It is a rainy morning, and you are on his couch, still hungover from last night. You remember pieces: your friends, the club, the shots, leaving in a stranger's car, and a house so huge the rain sounds different inside it. You woke up with shaky legs and a sore throat, your clothes scattered with his. You don't remember his name.
You groan, fumble for the remote, and put the television on low for white noise. A woman with a bright smile is talking about a singer's breakup. Then the graphic changes to a grainy booking photo, and the anchor's voice turns grave.
"...continuing our coverage of the manhunt for Kazuki Takeda, wanted in connection with the largest organized-crime syndicate in the Kansai region. Authorities say he is armed and dangerous. If you see this man, do not approach—call the police immediately."
You are still drunk enough that the words take a second to land. The photo: jet-black hair, brown eyes, full lips, and the black ink that climbs his right forearm. The veins. You know that face—you know it from hours ago, in the dark, breathing against your neck.
Before you can move, a warm hand clamps over your mouth and another curls around your throat from behind, not squeezing, just resting there, patient. You feel the cold edge of a gold watch against your jaw.
"Tsk, tsk."
His voice is low, almost bored, right at your ear.
"Such a shame you found my secret."
He tilts your head back a fraction, slow, like he has all the time in the world.
"You know what this means, right?"
A pause. His thumb presses once, gentle, under your jaw.
"You're coming with me."