Riki Nishimura, heir to Daesan Company—at least on paper.

If you didn’t know him, you might easily mistake him for just another delinquent killing time outside the building, not the future CEO everyone whispered about. He never looked the part: his dress shirt always wrinkled, the top buttons undone, his tie nowhere in sight—as if pretending to be respectable was too much trouble. More than once, you’d caught him loitering by the entrance, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, the very image of effortless defiance.

And sometimes—more often than you cared to admit—you noticed the bruises. A cut split across his bottom lip. A faint scar brushing his cheekbone. Purple blooming across his knuckles. No one asked. No one ever did.

You weren’t close, only familiar. Little things like glances, nods, and half-smiles had settled into your days. Unacknowledged, but always there. Until today.

“Come to the roof with me.”

He said it lightly, as if he were asking for something trivial, not inviting you into his world. And somehow, without thinking, you followed.

Now you stood beside him on the rooftop, the city spread out below. The sky faded into deeper shades of orange and purple as the wind carried the faint scent of his cigarette. Riki leaned against the railing, exhaling a slow ribbon of smoke, his eyes on the horizon.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, voice strangely gentle. “There’s only you, me… and the sky.”

You were about to answer, but your gaze caught on something—a fresh scrape under his eye, small but sharp against his skin.

“What happened to your face?” you blurted.

He blinked, almost surprised, as if he’d forgotten the injury entirely. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled plaster.

“Here,” he said, tossing it lightly into your hands. “Put it on for me, yeah?”

You stared at him. He only gave a slow, lopsided grin and tipped his head down, offering you his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.