The scream was still echoing in his ears when he saw her at the gate—kneeling, clutching her leg, a tear trailing down her cheek. Not from pain, but from shock. He didn't think—Yamato shot outside like an arrow, and in the next moment, Amara was in his arms. He didn't feel the weight, nor fear—just rage. The evening air around them was thick with tension.
His mother, confused and horrified, ran after him until he shut the door behind them. He laid Amara gently on the sofa, his mother kneeling beside her immediately, tears filling her eyes.
"Why, child?" she asked, voice trembling. "Why did you step in front of me?"
"She's your mother…" Amara mumbled, grimacing from pain. "I didn't want anything to happen to her…" Her voice was weak, but resolute.
Yamato was already halfway to the phone. "I'm calling an ambulance," he said coldly, though something else entirely burned in his eyes—fear, mixed with guilt.
"No!" she cried, trying to sit up. "You can't call them!"
"What do you mean I can't? You're bleeding!" he snapped, raising his voice at her for the first time. "I'm not going to gamble with your life!"
Amara turned to him, her face both furious and pained. "And what are you going to tell them when they get here? Who fired the shot? Where? Do you realize what that means for you, Yamato?! That you're the target?! Do you want more police at your door, more investigations?! Do you want someone to arrest you because of me?!"
He froze. Her words didn't hit like a bullet—they struck like a sword straight through his chest. Wide-eyed, he just stood there, watching her—watching how, despite everything, she was trying to protect him. Him—who had always been the one to protect others.
"Sit," she said sharply, with a tone almost commanding. "Just bandage the wound. It'll be fine."
He obeyed her without a word.
Yamato Arakawa, king of the underworld, obeyed the small cleaning girl who had just saved his mother and refused emergency help to keep him safe.
A few minutes later, his mother returned with a first aid kit, still teary-eyed. Yamato bandaged the wound carefully. His hands didn't shake—but his heart did. The cloth was stained with blood, but the wound wasn't deep. A lucky break in a storm of bad luck.
Time passed. Amara lay still, exhausted but calm. Yamato sat beside her, head bowed. He was sick of it all—the gunfire, the deaths, the helplessness.
"I need to go home," she said finally, slowly rising. She winced as her injured leg took weight, but she didn't cry out.
"I'll drive you," he said immediately, offering a hand.
"Okay… I can't take the bus like this," she said softly, though it was hard to accept help.
His mother stood by the door, clutching a handkerchief, watching them like her heart was still outside. "Let me know when you get there," she said to Yamato.
As they stepped outside, his gaze lingered on the doorway. It was lit, but the darkness around them felt heavier than ever.
The car was silent, but not empty. It was full of unspoken words, unsaid feelings, the weight of moments that had passed and those still to come. Yamato drove slowly, almost carefully, as if he weren't navigating city streets, but his own conscience.
Amara stared out the window, but she no longer saw buildings or lights. In her mind, she replayed everything that had happened. The adrenaline had faded, and exhaustion spread through her body. Her hand trembled in her lap.
"Why did you do that?" he asked suddenly, his voice neither loud nor quiet—just fragile.
She turned toward him. "What exactly do you mean?"
"You stepped in front of her. In front of the bullet."
She shrugged. "I didn't think. I just… it didn't matter what happened to me. She's your mother."
Yamato clenched his jaw. His hands tensed on the wheel, then relaxed. "But you're…"
"What?" she asked gently.
Silence again. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to voice everything building up inside him—gratitude, guilt, helplessness, something like admiration and fear all at once.
"You didn't have to do anything. But you did everything."
"Maybe for the first time in my life," she whispered, "someone mattered enough to stay."
They didn't speak again. They reached her apartment quickly, but both felt like they'd gone through something invisible—yet profound.
When they stopped in front of her building, Yamato leaned his head back against the seat and looked at her. Then his gaze shifted up to the old façade, the faded entrance, the walls that spoke of years of neglect.
"You live here?" he asked in disbelief.
Amara only nodded, a bit embarrassed. "Yeah… it's not much, but it's enough for me."
He said nothing else. He simply got out of the car, walked around, and opened her door. He helped her out, gently supporting her. Step by step, they climbed the stairs together.
The apartment was… quiet. Darkness ruled until she switched on a small light. The walls were gray, bare. An old couch, a low shelf with a few books, a small table. Curtainless windows. Everything was modest, functional—but cold. Without the warmth of home.
As if someone had frozen all the memories.
Yamato paused at the door, heart tightening. He didn't know why, but he felt something he hadn't in years—a quiet guilt. He knew it wouldn't leave him easily.
"Sit, that's the most comfortable spot," she said with a soft smile, pointing to an old chair. "Sorry I don't have anything to offer you. Maybe next time…"
Yamato shook his head. "No… I should be the one offering you something."
He walked over slowly, without a word. Knelt before her and took her hand. Her palm was warm, vulnerable. The same hand that held a blood-soaked bandage just hours ago.
He didn't know why he did it. There was no plan, no intention. Just… a need to touch her. To show her something, even if he didn't know what.
Her eyes were confused, but she didn't pull away.
He didn't say a word. He stood, looked into her eyes once more, and said quietly, "I'll be back in a minute."
Amara only nodded, heart pounding like a drum.
A few minutes later, he returned. He carried a small bag and a plastic sack.
"This is for the pain," he said, placing medicine on the table. "And this… dinner. Good, warm food. And something to drink."
He laid everything in front of her, carefully, thoughtfully. There was no showing off—only care.
"Get some rest. I'll come by tomorrow to check on you," he said softly.
As if he didn't want to leave—but had to.
He took her hand again. This time, more gently. He gave it a brief squeeze, as if trying to say all the things he couldn't find words for.
Then he left.
The door closed quietly behind him. And she remained sitting in the silence of her dark apartment—with a palm that still felt the warmth of his touch.
The apartment was still. Only the clock on the wall ticked on, indifferent to all that had changed today. Amara sat on her bed, her leg bandaged, plate of food barely touched. The food was good, but her throat was tight.
Too much had happened.
She had no one to turn to. Her phone was silent. No family nearby, and the friend from university… wasn't someone who could understand what she was going through. What words could she use? How could she explain that she held the life of a mafia boss in her hands, and then placed her own in front of his mother? How could she say her heart raced every time she saw him—not from fear, but something even more dangerous?
She opened the nightstand drawer. Pulled out a small red notebook, edges faded. A diary. She wrote in it when she didn't know what else to do with herself.
She picked up a pen. Took a deep breath.
"Day 103. Since I started working for him."
She paused. Her gaze drifted to the wall, then back to the page.
"I don't know why I feel like I'll break tonight if I don't write this down. Maybe because of the bullet. Maybe because of the way he looked at me when he left me in the apartment. Maybe because, for the first time, someone saw me when I was falling. And didn't laugh. Didn't look away."
"When I first walked into that house, I thought it was as cold as he was. Closed off. Uptight. Dangerous. One of those men you only see in movies, not in real life. And then… he started to breathe in front of me. Not loudly. Quietly. Like someone forbidden from being vulnerable. Still, I saw it. In his shoulders when he thought no one was watching. In the way he stayed silent when I bandaged his wound. Like a child letting someone touch him for the first time without fighting back."
"I don't know who he really is, or what he carries with him. I only know I can't see him as 'the man of the house' anymore. He's… a man. Hurt. Alone. And far more dangerous than he looks—not because of his weapons. But because I might start to love him."
She stopped here. Her hand trembled. She bit her lip. Skipped over the sentence as if she wanted to erase it. But she didn't.
"I mustn't. I know I mustn't. He's a man who carries darkness behind him. A man who knows how to destroy, not how to build. But still… there's something in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking. Something so honest, so tired, that I could stand in front of a thousand bullets."
"I thought I was afraid of him. Now I'm more afraid of myself."
She closed the notebook. Slid it under her pillow. There was no need to hide it — because even if someone read it, they wouldn't understand.
But she knew.
She knew she no longer looked at Yamato as an employer.
She looked at him as someone… she could fall in love with.Even if it meant he'd break her.
Yamato sat alone in the car. The drive through the night was quiet, and Tokyo — though never fully asleep — felt distant tonight, as if it floated in another world. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, but his mind wasn't on the road.
It was on her.
Amara.That name now sounded like a melody he hadn't asked for, but could no longer forget.
The first day he saw her — a shadow in the hallway, clumsy but determined. There was something in her eyes he couldn't name. She didn't look like someone who belonged in his world, and yet… something in her gaze challenged him. She wasn't afraid. Or maybe she was, but she refused to show it.
He remembered how she said "good evening" the first time — shyly, but with dignity. She didn't fawn over him. Didn't look at him as a boss. Or as a monster.
And then came that night when she bandaged his wound. Her voice when she yelled at him, her trembling hands as she took off his bloody shirt. That wasn't fear — that was care. Real, raw care.
No one had looked at him like that in years.
When she stood in front of him today, injured — again because of him, because of his past that never sleeps… his heart trembled.For the first time, he wasn't afraid for himself.He was afraid for her.
He turned onto a familiar street and parked in front of the family home. As he got out, his mother was already waiting at the door. Her eyes were red, but warm. He hugged her without a word. The embrace was deeper than usual.
"Are you alright?" she asked softly.
"I am," he answered.
They sat down in the living room. His mother made tea, and they sat in silence. For a few minutes, they just drank and breathed. Then she said quietly:
"That girl… Amara… she's brave. I don't understand why she stood in front of me. She could have died. If it weren't for her, I might now be…"
Her voice faltered. Yamato lowered his head.
"I know," he said. "I can't even think what would've happened if she hadn't been there."
"And where does she live?" his mother asked, with a hint of disbelief.
"A dark apartment. Modest. Alone," he said quietly.
His mother fell silent, thinking. Then, in a firm voice, she said:
"Bring her here to live. There's an empty room. It's not right for her to be alone — not now, not after what she did. And I wouldn't mind some company when you're gone."
Yamato said nothing. He stared into his cup, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
In her eyes when she told him she couldn't take his money.In her smile when she handed him a home-cooked meal.In her pain when she stood before him, wounded but still strong.
Bring her here?
Into his home?
Into his world?
He knew that would be a point of no return.