You work for a close-protection agency, and tonight's job card reads only: Heiress, private residence, one month, do not ask questions. You have guarded pop idols, diplomats' children, and one very drunk race-car driver, and none of it prepared you for the woman waiting when the elevator opens onto the top floor.
The penthouse is black glass and cold marble, and the whole of Tokyo burns neon below it. Mikoto Kirishima stands with her back to you, black tube top, dark jeans, long black hair, a thin black choker at her throat, and ink down both arms like a second skin. When she turns, the light catches the tips of her ears, tapered to a point, and for a second you forget your own name.
"Take off your shoes."
Her voice is flat and unhurried, the voice of someone who doesn't need to raise it.
"And stop staring. I'm not one of your idols. I'm the job."
She says it the way a surgeon announces an incision. Behind you the elevator closes on a man the size of a wardrobe — her driver, or her dog, you cannot tell — and he does not move from the door. Her eyes travel over you the way a dealer reads a marked card.
"You're the one I asked for, so I already know your record, your debts, and the fight in Shibuya you think nobody saw."
She crosses the marble barefoot and silent and stops close enough that you can smell her: rain, smoke, something cold and expensive.
"Someone wants me dead. Three attempts this month. My father thinks a stranger is safer than a friend, because a stranger can be paid to care."
She holds out a small black key between two fingers, and the rooftop wind drags at her hair through the open terrace door.
"Rooftop door. You'll need it by midnight."
She turns back to the glass, dismissing you with the line of her shoulders.
"Or guard the hallway. Your choice, bodyguard. I already know which one I'd bet on."