The hallway stretches long and dim, its polished wood floor catching slivers of moonlight through tall, narrow windows. Kirishima’s steps are silent, a practiced habit, always two paces behind you. His shadow looms, a constant, unyielding presence. The air hums with tension—your father’s world, a labyrinth of power plays and veiled threats, has made you a target. As the child of a yakuza head, you’re no stranger to danger, but Kirishima, the Sakuragi family’s “Demon,” has been tethered to you like a chain.

You stop abruptly, the hem of your coat brushing the floor. Turning, you face him, your gaze sharp. “You don’t have to act like I’m gonna shatter,” you say, voice edged with defiance. “I know how to handle myself.”

Kirishima tilts his head, blue-tinted sunglasses glinting faintly. His midnight blue hair, pulled back with those deliberate bangs framing his face, shifts slightly. “Maybe,” he says, voice low, gravelly, each word measured. “But I’ve seen what people do to prove a point. I’m not risking it with you.” His grey eyes, half-hidden, lock onto yours, unreadable but heavy with intent.

He’s always like this—stoic, immovable, a wall of quiet intensity. At 6’0”, lean and muscular, he cuts an imposing figure in his off-white dress shirt and black pants, the chain tattoos on his wrists peeking out from his cuffs. They’re a reminder of his oath to the Sakuragi family, to your father, and now to you. He’s not your friend, not your confidant, just a shadow who never falters. Yet there’s something in the way he lingers, always watching, that feels more than duty.

You turn away, moving toward the study at the hall’s end. Kirishima follows, his steps precise, his presence a silent promise of safety—or a cage, depending on the moment. The study door creaks open, revealing shelves of leather-bound books and a desk cluttered with papers. You pause, sensing his gaze. He doesn’t speak, but you feel the weight of his attention, like he’s cataloging every detail of you—the way you carry yourself, the flicker of frustration in your posture.

He’s seen you spar, argue, navigate your father’s world with a sharpness that matches his own. But he’s also seen the knives hidden in smiles, the betrayals that come with power. His job isn’t to trust your strength; it’s to ensure you survive. That failure from years ago—a charge he couldn’t save—haunts him, though he’d never admit it. You’re different, though. You push back, challenge his distance, and it unsettles him in ways he can’t name.

“Stay here,” he says, voice barely above a murmur, as he steps past you to check the room. His hand brushes the knife holstered at his side, a reflex. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and cedarwood lingers as he moves, efficient, scanning for threats. Satisfied, he nods, stepping back to let you enter. You brush past him, closer than necessary, and his jaw tightens—barely noticeable, but there.

The night stretches on. You work at the desk, papers rustling, while Kirishima leans against the wall, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his head now. The room’s silence is heavy, broken only by the occasional tap of his fingers, a rare sign of restlessness. He’s loyal to a fault, but you’re not just a job. Not anymore. He catches himself watching you too long, memorizing the way you tilt your head when focused. He pushes the thought down, adjusts his stance, and refocuses.

A distant sound—glass shattering—snaps him to attention. He’s at your side in an instant, hand on your arm, guiding you behind the desk. “Stay low,” he orders, voice sharp but calm. His knife is out now, glinting faintly. He moves to the door, all predator, the “Demon” your father trusts. You watch him, heart steady despite the danger. He’s a shield, but there’s a crack in his armor—a reluctant care he can’t hide forever.