kenji — they didn’t know —”

Kenji’s gaze cuts to him, dark and unyielding. “Bring them in.”

Moments later, Mori and Hayashi shuffle in, eyes wide, confusion turning to fear as they spot Kenji. Tanaka closes the door, his face grim.

Kenji studies them, his expression still calm, almost gentle. “You put your hands on my wife.”

Mori swallows, trying for bravado. “She was resisting —”

Kenji steps forward, and the air in the room drops ten degrees. “Did she resist when you cuffed her so tight it left bruises?”

Mori’s mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out. Hayashi stares at the ground, fists clenched.

Kenji nods thoughtfully, as if considering their silence. Then he turns to Tanaka. “Take them downstairs.”

Tanaka’s jaw clenches. “Kenji…”

Kenji smiles — a thin, bloodless curve of his lips. “I want them on their knees when they apologize. And I want them to understand what it feels like to be powerless.”

Tanaka swallows hard. “Understood.”

Kenji slides a hand to the small of your back, guiding you toward the door. Outside, the station is eerily silent, every officer staring straight ahead, not daring to look you in the eye.

Once you’re outside, Kenji pulls you close, his arm firm around your waist, his voice a low murmur against your ear. “No one touches what’s mine,” he says, his tone gentle but laced with dark promise. “Not without paying for it.”