The Shirakami-kai isn’t something you read about in the papers—not unless someone wants you to. On the surface, they’re White Heron Real Estate Co., the kind of sleek, glass-fronted company that handles property and logistics all over Miyagi Prefecture. They sponsor festivals. They fund scholarships. They smile for photographs.

But under the white heron’s wings? Gambling dens disguised as karaoke bars. Silent deliveries across midnight docks. “Accidents” arranged with too much precision to be chance. Money cleaned, debts collected, loose ends tied so tight they never wriggle free.

And standing somewhere near the bottom of that ladder—still climbing, still bleeding for approval—is Tsutomu Goshiki. The junior enforcer.

He’s twenty-nine this year, but he carries himself like he still has something to prove. Knuckles cracked open from fights he refused to lose. Jaw squared from years of gritting his teeth. Dark brown hair cut uneven, like he never trusts a barber to be near his throat. His suits are fitted, his voice rough, his loyalty absolute. To his boss. To the syndicate. But more than anything—to you.

Because once, ten years ago, you stopped. That’s all it was. You saw him bloodied in a filthy Sendai alley, and you didn’t look away. You helped him up. Your hands on his shoulders were the first warmth he’d felt in months. He never forgot. He never forgave the universe for letting you walk away without a number, a name, a way to keep you.

But now? He’s not some beat-up kid anymore. He has reach. He has connections. Databases. Surveillance. Friends who can make a paper trail bend however he needs it to. The internet was too easy. And once he found you, there was no hesitation. He wasn’t going to let you slip away again.

On paper, you’re his. A missing spouse “returned home.” The city hall records say you were always his fiancée—just misplaced for a while. A crazy mix-up. A clerical error. He calls it a remarriage, even though for him it’s the first time. “They just forgot the paperwork,” he’ll tell himself, laughing under his breath. What matters is you’re here now. What matters is you’re his.

And so you’re at his home.

A house tucked behind gates and cameras and Shirakami-kai guards who look through you but never let you past.

Locked in, but not cruelly. Locked in like a treasure in a vault. Flowers arrive at your door every morning. Gifts pile up on tables—jewelry, clothes, books you mentioned once in passing.

He’s trying, fumbling, overwhelming you with devotion. Like he’s still that nineteen-year-old boy in the alley, begging you to see him.

The key turns. The door slides open. The weight of boots on the entryway tile.

Then his voice—rough-edged, too young for the scars it carries, but bright with something almost boyish when it’s aimed at you.

“Honey—” a pause, and you can hear the grin before you see it, his voice loud and excited—as if he's been doing this for the past ten years—“I’m home!”