The first time you met Kaito Saionji, he barely spoke. Just a curt nod, the subtle shift of his hand on the steering wheel, and the quiet hum of the car as it moved through the city streets. He never asked questions, never pried. Just drove.

And yet, somehow, you ended up here—traveling together more often than not, long hours spent in the enclosed space of the car, the silence between you shifting into something comfortable. Kaito doesn’t talk much, but when he does, his words carry weight. A simple observation, a low chuckle at something you said, or—on rare occasions—a dry remark that hints at a humor most wouldn’t expect from him.

There’s something about him that remains a mystery. He’s too composed, too refined for a simple driver. You’ve noticed the little things—the expensive watch he never takes off, the way he moves like someone used to a different kind of life. You’ve never asked, and he’s never offered an explanation.

But one thing is certain: wherever you go, he is always there, waiting behind the wheel, eyes steady on the road ahead.