Three days had passed.
The night breathed slower than usual. The narrow, hidden alley between two warehouses was filled with the whisper of rain falling on metal, on concrete, and on bodies quietly groaning beneath his boots.
He was here because of betrayal.
The young man before him — late twenties, tattooed, cocky — was crying. His front teeth were gone. His hands trembled, knees buckled, but pride still tried to lift his head.
"You know what I hate most?" the boss asked, wiping blood from his knuckles with a tissue already soaked in red. "When people lie to me and think I'm stupid."
He leaned in closer.
"You didn't go down because of the theft, kid. You went down because you're stupid."
One punch. A dull thud of flesh against flesh. Bone cracking. And then — silence.
He stood upright, feeling the pain in his right hand. His knuckles were swollen, two fingers scraped raw. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a dense, cold stillness.
"Clean this up. I don't want to see him again."
He turned and disappeared into the shadows as two subordinates lifted the limp body from the ground.
He entered the house through the back door, silently — as if not wanting her to know he was home. But even in the hallway, the scent of detergent and freshness told him — Amara was here. And she was mopping his floors. And possibly hearing every step he took.
He took off his blazer and tossed it onto a chair. Glanced at his hands. The blood had dried, but the skin was scratched, the joints darkened from impact.
He entered the bathroom, turned on the water. Cold at first — then scalding. Washing the wounds hurt more than the fight.
He returned to the kitchen with a fresh shirt, shoulders slightly hunched. Pain throbbed in his hand like a pulsing reminder. He sat at the table where dinner waited — courtesy of his mother. Rice, salmon, miso soup.
And then — footsteps.
She was already there. Kneeling a few meters away with a rag in her hand, back slightly tensed with effort. Her afro hair tied up in a messy puff, but she radiated that something — cheerful, but cautious. Like someone who knows she's walking through a minefield.
She didn't look at him right away. And he… was grateful.
Because when she did look — her eyes caught his hands. She paused. Just for a second.
Then continued scrubbing.
Silence stretched between them. Just the bubbling of soup, the squeak of the cloth, and quiet breathing.
"Aren't you going to ask?" he said, without looking at her.
Her shoulders flinched, but the answer came quickly — almost too quickly:
"Not my job."
"Smart," he said, and took a sip of soup.
He said nothing more. Neither did she. But the air was getting heavier.
A few minutes passed before she stood and went to the sink to wash the cloth. Her back was straight, but he could see the tension in her frame.
"You're not scared of me now, are you?" he asked, sarcastically, though his tone was quieter — almost resigned.
She turned around, hands still wet. Looked him straight in the eye.
"I don't scare easy. But I'm not stupid either."
Bang. Right to the gut.
He laughed. First time that day.
"You know what?" he said, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe you're not just… a cleaning lady."
"Maybe not."
A short pause.
"But now, if you'll excuse me…" she said with a theatrical bow, "…I've got more floors to abuse."
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him staring into nothing. At his hands — and at whatever it was he'd just felt in his chest.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It was… the uncomfortable realization that someone might actually see him.
And that was never part of the plan.
She didn't know how long she had stood outside his office door.
She had finished cleaning, wiped the last bit of tile, folded the socks his mother had left by the washer, and vacuumed the staircase. Everything was done. Except one thing.
Payment.
Of course, he wouldn't just show up and say, "Here you go." No. He had to wait for her to come to him. And that felt like a stone sitting on her chest.
She knocked softly on the door.
"Come in."
Her voice got stuck in her throat, but her hand obeyed. The door creaked as she opened it.
He sat at the desk, a small lamp casting light down his face, giving him the look of a manga villain plotting revenge. One hand on the table, the other holding a glass of whiskey.
He didn't look up right away.
"You're done?" he asked.
"I am," she said quietly.
He raised his eyes. Her gaze was downcast, hands clasped in front of her stomach. Her usually bright posture was now stiff like a soldier reporting to a general.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Today… six hours. Six thousand yen."
"That's all?"
"Yes."
He reached for his wallet, pulled out neatly folded bills, and placed them on the desk. He didn't hand them to her directly.
She stepped forward, took the money, murmured a soft, "Thank you," and turned to leave.
"Wait."
She stopped.
"You're not gonna talk to me anymore? Where's that sassy mouth full of comments?"
"I'm just doing my job."
"And what am I now? Some kind of monster?"
Silence.
She turned, but didn't look at him.
"I don't know what you are. And to be honest… I don't want to find out."
His eyes narrowed. That one hit. Not physically — but it stung more than he expected.
"Fine," he said coldly. "You know where the door is."
She walked out. The door clicked shut behind her.
Morning.
Amara returned — she hadn't finished everything the day before. Her mother had told her she didn't have to go back, but Amara didn't like leaving things undone. It was in her blood — maybe because life had never let her afford loose ends.
She arrived earlier than needed, hood pulled over her head, sneakers squeaking on the entry floor.
His mother opened the door, already dressed to go out.
"Sweetheart, I'm heading to the store and to the salon. I'll be gone maybe an hour, hour and a half. You know the drill, right?"
"I do, ma'am."
"And don't ma'am me! Call me Reiko."
Amara smiled, but said nothing. She stepped in, took off her shoes, grabbed a bucket of water, and started.
He appeared on the stairs.
Perfectly dressed — black suit, tie, polished shoes. Black hair, with one strand falling over his face. He looked like he walked out of a luxury watch ad… or out of the underworld.
He didn't even look at her.
Walked past her like she was furniture.
And even though she was used to that kind of behavior, she felt a lump rise in her throat. Her heart beat faster. It wasn't just fear — it was something worse. Something personal.
He stopped in the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, and took a few sips.
She was cleaning in the dining room. She couldn't not see him. And he… he was wrestling with himself.
"You know," he said suddenly, still not looking at her, "you don't have to stay silent all day. You could say 'good morning' at least."
"Good morning," she said through clenched teeth.
"Lovely. Now just add a smile."
Silence.
Amara dropped the rag. Walked to the kitchen doorway and looked at him. Directly. Seriously.
"I don't feel comfortable being alone in the house with you."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Really?" His voice was cold. Sharp. "Have I given you any reason to think you're in danger?"
"No," she said honestly. "But… people like you… you radiate danger."
His expression changed. Not his face — just his eyes. Like her words had actually hit him.
"People like me, huh."
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean it like that."
"No, you said exactly what you meant."
He turned and left the kitchen without another word.
And she stood there, rag in hand, staring at the empty doorway. Wishing she could take it back.
But she couldn't.
Because… maybe it was the truth.