Silence hung between them again, but this time like a balloon just waiting to be popped.
Despite the unbearable tension, Amara held her teacup as if it were an anchor. Yamato still sat at the table, arms resting on the surface, occasionally glancing at her from the corner of his eye. Between them — a thousand unspoken words, two sips of tea, and one question: Who would break first?
She did.
"You know… that anime pajama you're wearing… really gives you an air of authority."
A twitch played at the corner of his lips, but his face remained stunned. As if she had just guessed his PIN code.
"I see your Japanese is quite good?" he asked, now sounding more offended than surprised.
"Good enough to ruin your day."
"You're a dangerous creature, you know that?" he muttered, now smiling. "Smart and bold. That's a dangerous combination."
"And you're a child in pajamas running a criminal empire. That's… a fascinating combination."
She stood, picking up the empty cups from the table. "If I keep sitting here with you, you'll have to pay me overtime. And your mother doesn't strike me as someone who likes unnecessary spending."
Yamato cast a glance over his shoulder as she walked away. Yes, better this way, he thought. Better when she laughs, when she talks back, when she's… real. Better than when she trembles like he's about to rip her apart.
The kitchen's silence replaced the rustling of fabric as he stood. He rolled up the sleeves of his pajama top and glanced toward the hallway mirror.
"What kind of sane adult wears anime pajamas?" he murmured. "And I scared the girl. Bravo, Yamato. Bravo."
Soon, he was back in his usual outfit — black, elegant, sleeves buttoned, not a single stain. Only coldness and style. He had put the mask back on. The one he'd worn for years. He was no longer the man in pajamas.
He was Yamato Arakawa again.
He looked for Amara.
Found her in the living room, kneeling as she wiped the edges of the low table. He just looked at her.
"Hey."
She flinched.
"You don't have to jump every time I speak. I'm not a ghost."
"You're not, but sometimes I can't tell the difference."
"Finish that when you're done, but come to my office. It's time to pay up."
She said nothing. Just nodded. But as soon as she heard him leave, she exhaled deeply. The office. Him again. His looks. His riddles.
When she arrived, the door was already open. He stood beside the desk, elegantly holding an envelope of money like it was an invitation to a ball rather than payment for cleaning.
"This time," he said, placing the envelope down, "you can clean here too."
Amara looked at him, not hiding her surprise. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. I mean, now that you know who I am and what I do… if you come across a weapon, a folder with someone's name, or… I don't know… a bag full of money — just don't touch anything."
"So I don't steal it?" she asked sarcastically, crossing her arms.
"No, so I don't have to explain why you disappeared." He gave her one of those looks that spoke more than words. "And just so you know… guns aren't toys."
"Thanks for the lesson, Yamato-sensei."
He held her gaze a moment longer. Then nodded.
"We have an agreement, Amara."
"We have an agreement."
Without another word, he picked up his phone, his keys, and left. Heavy footsteps down the hallway, the door shutting, and the sound of the car.
The Next Day
At dawn, while most of the city still lay under the blanket of sleep, Yamato Arakawa was already dressed in a flawlessly tailored suit. Black silk, mother-of-pearl cufflinks, and a tie tightened precisely one millimeter below the sharp arc of his jawline. He looked like a man in diplomacy, maybe high politics. The truth was… much darker.
His armored car gleamed under the traffic light's glow as it slid silently through Tokyo's morning traffic. He drove alone. He liked the sound of the engine — it was the only hum that didn't try to hide something.
He turned toward a warehouse on the city's edge, an unremarkable gray building with faint graffiti on the back wall. People passed by, but rarely looked. That was the point.
The large metal doors were already lifting as the car stopped. Two men in black bowed without a word as he stepped out. No "good morning," no "how are you, boss," no questions. Yamato didn't like excess words. He liked results.
He entered. The air smelled of metal, dust, and oil. Neon lights, cold and sterile. On the concrete floor — seven wooden crates. Some already opened, others untouched. A laptop sat nearby. Two of his men were examining contents with a checklist from a military base.
"What do we have?" he asked, his voice a command though he hadn't raised it.
"Two crates from Vladivostok, three from Hong Kong, the rest from Thailand. Arrived last night. All labeled: mechanical equipment and electronic components."
Yamato approached the first crate. Opened it himself.
Inside: neatly arranged parts of automatic rifles, carefully wrapped in protective material. Not new — used, but well maintained.
"Who sent the Russian shipment?" he asked.
"Grigoriy Petrov, as always. Comes with a guarantee — tested and cleaned."
Yamato picked up one part, checked the serial number, compared it with the list. Precision calmed him.
Second crate: drone parts. Military cameras. One was a night-vision camera with thermal sensors. Purpose? Surveillance, maybe even tracking targets. Yamato already knew who would receive it.
Third: packages of unmarked pills. Not recreational. This was the new "invisible currency" — military-grade stimulants for black-market fights and rogue units.
"Tested?" he asked, nodding toward the vials.
"Two samples sent to the lab. Results by tomorrow."
He moved to the desk. There was the laptop. He scanned the incoming invoices, checked digital signatures. One of the codes seemed off — he paused. Pressed a key, pulled up the camera footage of the man who delivered the shipment. He stared at the screen for a while, then said quietly:
"Check him. If the signature's fake, you know what to do."
His man nodded. No questions.
After that, Yamato moved to a smaller room in the back. His meeting room. Dark walls, a hint of smoke, and a table in the center. A man waited there, tied to a chair. Bruised face, dried blood on his lip.
"I don't like when people steal from me," Yamato said, lowering himself into the chair across from him.
"I… I didn't know… I just repackaged what I was told…"
"So you're a parrot. Don't know, just repeat."
Yamato leaned in. His gaze chillingly calm. "No one touches my shipments. Not customs. Not the police. And especially not someone like you."
The first blow sounded, then another… and then the door closed.
As he walked out of the warehouse, he looked down at his hands — knuckles red, slightly scraped. He wiped the blood with a tissue, quietly cursing his own weakness for personal execution of justice.
He sat back in the car. And as the ride continued, he returned to the silence, where nothing needed to be explained. Crates, numbers, weapons, quiet deals and even quieter disappearances. That was his world. Precise. Bloody. Necessary.
Despite it all — in that world, Yamato Arakawa had never killed. But he was a master at shaking the soul out of people… without ever touching death.
That morning, Amara wore her favorite white blouse and simple dark blue trousers. There was something tidy and pure about her style — as if each day she chose to look modest, but dignified. Her hair was tied into a high afro bun, and her shoes, though old, were polished to perfection. She wore no makeup, save for a touch of lip balm. She had her rhythm, her minimalism, but always with a hint of pride.
At university, she sat in the third row, notebook full of tiny notes, pen between her teeth as she listened to the economics professor dryly explain the principles of market competition. It wasn't her favorite subject, but she tried. She focused — to avoid thinking about him.
During break, she took out her modest lunch: a box with rice, some boiled vegetables, and a small piece of chicken. She didn't like to spend much. Most of her money she sent back to her mother in America, the rest she saved for essentials. Luxury wasn't part of her routine. More like… a fantasy.
"You know, I still can't believe you stayed to work there," said Hana, her best friend, sitting beside her in the hallway. A girl with purple hair and a fashion sense that screamed 'Tokyo street.'
"It's not like I have a hundred other options," Amara replied quietly, sipping water from a bottle.
"But Amara… Yamato Arakawa? You really didn't know who he was when you took the job?"
Amara sighed, her gaze drifting.
"Now I know."
Hana shook her head like some old lady, despite being twenty-one and wearing a jacket with metal spikes. "That's like working for a dragon in a cave full of gold while carrying matches."
"Your metaphor is awful," Amara laughed, but her eyes quickly turned serious. "It's not like he's done anything to me. Actually… I think he's more… complicated."
Hana squeezed her hand. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to be that friend who says 'I told you so.'"
After class, the sun was already sliding toward the horizon, and they decided to stop by a new café that had just opened near campus. The name was elegant — Mikado Noire, written in golden letters above the door. Inside: marble floors, glass chandeliers, gold-framed abstract art. Every table had a flower in a crystal vase, and the waiters wore black vests and gloves. Luxury on steroids.
"Okay… we've entered the temple of capitalism," muttered Amara as they stepped inside.
"Did we just walk into a café or Versailles?" whispered Hana, eyes scanning every detail.
They sat at a small round table by the window. Amara ordered just jasmine tea. Hana tried to look like she could afford the mob-priced cappuccino.
And then it happened.
The bell above the entrance chimed, and it was like the entire room fell silent for half a second.
He walked in.
Yamato Arakawa.
In a charcoal gray suit, black leather gloves in hand, jet-black hair, and that one perfect strand falling over his eye like it had been deliberately styled by a designer. He looked like he'd walked out of an expensive fragrance ad no one could afford — even on sale.
Amara froze. Hana gaped. He looked straight at them.
And approached.
"I didn't know students could relax here," he said calmly, his eyes locked on Amara.
Amara couldn't even say "good afternoon," only managed a small bow. Hana looked like she couldn't decide whether to stand or dive under the table.
Yamato glanced at the menu on the table, then said, "Today, it's on me. House treat." He nodded to the waiter. "And, yes, mark this as free entry. Let them know you're my guests."
Amara swallowed hard.
"This café… is yours?" she asked softly.
Mikado Noire. A new project. There's a meeting room in the back. Looks like I'll be staying here tonight."
He wasn't smiling. He was serious. Sharp. Cold.
But his eyes flickered for a moment when he saw her expression. He knew — surprise. Discomfort. Maybe even something more.
"Enjoy your drinks," he said, and without waiting for a reply, turned and disappeared behind the curtain at the back of the café, into the private rooms. The door closed softly — but with weight.
They were alone again.
Hana spoke first.
"You know what? You're either going to end up dead, or married to the most dangerous man in Japan."
Amara stared at the tea steaming in front of her.
"You forgot… or completely insane."