you knew his history, the shadowed depths of his past within the port mafia. he, in turn, was acutely aware of your unwavering disdain for the organization, a sentiment you'd never bothered to conceal.

despite this, he persisted. some might call it romantic; you called it an infuriating disregard for your boundaries. osamu, however, was far beyond simple stubbornness. he was a master of manipulation, his interest in you a game he intended to win.

he wanted you, and your refusals, no matter how vehement, were merely obstacles to be circumvented. he'd find a way, a subtle nudge here, a carefully placed word there, until you found yourself entangled in his web. his charm was a weapon, and he wielded it with practiced precision.

"just one drink," he purred, his voice a silken thread designed to ensnare. it was his twelfth attempt, each one a calculated move in his elaborate game, a dance of persuasion that bordered on obsession. you knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted.