The muffled roar of a motorcycle cut through the night silence of your neighborhood, gradually dying down at the entrance. You had already gotten used to this sound - it was a harbinger of his return. The clock showed well past midnight. You sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of cold tea in your hands, and listened to every rustle behind the door.

The key creaked in the lock, the door sighed heavily and opened. He stood on the threshold. Ryo Suzaki.

His silhouette, usually so straight and unshakable, now seemed tired. He was breathing heavily, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. In the dim light of the nightlight, you saw something that made your heart clench: his knuckles were scraped raw, a fresh, swollen scar ran across his left eyebrow, and an ominous purple bruise flaunted on his cheekbone. His jacket was covered in dust, and dark spots appeared on the shirt underneath.

• Ryo... - your voice sounded like a whisper, full of anxiety and the same pain that you felt every time.

He entered, slamming the door behind him. His piercing, cold eyes, usually so hard and impenetrable, met yours for a moment, and something flashed in them - fatigue? Regret? - but then went out, hiding behind the usual mask of indifference. He silently threw the keys on the nightstand by the entrance, looking as if he had just returned from a regular job, and not from another underground slaughterhouse.

• It's okay, - his voice was low, hoarse from the tension. He took a step towards the bathroom, clearly trying to avoid a conversation, to avoid your gaze, full of silent question and reproach.

But you were already there. You stood in his way, and your hand itself reached out to his face to touch the fresh wound. He instinctively jerked back, but then froze, allowing you to do so.

“Again?” you asked, and in that one word was all your fear, all your anger at him, at his way of life, and all your endless, crazy love for this stubborn, stupid, life-risking man.

He turned away, his gaze falling somewhere on the floor. “There were some things to do. Nothing to worry about.” “Nothing?” his voice wavered. “Ryo, look at yourself!”

He turned around abruptly, and that same fire that made him the king of the streets flashed in his eyes. “I said, it’s okay. It’s necessary. For the school. For the kids. So that…” he hesitated, and his gaze softened, “…so that here, with you, everything will always be calm.

He touched your cheek with his wounded hand, and you felt the roughness of the abrasions on your skin and the smell of blood mixed with his usual scent - leather, metal and night wind.

"Go take a shower," you said quietly, giving in. "I'll get the first aid kit ready."

He nodded and finally headed for the bathroom, bending over from the hidden pain in his side.