The office reeked of cigarette smoke and sterile control. I sat in my chair, legs crossed, fingers drumming against the polished surface of the desk. The soft click of nails on wood was the only sound, save for the faint, ragged breathing across from me.
He was coming to.
The boy looked like a damn porcelain doll someone dropped into a junkyard. Too clean. Too fragile. Skin flushed from pain or fear—I didn’t give a fuck which. His shirt was high-end, handcrafted shit. Not the kind of thing people wore here unless they were looking to die or sell themselves. The stitching on the cuffs told me everything: someone taught this brat patience. Or he taught himself.
His wrists were cuffed to the chair—stainless steel, padded on the inside. I wasn’t a complete monster. Well—depends who you ask.
His bag was already emptied. Japanese passport—fake name maybe, I’d check. Ukrainian-born. Minor. That made things... complicated. Pretty face, sixteen, clothes like silk, receipts from McDonald's and some overpriced market in Shibuya. No gang ink, no weapons. Just lip balm, water, cash, and a goddamn frilly sun umbrella. What the hell was he doing in Bonten territory?
I leaned forward, letting the light catch the edges of my scars, lips twisting into something close to a grin.
“Wake up, princess.” I tapped the desk once. “You're on my stage now.”