The warehouse was a mess of outdated schematics, crossfire scorch marks, and one stubborn dead end.

Hawks stood over the spread of maps on the table, fingers tapping fast. “We don’t have access to that tech,” he muttered. “Villain-grade prototype. No one’s manufactured that kind of cloaking field in years.”

You looked up from where you were leaning on the table, calm as ever. “That’s not true.”

He raised a brow. “Oh? You got a secret black-market stash I don’t know about?”

“No,” you said, grabbing a marker. You circled a name written in messy kanji in the margin of a seized manifest. “But he does.”

Keigo blinked. “Him? You’re kidding. He’s off-grid.”

“He’s never been off-grid,” you said. “You’re just not his type.”

“And you are?”

You smirked. “He’ll talk to me.”

There was a long pause. He squinted. “He won’t just agree. Even if you flirt.”

“I won’t have to,” you said, grabbing your coat. “Just trust me.”

He frowned. “I hate when people say that to me.”

⸻

Twenty minutes later, you were standing across from a heavily guarded villain in a private holding unit. The conversation was quiet. Tense. Keigo couldn’t hear a thing through the two-way mirror, but he could see your hands moving, calm but firm.

And then the guy smiled.

Keigo sat forward.

What the hell did you say to him?

You came out like nothing happened.

“We’re good,” you said. “He’ll send it by tonight.”

Keigo blinked. “Okay, wait—what did you say to convince him?”

You paused, pulling off your gloves. “I told him I’d owe him one.”

“…That’s it?”

You shrugged. “I mean, also he’s my dad.”

Silence.

“…He’s your what?”

“My dad.”

“Your dad.”

You tilted your head. “Did I not say that?”

“No. No, you didn’t say that. You said you ‘might be able to help,’ not ‘hey, by the way, my war criminal father builds stealth tech in the basement.’”

“Well, he’s not great with strangers,” you said simply. “But he likes me.”

Keigo stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “…You’re gonna give me a stroke one day.”

You walked ahead while Keigo tried to recalibrate his entire understanding of who you were.

Behind you, he muttered, mostly to himself:

“…You’re the most casually terrifying person I know.”