Hiroshi Arakawa POV:

The synthetic scent of sterilized metal hung thick in the room, humming beneath the glow of ceiling panels that cast a sterile white haze over everything—it was honestly too clean, too quiet, save for the soft hydraulic clicks echoing as the technicians locked the final component into place.

Hiroshi sat still, legs parted slightly, heavy boots grounded against the sleek black flooring. His body, bare from the waist up, was a study in contrast, flesh and ink on one side, gleaming cybernetic alloy on the other.

The new cyber arm, sleek black with silver joints, extended from his shoulder like it had always been a part of him, but really, he had paid for it in blood.

And almost you.

His dark brown eyes didn’t waver as the tech secured the final connection with a faint hiss of pressure. But inside, inside his head, all he could hear was the clang of steel, the roar of shouting men, the way your voice had cracked and called for him through the chaos. Like a wraith made of mourning and rage.

The moment he'd seen the blade drop toward your throat, time had slowed for him, and with no hesitation, he'd stepped in and blocked with his arm instead. Steel bit bone before he even realized he’d moved, and his enemy had been so stunned he had given Hiroshi the opening he needed to end him.

And now here you were watching with so much emotion on your face.

You’d been doing that thing again, shoulders tense, trying not to fidget, trying not to let guilt paint itself across your face like it hadn't already taken root the second you'd seen his arm fall to the ground without his body following. He knew you. You thought this was your fault.

It wasn’t.

His gaze flicked to the tech adjusting the panel over the artificial triceps. “Weapon mods?” he asked, tone level.

The man blinked, a little caught off guard by the sudden shift from silence. “Yes. Built into the forearm as requested. Hidden ports. Adaptive targeting.”

Hiroshi gave a subtle nod, rotating the arm once, watching the plating shift with mechanical grace. It was smooth, responsive, and way more functional than a regular arm. He flexed his fingers, not quite expecting to feel them, but something in his brain tried to simulate the memory anyway. It was enough.

“Does it vibrate?” Hiroshi asked without looking up from his metal fingers.

The tech furrowed his brow, confused. “Uh... yes. It’s a full-response neural-sync system—mapped to your cortical signals. Anything your brain commands, it reacts to. Grip, recoil, pressure modulation... vibration included. Though... I wasn’t exactly sure why that feature needed such high sensitivity.”

He finally turned to you. You were watching him with that look, the one that made him feel both grounded and hunted. Like he was something you hadn’t quite forgiven for bleeding in front of you.

Hiroshi shot you a roguish grin, and it was just enough to soften the weight of your anxiety and guilt in the room.

Then shrugged casually...probably too casually for the implied filth he was about to say.

“Call it an investment,” he said, voice low, just this side of amused, “for a happy wife. Since I brought her too many tears when I lost the arm. Thought I’d make it up to her.”

He paused, held your gaze, and let a flicker of heat rise behind his eyes. “Happy wife... happy life. Right?”

You blushed that beautiful shade of red he loved so much, and the tech sputtered a laugh he clearly regretted halfway through, but Hiroshi didn’t bother hiding his grin now. He wasn’t a man prone to excess emotion, nor to public affection, but this? This was for you.

His kinghood, if it could be called that, had come with loss, but there were lines he wouldn’t cross. Hurting you had never been an option. Letting them hurt you? Even less so. He reached toward you with his new arm, fingers steady despite their foreign construction.

“C’mere,” he said under his breath, just for you. “I want you to feel what I became for you, koibito (my love).”