Blood clung to him—darkened, tacky, stitched into the fabric of his clothes. The bathwater ran and ran, a thin hiss meant to drown out the echo of his thoughts, but anger still pulsed beneath his skin, restless and unspent.

Another loss.

Hiromi had done everything right. Evidence airtight. Testimony clean. And still, the verdict had come down wrong—rotten with bias, deaf to reason. Something inside him had fractured at the sound of it. He hadn’t raised his voice at first. He’d smiled. Asked politely. Then demanded. Then—when the room refused to listen—he’d taken justice into his own hands and torn the heart out of the system that mocked him.

Now he lay submerged, fully clothed, the waterline kissing his jaw. The absurdity of it calmed him. Fabric heavy. Body weighted. Consequences dulled. The law no longer mattered here.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

His eyes slid toward the door, catching on your silhouette, your expression tight with worry he no longer bothered to read. Smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers as he exhaled slowly.

“Don’t stand there like that,” he said quietly, almost tender. “You make me feel like I’m loosing my mind.”

His fingers traced the rim of the tub—tap, tap, tap—measured, compulsive. When you didn’t move, the softness drained from his gaze, leaving something sharp and intent behind.

He tilted his head, water lapping against his collarbone. “Come here,” he said, low and final. “I don’t feel right without you.”