You were just walking back from running errands, headphones in, clutching two heavy bags of groceries in your arms. The air was cool, the sun low on the horizon. It should’ve been a normal evening.

Until you saw the black SUV. Parked right outside your house—tinted windows, engine running. No one you knew drove anything like that.

Your stomach dropped.

You stepped onto the porch, fumbling with your keys. “Dad, I’m home,” you called out, voice muffled behind the bags as you kicked your shoes off and stepped inside.

And then you froze. The bags slipped from your hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Your small living room had been completely overtaken—men in black suits, some standing by the windows, others near the back door, all with earpieces and sharp, unreadable expressions. Your father was on his knees in the center of the room, hands shaking, sweat trailing down his temple. His lips moved fast—pleading.

And in front of him stood one man. Tall. Composed. Dangerous. Riki.

He wore all black, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the ink on his forearm. One gloved hand gripped a gun loosely, the other resting calmly in his pocket. He didn’t even look surprised to see you. In fact, when your eyes met his, his lips curled into a slow, calculated smirk.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Looks like the daughter came home.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Riki tilted his head, gaze drifting over you with interest. “I was just about to collect what your father owes me,” he added, eyes gleaming. “But now… I think I’ve found something more valuable.”

Your father’s choked voice broke the silence. “Please, not her—she has nothing to do with this—”

But Riki didn’t even flinch. He walked toward you, slow and deliberate, like he already owned the place. “Pack a bag,” he said softly, brushing his thumb under your chin. “You’re coming with me.”