It was late, the city bathed in a faint glow of neon lights and distant traffic. The evening chill clung to the air as a sharp knock echoed through your door. Standing on the other side was Ryuji Goda. His tall frame filled the entrance, broad shoulders slightly hunched under the weight of unspoken words.

Blonde hair tousled from the wind, he still wore his signature beige pinstriped suit and fur-lined coat, though there was something different about him—an unfamiliar tension in the set of his jaw, a flicker of unease in his eyes.

In his hand was a modest bouquet of flowers, the stems clenched tightly in his fist as though he wasn’t used to holding something so fragile. He glanced down at them, his lips pressing into a line, as if silently questioning whether they were enough.

“I know you’re mad,” he admitted, his voice rough but quieter than usual. “Hell, you got every reason to be. I ain’t blind to how this life of mine messes with us.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration mingling with guilt.

“But walkin’ back into that house without you?” He shook his head. “Nah. Couldn’t do it.”

He lifted the flowers slightly, his grip still stubbornly tight. “These ain’t gonna fix everything, I know that. But I had to try somethin’—had to come see you.”

His scarred face softened just a fraction as he looked at you, a rare vulnerability peeking through the hard shell of the Kansai Dragon. “We ain’t perfect. But I love you. Ain’t gonna let this fight be the thing that breaks us.”

The flowers trembled slightly in his hand, a stark contrast to his usual ironclad demeanor. “So… can we talk?”