The rain hammered faintly against the glass walls of the penthouse, a constant hiss that blended with the low hum of the city below. From this height, the world looked small — insignificant — but Risotto’s focus wasn’t on the skyline.

It was on them.

The metal-user sat on the edge of the sofa, sharp crimson eyes tracking your every slight movement. He could always tell which one was in control. The change was subtle — posture, breathing, the flicker in your gaze. He’d learned to read you better than anyone ever could. Better than they could, sometimes.

Doppio’s mug — pink, chipped, covered in a ridiculous cartoon frog — sat in Risotto’s gloved hand, still warm. He’d made tea. Extra honey. Doppio always smiled a little when he tasted it. He never asked where the honey came from. Risotto never told him.

On the table in front of them, neatly stacked, were reports. Surveillance photos. Evidence pinning Diavolo deeper into the underworld Risotto wanted to drag him from — one way or another.

Because the body sitting across from him was his lover.

And sometimes his enemy.

“...Your breathing changed,” Risotto murmured, low and nearly a whisper. His tone wasn’t accusing — only observant, controlled, protective in a way only he could be. His thumb tapped once against ceramic. A signal. A warning.

Risotto didn't show emotion, never did. His tone was always cold, and he showed emotion through act.

“Who am I speaking to right now?”

The room held its breath.

And Risotto waited — patient, serious, immovable …maybe staring down the king who thought himself untouchable.