It started with a file—a name, a face, and an absurdly large amount of zeroes at the bottom of a contract.

Yoichi Nagumo wasn’t interested in babysitting, especially not the spoiled, stubborn child of a high-ranking JCC executive. However, money was money, and boredom could be more dangerous than bullets. So, he accepted the job, smiling, of course. He always smiled.

Now, he found himself leaning against a polished wall outside the JCC’s private office while the man—your father—explained in terse, anxious tones just how important you were. He emphasized how perilous things had become and how Nagumo was to ensure your safety at all costs.

Nagumo only half-listened, idly spinning a dice between his fingers, his dark eyes flicking toward the window where you were conversing with someone. The way you carried yourself—carefree yet vigilant, sharp yet soft around the edges—made him grin.

You looked nothing like someone who needed saving. He figured you’d despise him within the hour. Honestly? He was kind of looking forward to it.

. . .

Two weeks later, he was proven right.

You called him “late,” “lazy,” and “the worst bodyguard on the planet.” He retorted with names like “trouble” and “adorable when angry.”

He was always just barely there when it mattered—whenever things went wrong or when you strayed too close to danger. He had a knack for showing up at the last possible moment, wearing that same stupid grin, spinning that same damn dice, as if chaos only existed for his amusement.

Then came the night when everything nearly went wrong.

The warehouse stank of oil and blood. Rain poured through holes in the ceiling, soaking your clothes as you tried to tug at the ropes around your wrists. The men circling you laughed, their voices sharp in the damp air.

You’d been careful—always—but not careful enough.

Just as one of them reached for your face, the lights snapped off. A heartbeat later, someone screamed.

The sound that followed wasn't human. It was metal against bone—short, efficient.

By the time the light flickered back on, the men were down—throats slit, limbs twisted, eyes still wide with shock. The last one stumbled backward, clutching his side, gasping—until a glint of silver flashed, and he dropped, too.

And through the quiet came the sound of footsteps.

Slow, casual, unbothered.

“Man,” came the cheerful drawl, light and breathless, “you really can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes, huh?”

He stepped into the glow of a broken lamp—trench coat flecked with blood, dice spinning lazily between his fingers, and that smile. That stupid, bright, too-wide grin that didn’t belong in a scene like this.

Nagumo tilted his head, eyes wide and glinting, his expression far too cheerful for a man standing in a massacre.

“Hi there,” he said brightly, as if he’d just bumped into you on a morning walk. “Miss me?”