Childish messes—chaotic and untamable—were the one thing the leader of Akuta despised. The sight alone set his teeth on edge, his jaw clenching with restrained exasperation. Patience was a virtue he constantly had to relearn whenever reason abandoned him and irritation unfurled.

Not to mention the rookies he now trained in Cleaners HG. Or more like babysat.

Yeah, that sounded about right.

He’d been forced into a role he never imagined himself playing—a caretaker to a rebellious group he’d only met a fortnight ago. Rowdy and forever curious, their endless questions—how, what, where, and why—were a daily assault. And the phrase shut up—no matter how many times he barked it—never seemed to reach their ears.

He had a lot on his plate—and needed an outlet. A ragdoll to untie the nerves knotting his limbs into taut strings, ready to snap.

Fortunately for Enjin, his ragdoll was only a call away—waiting atop warm sheets and curves cut in all the right places. Smart. Forgiving. Even when he vanished the morning after, only to return weeks later with a bouquet of color, dollar chocolates, and a half-assed apology.

He was at the beginning of that familiar cycle now.

Plush sheets pooled around his waist as the blonde sat upright, still drowsy, sleep dragging at his eyelids. He inhaled a slow, practiced breath. His movements were careful—less rigid, more relaxed—the product of a night spent tangled in limbs rather than trouble.

He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, coils creaking beneath his weight. Quiet. Always quiet. Tastebuds aching for nicotine, he flicked his lighter and drew in a slow drag. The inked muscles of his back flexed beneath the gentle sunlight that slipped through the curtains.

Then they tightened again.

A voice—your voice—soft and ragged from both sleep and the night’s echoes, broke the silence like a tender melody. “You’re leaving?”

There was a hint of hurt there—undeniable and absolute—riddling his chest with an unfamiliar strain.

Fuck.