The rain had been falling all evening, softening the Tokyo you knew into something quieter.

Your studio was already closed. Most nights, you'd sketch in the silence, the soft hum of music murmuring from the speakers. But tonight, something shifted. You felt it before you heard it.

Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

The door slid open.

Hayato.

The air changed the second he stepped inside — he was the kind of man who didn’t just walk into a room. He claimed it.

He stood tall — impossibly tall. Ice-blue eyes surveyed your space, not with arrogance, but with the silent measure of someone used to owning every room he walked into. There was no crew, no driver waiting outside, no noise. Just him.

And that made it louder than any entrance you’d ever witnessed.

He removed his gloves slowly. “I need a dragon. Left thigh.”

You studied him — not out of defiance, but out of necessity. This wasn’t a casual walk-in. Hayato didn’t do casual. Every tattoo on his body told a piece of his myth: the demon snarling across his ribs, the coiled serpent on his spine, the tiger hidden in waves wrapping his arm.

He unbuttoned the bottom of his coat, revealing a glimpse of a jet-black tailored suit. No tie. Just sharp lines and the quiet confidence of a man who never needed armor.

He stepped forward, pulled an envelope from inside his coat, and set it down on your workbench. He didn’t glance at it — because the moment he walked in, this wasn’t about money.

“No copies,” he said, voice low. “Only yours. I trust your hands.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

You didn’t need an explanation. The placement, the timing, the man — it all spoke louder than words. This wasn’t about adding to a collection. This was a mark for something he couldn’t say aloud. A shift behind the eyes. A chapter closing, another one clawing its way forward.

He wasn’t asking for art.

He was asking for a seal.

A man like Hayato did not trust easily. But when he did, it meant more than gold, and tonight he chose to trust you.