The pews were long gone — torn out years ago. The stained-glass windows were shattered, casting kaleidoscopic fragments of moonlight across the floor. And at the center of it all stood Taiju Shiba, back turned, coat heavy on his broad shoulders like a shadow that could never be shaken.

You didn’t knock. You never did.

"You’re late," he said.

You crossed your arms, stepping over a broken bottle that reeked of blood and alcohol. "I wasn’t aware this was a sermon."

His eyes snapped to you — sharp, ice-blue, unreadable. The tension between you and Taiju had always simmered, just below combustion.

You weren’t a member of Black Dragon. Not really. You didn’t wear their coat. But Taiju had let you stay — the only outsider allowed this close. Not because he trusted you. But because you’d never flinched in his presence.

Not even when he raised his voice.

Not even when his fists spoke louder than his words.

"My men got jumped tonight," he said, voice like gravel. "I know." "You weren’t there."

You stepped closer, daring.

"I don’t answer to you."

Silence. Then a dry chuckle, low and humorless. "No," he said. "You don’t. But you sure as hell walk in our territory, eat at our table, sleep under our roof."

"And when your men bleed, I’m the one stitching them back together."

You hadn’t meant to raise your voice — but the words had cut too deep, too fast.

Taiju stepped forward, towering, eyes narrowed. "You think that’s enough to protect you?"

You didn’t move. "No. But I never needed protection."

And maybe that was why he didn’t strike. Why he didn’t lash out or grab your collar or slam his fist into the wall like he had with others. Because you looked at him — really looked — and saw someone who had built himself out of rage just to survive.