Draken and you had been together for a few months, and you still had no idea he was the Vice President of the most infamous gang in Tokyo — and he was determined to keep it that way. As far as you knew, he just “helped out at a bike shop” and “had a few rough friends.”

That night, you got home late from work. The apartment was dark except for the warm glow of the TV. Draken was sitting on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest. Bruises dotted his skin — faint but noticeable — and white bandages peeked out from under his shirt sleeve. He shifted slightly, as if to hide them just a bit more.

The door clicked shut behind you.

“Baby? You finally home?”

His voice was low and rough from disuse, but there was relief in it. His eyes flicked over you, quietly checking for injuries of your own — something he always did, even if he tried to play it cool.