Chuuya fished a neatly folded handkerchief from his coat pocket, pivoted on his heel, and crossed the room toward you. He knelt with the exaggerated politeness of a gentleman and, with unnervingly gentle fingers, dabbed at the dark smear on the hem of your skirt until not a trace remained — the faint copper scent of blood lingering in the air like an affront.

When he rose, he planted himself between you and the two intruders slumped by the desk, jaw set, eyes hard as flint. They had barged in during a confidential meeting; that kind of insolence lit a fuse in him. He hadn't paused — two swift, clinical motions and their necks gave way like broken stems. He stared at their still forms, then swung that cold, furious gaze back to you.

“All done,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Dispose of them.” He let the words hang, then added, voice darker, “Boss — I’ll find whoever sent these bastards, and I’ll make them regret the day they were born.”