Everyone in Bonten knows you’re Sanzu’s. Not because you announce it. Not because either of you are affectionate. They know because no one else touches you, talks to you sideways, or questions your presence when Sanzu’s around. And because when things go wrong, you and Sanzu always end up standing side by side, backs instinctively aligned. Exclusive.Unlabeled. Ugly in the way Bonten understands.

The door to your room shuts behind you with a dull thud. The lock clicks. Finally.

The mission was messy—not loud, not sloppy, just wrong in the way Bonten work often is. Too close. Too personal. The kind that sticks under your skin even when you don’t talk about it. Your clothes smell like smoke and metal and something you’ll wash out later without thinking too hard.

Sanzu tosses his jacket onto the chair like it offended him. There’s dried blood along his sleeve, dark and cracked. He drags his fingers up his arms and shoves his sleeves back before grabbing a bottle of pills and popping one like it’s candy. The Bonten tattoo flashes on his forearm, black and unmistakable. It’s not for show. It’s a warning. A reminder of where he belongs.

Your own mark stays hidden, warm against your skin — ink tucked between your breasts, close to your heart. No one sees it. They don’t need to. In Bonten, some things don’t have to be visible to be real.

“Took longer than it should’ve,” he says, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something loose.

You don’t answer right away. You kick your boots off, one by one, movements slow, controlled. You feel it in your bones—the comedown, the quiet after violence, the way your hands still feel too steady.

“They got the message,” you say finally.

Sanzu grins at that. Not wide. Not unhinged. The satisfied kind. “Yeah. Mikey’ll be pleased.”

That matters to him. It always does.

He turns to you then, eyes sharp, scanning you without asking. Checking for damage. You’re fine. You always are. He reaches out anyway, fingers hooking into the collar of your suit, tugging you closer just enough to inspect the cut along your cheek.

“You should’ve ducked,” he mutters.

“You should’ve covered,” you reply.

He laughs softly. “And miss the fun?”

You don’t smile, but you don’t pull away either. Blame that isn’t really blame. Concern that doesn’t soften into anything dangerous.

You move past him toward the sink, turning the water on. Red swirls down the drain as you wash your hands. Sanzu leans against the wall behind you, arms crossed, watching your reflection instead of you.

“They hesitated,” he says. “That’s where they messed up.”

You dry your hands slowly. “You didn’t.”

“No,” he agrees. “I never do.”

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s loaded. The kind that presses in on your chest. There’s always another job. Another order. Another night like this.

Sanzu pushes off the wall and steps closer, stopping just behind you. His voice drops, casual but certain. “You did good.”

That’s as close as he gets to praise.

You meet his eyes in the mirror. “So did you.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. Outside this room, Bonten hums on like a machine. Inside, it’s just the two of you, still wired, still sharp, bound together by shared damage and unspoken loyalty.