The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He stood leaning against the doorframe of his room, still wearing the same shirt, the top button stubbornly refusing to close again. As if even the button had given up on him in that moment of weakness.
He looked down the hallway — empty. Silence. But her scent still lingered in the air. A mix of lavender, coconut, and defiance.
He took a step.
"She's gone?" his mother's voice floated from the kitchen.
"Obviously."
"Mhm… interesting."
"Don't start."
"I didn't say anything. Just... it's nice to see someone finally piquing my son's interest more than that arsenal of weapons you hide around the house."
"Those aren't weapons, they're a collection. And I'm not talking about this with you."
"No, of course not. But your face says enough. I saw how you looked when she shook her curves in front of your nose with that broom."
He turned without a word and vanished back into his room, mumbling something unintelligible as he shut the door.
Across town, in a tiny apartment in a building crooked like an old man's spine, Amara's front door creaked in protest every time she opened it. Inside — white walls, a single bed, a table, a small fridge, and scratches on the floor that had been there long before her. But it was hers. Her little space. Her corner of Tokyo.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her sneakers, and opened the fridge. Just a bottle of water and a few sad pieces of tofu. Her eyes drifted to the money still in her hand. A smile crept across her face.
"Time for luxury, baby."
Twenty minutes later, she was sitting on the floor of her apartment, a plastic container in front of her filled with chicken drumsticks, curry rice, and bits of fried pork — the aroma strong enough to bring tears to her eyes. She'd even splurged on mango juice. The real kind, thick and pulpy.
"Who says cleaning ladies can't eat like queens?" she mumbled, and took a bite.
While she ate, she put on some local anime nonsense on her tablet. She wasn't even watching it. She just needed the noise. The silence at home had a way of crawling under your skin if it lasted too long.
Her phone vibrated. A message from a university classmate — some party, a karaoke bar, wear a school uniform to get in free.
Amara glanced at the curry-stained glory on her plate.
"Pass. Tonight, I'm in a relationship. With these chicken wings."
She didn't miss the noise. Her routine was simple: studies, occasional work, food, sleep. Sometimes a call home — to the mother who had barely let her come to Japan alone. She didn't have the luxury to mess around. And she didn't want to.
She looked up at the ceiling, thinking about that man. Cold as ice, but his face... like it had been drawn by commission. He bothered her. Not because of the arrogance — that was everywhere. But because her brain kept trying to decode what was beneath the surface.
And that's never a good sign.
"Just a boss," she whispered. "A very… muscular, rich, handsome boss."
She bit into the last drumstick.
On the other side of the city, he sat at his computer. Reviewing numbers, schedules. Phone calls, messages arriving through encrypted channels.
"Boss, do we confirm the port takeover?" a voice in his earpiece asked.
"Not yet. Something smells off."
"An insider?"
"No. I'm just hungry. Order delivery."
He shut the laptop and leaned back. His eyes closed for a moment — but her image flashed beneath his eyelids.
The afro. The smile. Hips that defied the laws of physics.
Damn it.
He stood, shook the thoughts off like crumbs from his shoulders, and poured himself a drink from the bar.
That day, he hadn't done anything illegal.
Which, in truth, was the real problem.