She wasn't even finished.
On the table lay a cleaning cloth, a half-open bottle of glass spray, and the last five minutes of her shift — the shelf with souvenirs. His room was closed. Silence fell upon the house like thick smoke, the kind that suffocates when you know someone feels something but won't say it aloud.
The door to his study creaked open.
He passed by her without saying a word. Only the scent of his expensive cologne and the sound of his footsteps on the parquet floor remained.
He didn't even look at her.
He just left.
Amara stared at the money. Something tightened in her throat, but she wasn't sure what. She wanted to call out to him, to say she didn't mean it like that, that she was just... confused. Afraid.
But she said nothing.
In a black limousine with tinted windows, Yamato sat in silence. His right hand was clenched into a fist, the veins on his wrist clearly outlined.
Who is she?
Who is she to judge me?
He crossed his legs and looked out the window.
Yes, she looked scared. Yes, she was cold. And yes, it hurt him. But why? How many people already feared him? How many had avoided his gaze, his voice? Even the most loyal members of his organization wouldn't speak until he gave them permission.
And now... some twenty-two-year-old girl looks at him like he's a danger?
Maybe... because she was the only one who saw him as a man.
And maybe that's why this hurt more than a bullet.
"Mr. Yamato, we've arrived," said the driver.
He stepped out without a word, the door closing behind him with a dull click.
Amara was running through the university hallways with a sandwich in one hand and a folder in the other. She was already late for her lecture, and she hadn't eaten anything since morning except a banana and three sips of green tea.
She ran into Hana, her friend, who was sitting on a bench in the courtyard, staring at her phone.
"Hani!" Amara panted. "Has the professor gone in already?"
"No, luckily! Where have you been?"
Amara threw herself down next to her and began to tear into her sandwich like her life depended on it.
"I was working... you know that cleaning job? I'm at this one family now. Huge house. Seriously, like a villa. And the son lives with his mother. He's... hmm... interesting."
Hana laughed. "Interesting?"
"Arrogant. Too much. And... he has this look like you could lose your soul if you stare too long."
"Uh, dangerous. What's his name?"
Amara shrugged. "Yamato Arakawa."
Hana froze. Her expression suddenly grew serious.
"What?"
"Yamato Arakawa," Amara repeated. "Why?"
Hana slowly sat upright and pulled out her phone. Her fingers danced over the screen.
"Amara..." she said slowly. "Please tell me you're joking."
"No? Why would I?"
Hana held up the screen.
Headline:
"Yamato Arakawa – The Underground King of Tokyo"
Below — his photo. The same black hair. The same gaze.
Articles, headlines, newspaper clippings: "Suspected of financial manipulation", "Linked to the disappearances of five leading underground figures", "Untraceable. Harmless to the innocent – deadly to his enemies."
Amara felt the air freeze in her lungs. As if someone had turned off the world around her.
"You... you knew about this?" she whispered.
"Well... everyone does, Amara. Just no one says the name out loud. It's not something people talk about. He's a legend. A myth. And a nightmare, all in one."
Amara sat in class, but the professor's words passed by her as if they were in another language. Her pen aimlessly slid across the margins of her notebook, drawing spirals, broken lines, and, unconsciously, the shape of a tattoo she had briefly seen on Yamato's arm that day. Though the room was filled with students, she felt like she was under a glass dome — trapped between reality and fear.
It was the third night since she had learned the truth. The name Yamato Arakawa was no longer just a smug employer with a perfect face and sharp shoulders beneath a tailored suit. That name now carried the weight of headlines, blurry surveillance photos, and forum posts on the dark web. "The King of the Underground," "The Untouchable Arakawa," "The One Who Doesn't Forgive." These were the labels she read, and her heart beat like it was about to burst.
During a break between lectures, she sat with her friend, who was calmly pouring milk into her coffee as if Amara's world wasn't crumbling.
"Are you going to keep working there?" Noriko asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you insane?"
Amara shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not sure anymore. I thought he was just... you know, a bit weird."
Hana took a sip and set the cup down. "Amara, he's more than weird. He's a legend. Maybe even a myth. You don't understand... No one really knows what happens in his circles. People disappear. Businesses go under if they cross him. And you... you're just a girl with a mop and a bucket."
Those words stung more than she expected. Because they were true.
That evening, in an apartment the size of a shoebox, she sat on a bed covered in a worn blanket and opened her laptop. She started typing: "How to quit working for a mafia boss without disappearing?"
Of course, she found nothing helpful. Just more articles about his business ties. Connections to export firms, private security agencies, elite restaurants. But also discreet sponsorship of local schools, scholarships, aid to hospitals. He was as grey as smoke — both a threat and a protector.
At the same time, in a house filled with tatami mats and the scent of green tea, Yamato Arakawa sat on his low leather couch. His fingers were bandaged, still stained with blood at the edges. His hands were cold, but his eyes burned with thoughts.
He had just returned from a warehouse near the Osaka docks, where he ordered the beating of a traitor. He wasn't cruel — not without reason. But betrayal reeked stronger than blood to him. And he couldn't tolerate weakness in his empire. Everything had to be precise, like a machine.
One of his closest associates, Kazuma, dropped a folder on the table.
"The local school in Shibuya. Your donation came through. The kids sent you drawings," he said flatly.
Yamato flipped through the colorful papers, stopping at one where a child had drawn a man in a cape protecting the city.
"I like this one," he murmured, not taking his eyes off it.
"I knew you would," Kazuma said, zipping up his jacket. "Even if your hands are bloody, your heart still fights for what you believe in."
Yamato didn't respond. And truth be told, in those days, he hadn't thought about Amara. He had buried himself so deep in his world that even his thoughts were like the thick smoke of a cigarette he never lit.
Still, somewhere in his mind, whenever he passed by the kitchen and caught a trace of her cheap shampoo and detergent — his brow would twitch. But only for a second. He didn't allow himself more than that.
Three days had passed in silence between them. But in Amara's mind, there was no silence. There was only one question:
Will I survive if I go back to that house one more time?
Or worse — can I bear not seeing him again?