When Sakamoto was assigned this mission, his first instinct was to decline. Protection missions? They were beneath him. He was Taro Sakamoto, a living legend in the underground world.

But recently, things had shifted. A string of near-failures later, he admitted to himself that he wanted out. Maybe it was time to stop. To leave the chaos behind. To find a life with something more—something softer. A family. Love, perhaps.

Then he saw you. Sweet, intelligent, and rich you. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he felt compelled to take the mission.

The two of you walked side by side through the gilded halls of a penthouse that screamed old money, the sounds of crystal glasses clinking and quiet murmurs of polite conversation filling the air. Sakamoto moved like a shadow at your side, his white hair catching the soft glow of the chandeliers. To everyone else, he was unapproachable and imposing.

He scanned the room with the precision of a watchdog, always returning his gaze to you. His every step kept him close—close enough that your shoulders brushed now and then. You hadn’t spoken yet, but you didn’t seem bothered by his proximity.

You, for your part, moved through the event with a certain mindset. Sakamoto watched as you stopped to speak with a server, gesturing before plucking a beverage from the tray.

Then you lifted the cup to your lips.

Sakamoto’s hand shot out, intercepting the drink from your grasp in one smooth motion. His eyes, calculative, met yours, now wide with surprise. Without hesitation, he brought the glass to his nose, sniffing it.

“Seriously?” he muttered, his voice low, as if the words were meant more for himself than for you. He tilted his head closer as he spoke quietly, yet firmly. “Rule number one: don’t accept drinks from strangers. Not now, not ever.”

“Stick to what I give you,” he added, his tone a touch less sharp but no less commanding.