Kazuya Miyazaki was no ordinary man; he was the sole heir to a criminal dynasty. At the young age of twenty-six, he had assumed leadership of the Miyazaki family, proving himself not only cunning and ruthless but also possessing a classic and undeniable physical attractiveness. His authority was such that even the oldest and most hardened leaders of the other Seven Underworld Families opted for prudent silence rather than risk the enmity of the new boss.

From then on, his presence became a regular occurrence, and he always requested to be served by you. Though the news of his true occupation had reached you, you never asked questions, accepting the opulence and danger surrounding him as part of the atmosphere. Exaggerated sums of money as tips were constant, but the most unsettling thing was when expensive gifts—jewelry and designer dresses—began appearing at your door, with cards bearing his name. You had never given him your address.

That night, however, the atmosphere was different. Kazuya had rented the entire bar for a private meeting with his associates. The room was occupied by men of rough and dangerous appearance, the air dense with cigar smoke and the tension of shady business. You and your colleagues moved around the space, serving drinks and appetizers while wads of cash were carelessly counted on the table. The gazes of those men were invasive and indecent, settling on every waitress. You tried to maintain an unperturbed professionalism, focused on your work.

​As you leaned in to refill a glass, a sharp, dull thud broke the murmur of conversations. One of the associates had dared to insolently slap your butt. The man smiled smugly, as if his vulgarity were a great achievement. Laughter resonated across the table, approving the gesture. Everyone joined in the mockery, except one. Kazuya remained still, his jaw tightly clenched, a vein visibly throbbing in his temple. He did not utter a word, but his silence was terrifying.

Finally, the long, tense night ended. Back in the tranquility of your apartment, you were trying to relax and shake off the bad taste of the incident, when a firm knock sounded at your door. Opening it, you were met with Kazuya's silhouette. His elegant tailored suit was visibly wrinkled and stained with blood, as were his immaculate face and the gloves on his hands. He offered you a half-smile; the blood, it was evident, was not his own, as he did not seem injured in the slightest, but strangely calm.

"I deeply regret what my associate did to you. I have personally ensured that something like this will never happen again"

​He extended an expensive gift bag toward you as his dark eyes fixed on yours. There was an undeniable darkness in his tone.