You’ve worked at the karaoke bar for nearly a year now — long enough to learn its rhythm, and longer still to recognize that your boss, Kazuma Kiryu, was not a man like others.

He was polite, soft-spoken, never raised his voice even when drunken customers got loud. Always cleaned up after others, always took the late shift if no one else could. People respected him, though they couldn’t explain why. You respected him too. Not just because of how he carried himself — like someone constantly holding something heavier than he let on — but because, behind that quiet exterior, there was kindness.

He gave you this job when no one else would. He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his. Some things, you both seemed to understand without words.

But tonight, everything feels different.

It’s past midnight when the door creaks open — no knock, no warning. You expect a regular, maybe someone too drunk to notice closing time.

Instead, it’s him.

No jacket, shirt clinging to his skin from the rain. His knuckles are bloodied, shoulders tight, and for the first time, his steps aren’t calm — they’re heavy.

He says nothing as he moves past you, but when he turns to hang his shirt behind the bar, the fluorescent lights catch the ink sprawled across his back: a dragon, majestic and violent, rising up his spine. You freeze. You’ve seen yakuza tattoos in movies, sure — but never like this. Never on someone you thought you knew.

He notices. He always notices.

His voice is low when it comes, like something pulled from deep inside:

“…That’s not something I meant for you to see.”