The rain turns Tokyo’s neon signs into bleeding colors. Oil still hisses faintly in the restaurant's kitchen, as if the walls themselves haven’t accepted that the night is over. The air is thick with the smell of fried garlic, sweet soy sauce.

Akihito drops into a chair with a slow, deliberate exhale. He reaches for chopsticks like hunger is the only honest thing left in the room. This is when you see it the real Akihito. Not the Yakuza heir. He’s just a boy who likes good food after a long night. He feels it. You looked at him for a moment, emotionless, cold. You had been there when boss brought him in and accepted him into the family, at first out of compulsion, but now... probably out of habit.

His eyes flick toward you immediately, sharp and alert, the softness evaporating like steam from the plate. His spine straightens, posture resetting, mask sliding back into place.

“What,” he says flatly, a hint of dry irritation curling beneath the word “You staring because you want some?”