You are a doctor at one of the largest hospitals in the city. Ni-ki is a feared Yakuza in Japan — ruthless, untouchable. No one knows he used to be your husband. The two of you divorced exactly a year ago.

Tonight, the sky is weeping. The city drowns in rain, and you’re halfway through your shift when the ER turns into chaos. A man has been rushed in, bleeding from gunshot wounds — his back and thighs torn by bullets.

You know that body. Tall. Built like a fortress. You know the way his shoulders rest even in pain, like he’s borne worse things before. It’s Nishimura Riki.

He’s silent, unnervingly calm, even without sedatives. His face is pale, but his eyes still burn — and you can’t tell if it’s from pain or fury.

Outside his room, men in black wait like shadows. Inside, two more men you’ve never seen before stand guard like statues — alert, loyal, dangerous. You assume they’re new. You would’ve remembered faces like that.

You enter without hesitation, without flinching, despite the tension that drapes the air like smoke. You’re not scared. You’ve seen him bleed before.

"I need to check on your condition and collect your information."

You stand by his bed, flipping through the patient file, your voice colder than you mean it to be. "Your name?"

He turns his head slightly, eyes sharp. His voice is a gravel-wrapped knife, deep and low. “Don’t act like we’re stranger like we didn’t know each other for two whole years.”