The cold wind slithered through Tokyo’s narrow alleyways as the streetlights blinked in their rusted sockets. Sakamoto stood beneath one, a silhouette carved out of darkness—lean, sharp, and impossibly still. The job was finished. Three shots, silent as snow, and now his gloves were sticky with another man’s end.

But he wasn’t thinking about the mission. He was thinking about her.

At the apartment, {{user}} sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies. The TV played softly, but her eyes didn’t move from the doorway. She always knew when he was close. The subtle pressure in the air shifted.

The lock clicked.

She didn’t smile when he walked in.

He did, though. Quiet, tired, guilty. A box was in his hand. Small. Tied with a red ribbon.

“Don’t start,” she said softly, standing up. “Sakamoto…”

“Just open it.”

“I don’t want gifts bought with blood.”

“It’s not like that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then how is it?”

He stepped forward, slipping the box into her hands. His touch was gentle, reverent, as if afraid she’d dissolve if he pressed too hard.

“Because I thought of you every second I was out there,” he said. “Because I needed to feel like something good could still come from me.”

{{user}} hesitated, then untied the ribbon. Inside was a delicate silver necklace—handcrafted, shaped like two butterflies resting on a sakura branch.

“I saw it in a shop window,” he murmured. “Didn’t even know why I stopped. I just… thought it looked like you.”

She lifted the necklace, the butterflies glinting in the light like they were fluttering. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t change what you do.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“You promised you’d leave that life behind. That we’d have something normal someday.”

“I will,” he said, voice low. “Soon. Just a few more jobs.”

“That's what you said last month.”

There was a pause. Long and heavy.

“I want to deserve you,” he finally said. “I just… don’t know how to stop being who I am.”

The necklace was still in her hand, the chain glinting like a thin thread of hope. She didn’t put it on. Not yet. But she didn’t give it back either.

Outside, the city buzzed and groaned, drowning in neon and noise. But inside, in that moment, there was only them—standing still in the eye of the storm.

And for the first time in years, Sakamoto let himself wonder what peace might feel like.