Chapter Text
Ryosuke removed the thin latex gloves with the same quiet precision he used for everything—peeling them from his fingers as though the tension of the day might cling to the material and get discarded with it. The office he’d been working in for the last eleven months—Deputy Minister Takahiro Osabe’s workspace—still hummed with the sterile buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint perfume of old paper. He had lived inside this political machine long enough to imitate its pulse. Now it was time to shed the skin.
He placed the gloves in the bin marked “confidential,” smoothed the cuffs of the black suit he’d worn each day for nearly a year, and allowed himself a single, steady breath.
His mission was over. Osabe had fallen exactly as intended—scandal, leaks, a perfectly curated downfall that left no fingerprints except those invisible ones Ryosuke had wiped carefully from existence.
He turned toward the hallway. He’s barely returned to the Inagawa compound—still wearing the suit of his last persona, tie loose, hair slightly mussed—
When a subordinate of his sister’s waited—dark suit, earpiece, posture carved from ritual obedience. No introduction. No greeting. Simply the thin bow of someone delivering inevitability.
“Chiyuno-sama requests your presence, Ryosuke-sama.”
Requests. As if his sister ever requested anything.
Ryosuke followed without a word.
The deeper he goes, the louder the world becomes: heels tapping marble floors, murmurs behind paper screens, faint jazz echoing from some distant hallway. Chiyuno surrounds herself with opulence because she can. Because it’s expected of a woman who rules a criminal empire with one hand and an Italian dynasty with the other.
He enters her office without knocking.
Lavish doesn’t even cut it. The place looks like a museum curator and a mafia boss had a kid and let her decorate. Velvet drapes. Gold accents. A huge desk carved from a single slab of black walnut. A wall of monitors scrolling through news feeds and surveillance footage.
And Chiyuno herself—legs crossed, red lipstick immaculate, nails sharp as lacquered blades. The kind of beauty that scares men who don’t know better.
“Aniki,”
she says, not looking up from the papers she’s stamping.
“You’re done with that minister job?”
“Yes.”
“You get what we needed?”
“Of course.”
She finally lifts her gaze, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and ambition.
“Perfect. Because I have something bigger for you.”
Ryosuke stands there silently. He’s used to this. Used to being summoned like a weapon rather than a man.
Chiyuno leans back, smiling like she’s about to unveil a new car.
“My husband and I spoke. We’re expanding. Italy wasn’t enough. Japan isn’t enough. We want a bridge. A merged territory.”
She pauses for drama—she loves drama.
“New York City.”
Ryosuke’s jaw barely ticks. He knows what that means. Foreign gangs. Territorial wars. Civilians. Cops who don’t take bribes. FBI, too. Overseas operations are messy. Unpredictable.
And then she drops the real bomb.
“And we need someone in the NYPD. Someone quiet. Someone smart. Someone who can make evidence go away before anyone even knows it exists.”
She smirks, tilting her head like a queen pleased with her own foresight.
“Who better than my big brother?”
He opens his mouth, but she steamrolls him like a bullet train.
“I already had the boys fabricate everything. New identity. Files. Medical records. Credentials. Your flight is tonight—your luggage is already packed. The apartment is furnished.”
She lifts a manicured hand, ticking items off like she’s listing groceries.
“You’ll be Detective Rick Tanaka. Age fourty. Japanese-American. Transfer from Tokyo. Passable English, bad attitude, worse fashion sense. Perfect for blending in.”
She tosses a thick manila folder across the table. It slides to a stop right at his fingertips.
Ryosuke doesn’t pick it up yet. He just studies her, eyes sharp behind wire-framed glasses.
“Where,”
he asks quietly,
“are you putting me?”
Chiyuno beams.
“One of the best apartments in Manhattan. River view. Security entrance. Fitness center. Sauna—”
“No.”
She blinks.
“No?”
she repeats, like she’s never heard the word before.
“If I’m supposed to blend in, I’m not living somewhere that screams ‘organized crime money.’ ”
He taps the folder.
“I’ll find my own place. Something… normal.”
Chiyuno frowns, offended on behalf of every luxury apartment in New York.
“Aniki, you’re not living in some rat-infested—”
“I’ll handle it.”
His voice stays calm, steady. He doesn’t often interrupt her. Doesn’t often assert himself. But when he does, Chiyuno remembers that before she ruled an empire, he was the one raised to rule it.
She exhales through her nose, annoyed but begrudgingly accepting.
“Fine. Do what you want.”
Then, more softly:
“Just don’t die. It’s embarrassing when family dies abroad.”
Ryosuke finally picks up the folder. Flips it open. Studies the basics—name, age, address, work history, new signature. The face in the photo is his, but not. Glasses thicker. Hair messier. Expression softer.
Rick Tanaka looks like a man who apologizes when someone bumps into him.
He can work with this.
He closes the file.
“I’ll leave tonight.”
He turns toward the door.
“Nii-sama.”
He pauses.
Chiyuno’s gaze is sharp, but underneath her steel, there’s something else. Something small. Vulnerable. The part of her that used to follow him around the compound as kids.
“Don’t forget,”
she says quietly,
“you’re doing this for family.”
He nods once.
“I always do.”
And with the calm, measured grace of a man who’s worn a thousand masks and forgotten the feel of his own skin, Ryosuke Inagawa walks out of her office—toward a flight he didn’t ask for, a life he doesn’t want, an identity he hasn’t met yet…
…and a city waiting to swallow him whole.
More than anything, it’s the last mission he expects to change him.
Ryosuke didn’t take a final look at Tokyo when he left. Not out of coldness—habit. A spy doesn’t linger on scenery; he slips through it, a shadow stepping from one reality to another.
The airport was a familiar symphony of white light, polished floors, and the low hum of travelers who believed in the safety of crowds. His forged documents slid through security like a whisper. No alarms. No second glances. Rick Tanaka was already more real to the world than Ryosuke Inagawa ever had the right to be.
On the plane, he sat by the window. Not because he cared about the view, but because he preferred to control the perimeter.
The flight is long, but he spends most of it studying Rick Tanaka’s file. He sits in economy, because business class would betray the whole point. He wears a faded hoodie, light grey, stretched at the sleeves. Glasses thick enough to look cheap. Hair unstyled on purpose. He even slouches.
The former heir of the Inagawa-gumi slouches.
He practices his new voice under his breath:
Low. Monotone. Mildly apologetic.
A man no one would look at twice.
Rick Tanaka.
The cabin dimmed, passengers settled, and as the engines rumbled, Tokyo’s nightscape pulled away—streets glowing like circuitry, the city shrinking into a cluster of electric veins until the clouds swallowed it whole.
He didn’t sleep.
He didn’t allow that kind of softness in transit.
He replayed Chiyuno’s orders in his mind, dissected the implications, sharpened them. New York was unfamiliar terrain, but predictable in structure. Gangs behaved like ecosystems—territories, predators, prey, symbiosis, collapse. The NYPD was another system. Bureaucracy was a machine; he’d spent the last year oiling gears just like it.
What he lacked was a personal backstory. Chiyuno had given him a name, papers, a job. But no family. No childhood anecdotes. No emotional scaffolding that Americans seemed to rely on when making small talk.
He could improvise.
He always improvised.
The flight touched down in the early morning gray of JFK International. New York air hit him with a cold, sharp bite—less humidity than Tokyo, more grit. The city had a noise to it, even in silence. A low, restless growl beneath everything.
Chiyuno had texted him earlier:
“Go straight to the suite. Everything is prepared.”
He does not go to the suite.
He goes anyway—just to see. Just to confirm how deeply she misunderstands the concept of “lay low.”
The place is ridiculous.
Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Marble countertops. A kitchen too pristine to be functional. Closet full of clothes pre-selected to match a “dorky detective” aesthetic—flannels, slacks, sturdy shoes, the whole retail-by-committee vibe.
It’s spotless. Sterile.
An apartment meant for a man who comes from money trying not to look like he comes from money.
The irony is painful.
He steps inside. The floors echo. The air feels unused.
This place is a threat.
Not to his life—but to his cover.
He texts Chiyuno:
“No.”
No explanation. She’ll figure it out.
Rick Tanaka cannot live here.
Rick Tanaka cannot afford this.
Rick Tanaka cannot pronounce “river-view penthouse” without breaking character.
So he walks back out, closes the door behind him, and begins the search.
Queens sounds humble enough. Blue-collar enough. Not too cheap, not too rich. A place where people mind their business but notice everything. Perfect training ground for blending in.
Finding an apartment, though… becomes a whole saga.
One place is nice—but too nice. In-unit laundry. Stainless steel appliances. A doorman who wears white gloves.
Absolutely not.
Another is cheap—but suspiciously cheap. The kind of place where the mould has a first name and its own lease.
A trap. And Ryosuke refuses to die to spores.
He keeps checking the listings, walking block after block, blending in with the city crowd. He perfects the walk of a tired, underpaid immigrant man who goes to bed at ten and loves coupons.
Hours pass. The sun sinks lower, painting Queens in bruised blues and streetlight gold.
Finally, as if fate gets bored and decides to throw him a bone, he finds it.
A squat, aging building with peeling paint and a crooked metal railing. Four units total—two below, two above. One unit vacant on the second floor.
The landlord is a middle-aged woman with eyebrows permanently arched, like the city’s worn her down to suspicion and sarcasm. She leads him up creaking stairs, opens the door, and gestures inside with a bored sweep.
Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A kitchenette barely bigger than a hallway, and a living room that doubles as a storage solution for regrets.
The ceiling is a little low. The lighting is a little yellow.
Perfect.
Rick Tanaka would live here.
Ryosuke Inagawa could disappear here.
He signs the papers before the landlord even finishes explaining the no-pet policy.
He nods.
“I’ll take it.”
Before she can even hand him the keys, something crashes in the hallway. Papers explode in the air like panicked doves.
A college kid barrels around the corner—arms full of folders, a backpack half-zipped, hair sticking up like he’s been wrestling gravity. He skids to a stop just before colliding with Ryosuke.
“MOVE!”
Ryosuke… does not move.
The kid slams into him chest-first, bounces off like he hit a lamppost, and drops half his paperwork to the floor.
“BRO—!”
the kid snaps, rubbing his shoulder.
“Why are you built like a filing cabinet?!”
Ryosuke blinks behind his glasses.
“Pardon?”
The kid crouches to scoop up his papers, muttering aggressively in both English and Mandarin.
He’s all sharp edges and attitude—sleeves rolled up, eyes blazing, clearly one frayed nerve away from punching a professor.
Ryosuke kneels to help him gather the fallen sheets, movements gentle, almost delicate.
“You are in a hurry.”
“No shit.”
The kid snatches a paper from under Ryosuke’s hand.
“And you’re blocking the damn hallway—are you new here?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Antennuci doesn’t even let Ryosuke finish breathing before she slams her palm against the doorframe.
“MAC CHANG!”
Her voice could shatter granite.
The kid freezes mid-scoot, like a raccoon caught stealing lasagna.
“What’d I do now?”
Mac snaps back, but it’s the tone of someone used to being hollered at.
“I’m late, Mrs. A!”
“And that gives you the right to act like some jackass to the new tenant?”
She jerks a thumb at Ryosuke, who is still politely holding a stack of papers like a butler at a crime scene.
“You say hello like a damn human being, not a damn car alarm.”
Mac scoffs, rolls his eyes so hard they nearly detach.
“Fine. Whatever.”
He stands, dusts himself off, and gestures at Ryosuke with a vague circle of the hand.
“I’m Mac. This is Jayden—”
Jayden appears exactly on cue—hair messy, bag hanging off one shoulder, smelling faintly of weed that he probably thinks he successfully covered with mint gum. He gives Ryosuke a lazy little salute.
“Sup.”
“JAYDEN, MOVE!”
Mac yells, already halfway down the stairs. Jayden jolts, stumbles after him, tripping over his own backpack strap.
“Bro—chill—”
he wheezes.
“ERIC IS GONNA END US IF WE’RE LATE AGAIN!”
"MAN THAT PROF HAS SOME SHIT AGAINST US EVEN WHEN WE'RE EARLY!"
Their bickering spirals as they clatter down the stairs, voices fading into the chaos of Queens.
Mrs. Antennuci watches them go with the exhausted fondness of someone who’s seen every flavor of stupid humanity has to offer. She hands Ryosuke the keys and paperwork with a sigh.
“Those two… they’re trouble wrapped in hormones,” she says.
“But they’re good boys. Mostly. Depending on the day.”
Ryosuke tilts his head.
“They are… students?”
“Oh, honey, students is a generous word.”
She leans one hip against the railing, settling in like she’s about to serve appetizers with the gossip.
“That Chang kid? His father runs the whole damn WHO. His mother’s basically the boss of China’s health ministry. Big shots. Real important. Zero parenting skills.”
Ryosuke blinks slowly. The information lands with the weight of a stray piano.
“…He is the son of such people?”
“Yup.”
She pops the p.
“They wanted a doctor outta him, he wanted to be—what’s the word—one of those kids screaming into microphones about the system, very inspiring, very sweaty. Hip-hop star. Something like that.”
Ryosuke imagines Mac with a microphone.
The image fits disturbingly well.
“They shipped him here,” she continues, “called it ‘support.’ Which is rich, considering they basically catapulted him across the Pacific to get him outta their fancy penthouse.”
“And yet,”
Ryosuke murmurs,
“he still attends university.”
Mrs. Antennuci snorts.
“Only reason that kid hasn’t bolted is his girl—Willow somethin’—a sweetheart, lives downtown. If she dumped him, he’d be gone in a week. Probably in a band that gets banned from bars.”
“And Jayden?”
She groans.
“Kid’s parents tossed him out for being a pothead, but they still pay his tuition. Which is a real power move in the ‘we don’t know how to parent’ Olympics.”
Ryosuke processes all of this with that same unreadable calm. The lives of these two chaotic young men are messy, loud, and painfully human. Exactly the kind of noise a ghost like him can hide behind.
Mrs. Antennuci pats his arm.
“Anyway. You won’t have problems with them. Mac barks, but he doesn’t bite. Jayden’s… fine if you ignore him. Welcome to the building, sweetheart.”
He bows his head.
“Thank you. I will be quiet.”
“Please. I’ve lived above a family of accordion players. You’re a vacation.”
She shuffles off down the stairs, leaving Ryosuke alone in the dim hallway.
He enters his apartment.
The air smells faintly of dust and old radiator heat.
The rooms are small, shadows pooling in corners like sleeping cats.
The walls groan with the history of tenants long gone.
He sets down his bag.
Locks the door.
Takes in the quiet.
This is where he will disappear.
This is where he will become Rick Tanaka—lanky, awkward, harmless.
A nobody.
But as he sits on the edge of the creaky bed, listening to the distant thrum of New York nightlife leaking through thin windows, he feels the weight of his mission pressing into his spine.
There is someone he must find.
Something he must unravel.
A lie he must uphold until the truth is safe.
For now, he exhales, slow and steady.
The city outside keeps breathing.
And Ryosuke—
no, Rick—lets the darkness settle around him like an old, familiar coat.
Chapter Text
Ryosuke wasn’t a heavy sleeper. Years of missions had carved that habit out of him. Even so, when the knock came—sharp, precise, two quick taps at 2:04 a.m.—his eyes snapped open like someone had cut a string.
He lay still for half a breath, letting the world settle around him. No footsteps in the hallway. No rustling behind the door. Just…waiting.
The knock is light. Too light for a grown man. Too polite for Mac. Too rhythmic to be Jayden, who—based on earlier vibes—would probably just shoulder-check the door like it wronged him.
He rose silently from the bed, moving with the fluid economy of someone who’d rehearsed emergencies in his sleep. He slipped into the persona of Rick Tanaka, shoulders looser, posture slightly less coiled, expression softened into the faint politeness expected of an off-duty detective.
Ryosuke slips instantly into character anyway. Shoulders slouched. Eyes half-lidded. Age added to every movement. The whole “mildly depressed salaryman” aura clicks on like a bad fluorescent lamp.
He opens the door.
And the universe tilts.
A tiny boy stands there, drowning in an oversized hoodie, hair sticking up like static got offended at him. Cyan eyes—unmistakable, inherited straight from the Aldini bloodline—reflect the dim hallway light. He clutches a crumpled backpack strap in one hand, a folded piece of paper in the other.
Ryosuke knew him instantly.
Absalom Inagawa-Aldini.
Seven years old. Third-born. Unwanted. Trained.
His sister’s son.
Family.
There’s no fear on his face. Just exhaustion that no seven-year-old should know.
Ryosuke’s heart drops straight through the floorboards.
He takes the note first. Chiyuno’s handwriting. Elegant. Ruthless.
Keep him alive.
No context. No apology. No explanation. Classic Chiyuno: give him an impossible task, package it in scented stationery, and call it “support.”
The boy looks up at him.
“…Oji-san?”
Ryosuke’s throat tightens—not visibly. Rick Tanaka cannot have reactions. Rick Tanaka is a 40-year-old paperclip collection wearing shoes.
“Yes,”
he says softly.
“No escort?”
Ryosuke asked quietly.
Absalom shook his head once.
“How did you get here?”
“Plane,”
the boy answered. His voice was soft, but not timid.
“I had a ticket. And a passport.”
Of course he did. Chiyuno would never send a child across the world unless she believed he could handle it—or unless she didn’t care if he couldn’t.
Ryosuke stepped back, holding the door open.
“Come in.”
Absalom enters slowly, scanning the cramped apartment like he’s calculating escape routes. Not the instincts of a child. The instincts of someone raised inside a fortress of paranoia and power.
The kid stands in the middle of the living room, clutching his backpack like it’s both armor and lifeline. Ryosuke kneels—not Ryosuke the spy, but Ryosuke the uncle who remembers carrying this boy as a toddler.
“Your mother sent you,”
Ryosuke said, already knowing the answer.
Absalom nodded once.
“Did she say why?”
Another shake of the head.
Ryosuke exhaled quietly through his nose. His sister rarely explained herself. But this—sending a child across the Pacific, alone, into a foreign city and into the hands of a man living under a fabricated identity—this meant more than she dared write.
The boy watched him, expression still flat.
Ryosuke understood that look. It was the look of a child carved into utility. A tool that didn’t understand toys. A mind trained early and too brutally.
He crouched down so they were closer to eye level—not to comfort him, but to avoid towering over him like every adult in his life had.
“Absalom,”
he said, voice low, even.
“You’ll stay here.”
The boy blinked once. He didn’t ask how long. He didn’t ask why. That already told Ryosuke too much about how he’d been raised.
“You are safe here.”
He says it plainly. No theatrics. Just truth.
The kid doesn’t answer. He just nods once, stiff, polite. Learned behavior from too many bodyguards and too little childhood.
Ryosuke reached for the backpack.
“Let me see what you brought.”
Absalom handed it over without hesitation.
Inside, the contents confirmed everything Ryosuke feared.
Ryosuke helps him take off the backpack. It’s light. Too light.
Inside: Three shirts. Two pairs of pants. A toothbrush. A small box containing an Inagawa-gumi emblem carved from jade. A folded switchblade—standard training issue. A small envelope of emergency cash. And nothing else.
No toys. No snacks. No blanket. Not a single comforting item.
Not even a photo.
Ryosuke zipped the bag slowly.
This mission had just changed shape.
The NYPD he could infiltrate. The gangs he could outmaneuver. The cover identity he could maintain with a smile and a lie.
But raising a half-trained, half-abandoned mafia heir who had been dropped at his doorstep with a two-word mandate?
That was new.
He looked at Absalom again—small, still, waiting.
“Do you want to sleep?”
Ryosuke asked.
Absalom shook his head.
Of course he didn’t. Children like him were trained not to want.
Ryosuke stood, rubbed a tired hand over his face, then gestured toward the couch.
“Sit. I’ll make tea.”
Absalom obeyed.
Ryosuke moved to the kitchen. The kettle hissed softly, steam rising. The apartment felt too clean, too new, too empty. He didn’t have child-sized blankets. Or food. Or any idea what a seven-year-old who had grown up under two crime syndicates might need at two in the morning in a foreign city.
As the kettle clicked off, Ryosuke leaned on the counter for a moment and admitted, silently, to himself:
This was going to be harder than any mission Chiyuno had ever sent him on.
The mission was already razor-thin—network infiltration, identity maintenance, manipulating the NYPD without touching a single officer directly. It was meant to be a ghost operation.
But now?
He glances at the boy, who sat across from him, knees tucked under his chin.
Now it’s a balancing act with live dynamite.
He poured the tea, carried one cup to Absalom, and sat across from him.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t have to.
Two ghosts of the Inagawa bloodline, sitting together in an apartment in Queens at 2 a.m., waiting for dawn to reveal whatever future they were being forced into.
Ryosuke took a slow sip.
Rick Tanaka would be asleep.
Ryosuke Inagawa cannot sleep now.
The mission was supposed to be hard.
But raising a child in a foreign city while running interference between two crime syndicates and the NYPD?
That’s not hard.
That’s borderline cosmic comedy.
He glances once more at Absalom, now breathing evenly, finally slipping into real sleep.
Ryosuke rests his head against the couch.
Keeping him alive.
The simplest command Chiyuno ever gave him.
And the most dangerous one yet.
The night stretches on, silent and heavy.
And somewhere in the dark, the mission begins reshaping itself around a small boy with cyan eyes.
Morning comes early, the way it always does when a man has too many names and not enough peace.
4:48 a.m. drags Ryosuke out of sleep with the dull ache of responsibility settling into his bones. The city outside is still half-dead—sirens distant, radiators ticking like faulty metronomes, the sky bruised purple behind the curtains. For a moment, he lies there in the master bedroom, staring at the ceiling, recalibrating who he is supposed to be today.
Rick Tanaka.
Detective.
Harmless.
Normal.
He sits up quietly. The floor creaks, betraying him like an informant. He freezes, listens.
Nothing.
Absalom had gone down fast the night before. One careful sip of chamomile tea—sweetened just enough—had done what years of armed guards and marble hallways never could. The boy’s eyes drooped mid-sentence. Ryosuke had lifted him then, light as a thought, carried him into the second bedroom, tucked him in with military precision softened by something dangerously close to tenderness.
Now, moving through the kitchenette, Ryosuke boils water, washes his face, adjusts his glasses in the cracked mirror. He moves efficiently, quietly. Shirt pressed. Tie slightly crooked on purpose. The disguise lives in the details.
That’s when he feels it.
Eyes on him.
He turns his head slowly.
Absalom is standing just outside the doorway, half-hidden behind the wall. Only one cyan eye is visible, glowing faintly in the low light like a curious cat peeking from under a couch. His hair is a mess, pajamas rumpled, small fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve.
Ryosuke doesn’t startle him.
“Come here,”
he says gently.
Absalom hesitates. One foot inches forward. Then another. He pads across the floor like he’s afraid the apartment might vanish if he moves too fast.
Ryosuke kneels and guides him back toward the bedroom, careful not to rush him. He lifts the blanket, tucks him in again, smoothing it down with the same calm precision he uses to disarm bombs and de-escalate men with guns.
“Do you need something?”
he asks.
The boy’s eyes flicker. His voice comes out small.
“Are you… leaving?”
There it is. The quiet terror beneath the politeness. The fear learned early and reinforced often: people leave, and they don’t come back.
Ryosuke doesn’t lie.
“Yes,”
he says. Then, immediately,
“But I will return.”
Absalom studies his face like he’s searching for cracks. Ryosuke meets his gaze steadily. No masks. No spycraft. Just truth.
“I have work,”
he continues.
“You will stay here. Do not open the door. Do not touch anything except the food.”
He gestures toward the kitchen.
“I ordered takeout. It is safe.”
Absalom nods solemnly, like he’s been handed classified information.
Ryosuke reaches out, brushes the boy’s hair back from his forehead. The touch is brief, careful. Practice mixed with something older and heavier.
“I will come back,”
he says again, quieter now.
“I promise.”
The boy’s fingers tighten around the blanket, but he nods. Accepts it.
Ryosuke stands, straightens his jacket, and pauses in the doorway for just a second longer than necessary. The city is waking up outside. So is the mission. So is the part of him he thought he’d buried.
He turns off the light.
And walks out, carrying the weight of a promise he knows he’ll keep—even if it costs him everything.
Ryosuke feels them the second he steps out of the subway—cold air, hot breath, the city chewing on itself before breakfast. He adjusts his glasses, squares his shoulders, and lets Rick Tanaka take the wheel.
He stood on the sidewalk outside the NYPD’s Queens Homicide precinct at 7:42 a.m., the winter air biting at his cheeks, the city groaning awake in a symphony of horns, subway rumble, and distant cursing. The building itself was a squat block of institutional stone, weathered by decades of rain, snow, and bureaucratic sins. Not beautiful. Functional. A fortress disguised as civic duty.
He adjusted Rick Tanaka’s jacket, lifted his shoulders into the posture of an American detective—looser spine, broader stance, a touch of casual fatigue—and pushed open the door.
Rick walks a little stiff. Rick doesn’t scan rooftops. Rick doesn’t catalog exits. Rick is a harmless man with a transfer badge and a posture that says please don’t perceive me.
The NYPD building rises out of the street like a concrete confession booth. The lobby hit him with a wave of sensory clutter. Phones ringing. Officers shuffling paperwork. A coffee machine sputtering like it was dying of exhaustion. The air smelled of burnt espresso, old carpet, and the frantic pulse of large-scale human misery.
Perfect.
Ryosuke absorbed it quickly, cataloging.
The uniforms at the front desk: alert but bored. The detectives milling around: territorial posture, varying levels of grooming. The bulletin board: recent homicide photos, missing persons, departmental memos.
A workplace built on tragedy but numbed by routine.
He passed through security with ease—his badge scanned, his ID accepted, his papers real enough to fool anyone who wasn’t specifically trying to break the illusion.
As he stepped into the hallway leading toward Homicide, he caught the rhythm of footsteps approaching—heavy, confident, almost theatrical.
A Detective appeared around the corner radiated ego the way neon signs radiated light immediately perceived him.
The detective looked like a man who believed the world had been custom-designed for him. Perfectly mussed hair, starched shirt, tie just loose enough to signal effortless superiority. He had a swagger—shoulders rolling like each step was an entrance. And his grin carried all the warning signs of someone who treated charm like a weapon and women like a roulette table.
His eyes landed on Ryosuke with instant, razor-bright curiosity.
“You must be Tanaka,”
The detective said, extending a hand.
“Nathaniel Cortez. Homicide’s hottest disappointment.”
Ryosuke shook his hand. Firm, measured. Not too strong. Not too soft.
“Rick Tanaka,”
he said, offering the mild smile he’d practiced in the mirror.
“Transfer from the 12th.”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard the Captain picked up a new golden boy.”
Cortez clapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on, rookie. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
Ryosuke allowed himself to be steered down the hallway.
He walked with Rick Tanaka’s cadence—brisk but unguarded—while Ryosuke Inagawa scanned every corner, every face, every exit. Assessment was instinct. He took in the desk clusters, the evidence walls, the detectives hunched over paperwork with the posture of defeated athletes.
They move through the bullpen. Ryosuke absorbs everything without appearing to look. Who leans back in chairs. Who leans forward. Who’s loud. Who’s tired. Who’s dangerous.
“This disaster,”
Cortez says, pointing,
“is Detective Evan Fortuno.”
Fortuno grins, spins in his chair.
“Oh sick, new guy! You look like you hack the Pentagon for fun.”
“I do not,”
Ryosuke says calmly.
Fortuno nods.
“That’s exactly what someone who does would say.”
“Next to him,”
Cortez continues,
“Detective Brian Hernandez. He’s the organized one.”
Hernandez gives a polite nod.
“Nice to meet you. You’re… very quiet.”
“Yes.”
Hernandez smiles nervously. He will remember that.
“Sergeant Tyler Wagner,”
Cortez says, gesturing to a massive man lifting a dumbbell with one hand while filling out paperwork with the other.
Wagner squints.
“You new?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Huh.”
Wagner nods.
“You look like you eat oatmeal on purpose.”
Ryosuke accepts this without comment.
They pass the front desk.
“Louise Caruso,”
Cortez says.
“Gatekeeper. Executioner.”
Louise looks him up and down. Smirks.
“Jesus, Cortez, did you pick him up at a thrift store?”
“I shop economically,”
Ryosuke replies.
Louise snorts.
“I like him.”
“Brock Bellestone,”
Cortez continues, pointing to a man hovering too close, eyes bright with curiosity.
Bellestone beams.
“Do you wanna grab lunch sometime and talk about Japan?”
“Maybe.”
Bellestone clutches his heart.
“Nelson and Roberts,”
Cortez says, gesturing to two detectives arguing over a crossword.
Nelson squints.
“He looks like an IT guy.”
Roberts nods.
“Yeah. Like if Wi-Fi were a person.”
Ryosuke stores this. IT guys are invisible. Useful.
Absalom flickered into his mind—a seven-year-old alone in a Queens apartment with nothing but takeout and a sink full of clean dishes.
He shoved the thought aside.
This needed his full attention.
Cortez continued, oblivious.
“And over there is where the captain yells at us. You’ll get used to it.”
They stopped in front of a door with an etched placard: CAPTAIN LUTHER VAUGHN.
The wood around the handle was worn by years of frustrated knocks and slammed palms. Cortez straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, then knocked twice and opened the door without waiting for permission.
“Cap! New meat’s here.”
Ryosuke stepped inside.
Captain Luther Vaughn was a physical presence more than a person—broad shoulders, deep voice, an aura of authority that filled the room like smoke. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to dominate a space. Built like Samuel L. Jackson. Stared like someone who had lived through enough to recognize lies before they were spoken.
He looked up from a stack of reports.
“Detective Tanaka.”
Ryosuke stepped forward, offering his hand.
“Sir.”
Vaughn took it. His grip was iron, unflinching. His eyes scanned Ryosuke’s face—reading him, measuring him, deciding if this new arrival was a liability or an asset.
Ryosuke didn’t flinch. He met the stare with the perfectly calibrated blend of respect and confidence.
“Transferred from the 12th,”
Vaughn said, flipping through a file on his desk.
“Good record. Clean references.”
A beat.
Too clean.
Ryosuke felt the captain’s skepticism brush against him like a breeze before a storm.
“We’re short-handed,”
Vaughn continued.
“Cases are piling up. Bodies are piling up. New York’s not the kind of place that gives fresh detectives a warm welcome.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“You think you can handle Homicide?”
Ryosuke didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, sir.”
Vaughn grunted, not displeased.
“Cortez will show you to your desk. Get settled. We hit the ground fast around here.”
Cortez grinned like a man who had just been given a toy.
“Come on, Tanaka. Let’s get you situated before the captain remembers something else he wants from us.”
They stepped out of the office.
As the door swung shut behind them, Cortez elbowed him lightly.
“Welcome to the circus.”
Ryosuke breathed in the scent of stale coffee, printer toner, and the underlying rot of violence that clung to every precinct like mold.
He gave a small nod, slipping deeper into his role.
“Let’s get to work.”
But beneath the perfectly crafted persona, another truth pulsed:
He had left a seven-year-old mafia heir alone in a high-rise apartment with only takeout menus and a jade emblem for comfort.
This mission wasn’t just infiltration.
It was survival.
For both of them.
The apartment goes quiet in a way Absalom doesn’t like.
Not the good quiet. Not the safe quiet where adults are nearby and the walls feel solid. This is the kind of quiet that stretches too far, thin and hollow, like it might crack if he breathes wrong.
He hears it first—the lock.
A soft click.
Then the door opening.
Then footsteps moving away down the hall.
His eyes snap open.The door clicks shut with a sound that’s too final for a seven-year-old’s heart.
He lies there for three seconds. Four. Counting like he was taught. Waiting for the sound of footsteps turning back. Waiting for the door to open again.
It doesn’t.
Panic doesn’t hit all at once. It leaks in, slow and poisonous. A tightness in his chest. His fingers curl into the blanket. His uncle said he would come back. His uncle always comes back.
But people say that.
Absalom slips out from under the blanket.
The apartment feels bigger in the morning light, shadows long and crooked. The furniture looks unfamiliar now, like it doesn’t belong to him. He pads down the hallway, socked feet silent, heart beating loud in his ears.
He reaches the front door just as the echo of footsteps disappears down the stairs.
“Oji-san?”
he whispers.
His feet barely make a sound on the floor. He pads through the hallway, peeks into the kitchen. The takeout bags sit neatly on the counter, exactly where his uncle left them. He doesn’t touch them. He’s good at following rules. He’s learned that being good is how you stay alive.
He reaches the front door.
His fingers hover over the lock.
Just a little look, he thinks. Just to see where Oji-san went.
The door opens to see an empty hallway, no oji-san in sight. His breathing quickens. His eyes sting. He stands still, listening like maybe the building itself will tell him where his uncle went.
That’s when the lock on the other door clicks.
The one across the hall.
Absalom jerks back like he’s been burned.
The door swings open—and a man steps out.
Malcolm 'Mac' Chang.
Twenty-one, exhausted, jacket half-zipped, gloves still stuffed in his pocket. He smells faintly of industrial cleaner and iron—something sharp underneath citrus disinfectant. His hair is a riot: orange roots, bleached lengths, green tips catching the hallway light. Wolf cut messy from a long shift, piercings glinting at his ears, brow, lip. A tattoo curls over his right shoulder, just visible where his collar slips.
He’s fishing for his keys when the door opens.
He freezes mid-step.
He looks down.
There is a child standing barefoot in the hallway.
There is a strange child.
A Japanese child.
Staring at him with wide cyan eyes like broken glass lit from behind.
Mac freezes.
“What the—”
Absalom freezes harder.
Mac's hand flies instinctively to the pocket where he definitely does not keep a weapon but absolutely keeps trauma. His pulse spikes. His shoulders square.
“Hey—”
he says, voice rough, sharp.
“Who the hell are you?”
Absalom flinches.
The hallway narrows. The air thickens. Both of them register danger at the same time, instincts flaring from completely different lives.
Mac’s brain fires first: Intruder. Kidnapper situation. Trafficking? Did someone dump a kid? Did Rick get murdered??
Mac’s eyes flick to the apartment door behind him. Then back to the kid. The hallway. No adults. No explanations. Just a random child where there should not be one.
“Oh my god,”
Mac mutters.
“Nope. No. Absolutely not. This is not my problem.”
He takes a step back. Then another. Panic starts clawing its way up his spine.
Absalom’s fires louder: Unknown man. No guards. No exits. Run.
He takes a step back. Then another. Panic starts clawing its way up his spine.
“Did you—did you break in?”
he demands, louder now.
“Because I swear to God, if this is some kinda scam—”
Absalom’s breathing turns shallow. His hands shake. He doesn’t understand half the words, only the tone. Accusation. Danger. Anger.
“I didn’t,”
he says quickly, tears burning behind his eyes.
“I didn’t do anything.”
That stops Mac cold.
“Then-- who the hell are you?”
Mac snaps, stepping back, hand instinctively lifting—not to strike, but to block.
“I—”
Absalom’s voice cracks. He swallows.
“I live here.”
Mac swears. Quietly, viciously.
“That’s not funny, kid.”
Absalom’s hands curl into the hem of his shirt. His breathing goes shallow. He’s seen this look before—the suspicion, the calculation, the moment before adults decide what to do with him.
“I’m not funny,”
he says, very small.
The kid’s voice isn’t defiant. It’s terrified. Controlled in the way kids only get when they’ve learned that crying makes things worse.
Mac exhales hard through his nose. Rubs his face. His brain tries to catch up with his body.
“Okay,”
he says, forcing his voice down.
“Okay. Nobody’s yelling. I’m not—”
He gestures vaguely at himself.
“I’m not gonna do anything.”
Mac crouches despite himself, knees protesting, exhaustion leaking into his bones. He forces his voice down, strips the edge off it because the kid's already tearing up and he doesn't wanna get in trouble with the kid's parent.
“Okay. Okay. Slow down.”
He gestures vaguely between them.
“I’m Mac. I live across. That apartment”
—he points at the door behind Absalom—
“belongs to Rick. Tall guy. Glasses. Dresses like he’s allergic to joy.”
Absalom nods immediately. Too quickly.
“Oji-san.”
Mac blinks.
“Your… uncle?”
“Yes.”
Mac exhales. Relief tries to kick in but trips over too many unanswered questions.
“Why are you alone?”
he asks.
Absalom hesitates. He remembers the rules. Do not tell strangers anything important.
But this stranger is tired. This stranger smells like soap and sadness. This stranger crouched instead of looming.
“He went to work,”
Absalom says.
“He said he would come back.”
Mac studies him. The too-calm posture. The way he stands ready to bolt. The eyes that have seen things kids shouldn’t.
Shit.
Mac rubs his face.
“Okay. Cool. Great. Love that.”
He glances at the stairs, the door, the empty hallway.
“And you… followed him?”
Absalom nods again. Shame creeps in.
“I don't want to be alone.”
Mac sighs, long and slow, the way people do when they’re already tired and the universe hands them bonus responsibility.
“Alright, little dude,”
he mutters.
“Let’s get you back inside before Mrs. Antennuci sees this and assumes I stole you.”
He opens the door wider, steps aside, deliberately non-threatening. Absalom hesitates, then retreats into the apartment. Mac follows just enough to close the door behind them, keeping his foot planted in the frame like he’s afraid the situation might explode if he doesn’t anchor it.
The apartment is clean. Sparse. Lived-in only by intention. No toys. No clutter. No signs of chaos.
Mac straightens slowly.
“Did Rick know you were gonna… do this?”
he asks.
Absalom shakes his head.
Mac winces.
“Yeah. That tracks.”
He crouches again, level with the boy’s eyes.
“Listen,”
he says, voice rough but careful.
“I’m not gonna touch your stuff. I’m not gonna call anyone. And I’m definitely not gonna yell. But you can’t just open the door to strangers, okay? New York eats kids for breakfast.”
Absalom nods. He nods a lot. It’s a survival reflex.
Mac scratches the back of his neck, exhales through his nose, something like a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.
“Alright,”
he says.
“you stay here. I’ll be next door. If anything feels weird, you yell. I swear a lot, but I hear everything.”
Absalom looks at him. Really looks.
Not the way kids usually look at adults—expectant, needy, loud with hope—but careful. Measuring. Like he’s checking whether this man is another temporary wall he can lean against without it collapsing.
Then he nods. Once. Small. Decisive.
Mac exhales.
“Okay. Cool. We’re doing great already.”
He gestures toward the couch.
“What’s your name, kid?”
Absalom hesitates for half a breath. Then, obedient as he’s been trained to be, he answers plainly.
“Absalom Inagawa-Aldini.”
The words hit Mac like a sucker punch.
He doesn’t react out loud. Years of surviving bad situations have trained his face into a neutral mask. But inside his skull, the thoughts detonate in rapid succession:
- That is a biblical-ass name for a Japanese kid. Like, Old Testament final boss energy. I am not saying all that every time.
- Inagawa? As in Inagawa-gumi? As in that Inagawa?
- Aldini? As in Italian mafia Aldini? As in holy fuck why are both of those names in one child?
- If this kid gets hurt, I am supernaturally dead. Like “never find the body” dead.
- and this one sinks its claws in deepest: Rick isn’t Rick Tanaka.
Mac blinks. Once. Twice.
“…Right,”
he says, voice impressively steady.
“That’s… that’s a lot of syllables, my guy.”
Absalom’s shoulders tense, like he’s done something wrong.
Mac squats down again immediately.
“Hey. No, no—nothing bad. Just—”
He makes a vague slicing motion with his hand.
“How about a nickname?”
Absalom tilts his head.
“Abi,”
Mac says.
“Short. Easy. Less… international crime syndicate.”
Absalom tests it quietly.
“Abi.”
Something lights up behind his eyes. Not big. Not loud. But real.
“I like it,”
he says.
Mac’s chest tightens in a way he does not consent to.
“Cool,”
he mutters.
“Then you’re Abi.”
He stands, stretching, exhaustion crashing back over him now that the adrenaline’s worn off.
“Alright, Abi. I gotta go crash. I’ve got class at nine-thirty, and if I don’t sleep, I’ll commit a felony in organic chemistry from Sir Eric.”
Abi nods immediately. Perfectly. Like a soldier receiving orders.
“You stay here,”
Mac reiterates, softer now.
“Door locked. Food’s there. I’m literally next door.”
Abi nods again.
“Okay.”
Mac hesitates. Then ruffles his hair—awkward, brief, like he’s afraid the gesture might explode.
“You’re good, kid.”
He leaves before the situation can grow teeth.
Next door, Mac slips into his apartment, kicks off his shoes, tosses his jacket aside. The place is quiet—Jayden already gone for his ungodly early class. The silence feels thick. Suspicious.
Mac collapses onto his bed face-first, groans into the pillow, and lets his brain finally shut down.
Five seconds pass.
Then—
“…Mac?”
Mac freezes.
That voice did not come from his thoughts.
He rolls over slowly.
Abi stands in the doorway.
Shoes on. Backpack clutched. Silent as a ghost.
Mac stares at him.
Abi stares back.
The universe holds its breath.
“…How,”
Mac begins carefully,
“did you get in here.”
Abi shrugs.
“You didn’t lock the door.”
Mac drags a hand down his face.
“Cool,”
he says flatly.
“Awesome. Love that for me.”
He sits up, fully awake now, dread settling into his bones like wet cement.
“Alright,”
he mutters.
“Guess I’m a babysitter now.”
Abi blinks. Then, cautiously hopeful:
“Is that bad?”
Mac sighs, already doomed.
“No,”
he says.
“It’s just… unexpected.”
He swings his legs off the bed, rubs his eyes, and gestures toward the couch.
“Come on. Sit. And don’t do that again, okay?”
Abi nods, obedient as ever.
Somewhere across the city, Ryosuke Inagawa is playing detective, threading lies through a room full of predators.
And back in Queens, a hot-headed med student with zero qualifications has just been drafted into the most dangerous role of all:
Keeping a mafia heir alive until his uncle comes home.
Ryosuke’s first real case as Detective Rick Tanaka unfurls like a crime-stained ribbon—slow, deliberate, and way too easy for a man trained to infiltrate political dynasties and dismantle syndicates with a smile.
He stands in the bullpen, elbows on the homicide board, eyes scanning photos pinned with red tacks. A teenage boy. Ten girls. Different neighborhoods, different schools, same brutality. Witness statements cluster around the edges like gnats—annoying, contradictory, but together forming a rotten little cloud.
The working theory: a girl with a crush, spiraling into violence with the logic of a ghost story whispered at sleepovers. Anyone who liked the boy… died. And when she finally confessed to him—heart pounding, palms shaking, adolescence reaching its sharpest point—he rejected her.
And she slaughtered him too.
Simple. Too simple. Ryosuke already knows this kind of case template; jealousy crimes rarely maintain clean lines. Revenge that tidy belongs in folk tales, not in evidence rooms.
His eyes narrow as he cross-references timeline gaps, witness placement, injury patterns. He’s already halfway through reconstructing the killer’s path—body language, level of emotional control, potential accomplice or copycat dynamic—when—
“NUCLIAREZ!”
The captain’s roar barrels out of the office like a cannon blast. The bullpen jumps. A few detectives mutter “here we go,” like it’s a sacred chant.
Then comes the chaos.
A woman bursts from between the aisle of desks—tiny, hair going every direction as if her brain generates static electricity. She’s juggling a stack of files, a manila folder half-open, paperclips flying, and a mug of coffee that sloshes with every panicked step toward Captain Vaughn’s open door.
“Coming! Coming, sir—! I—I have the preliminary—ah—oh no—no no no—”
She nearly trips over her own shoe. Cortez, leaning lazily on Rick’s desk, smirks.
“That disaster? That’s our lead Forensic Pathologist.”
He hooks a thumb toward her.
“Dr. Maria Nucliarez. Brilliant. Like, scary brilliant. But, uh…”
Maria hits the doorframe with her shoulder, corrects herself like a Roomba, and stumbles into Vaughn’s office.
Cortez finishes,
“You can see the rest.”
Ryosuke watches with professional precision. Her gait, motor coordination issues, impulsive multitasking—she isn’t “slow.” She isn’t careless. Her brain is simply operating sideways from everyone else’s, chewing through data faster than her body can sync with it. A scientist drowning in her own velocity.
Autism doesn’t bother him. He was trained to read people, not judge them. If anything, he understands the burden of having a mind that moves in its own direction.
“I assume Vaughn keeps her because she’s competent,”
Ryosuke says—deadpan.
“Competent?”
Cortez scoffs.
“She’s a damn savant. You ever seen someone run DNA analysis while eating cereal? Because she can. But also? She once autopsied the wrong body. Vaughn lost hair that day.”
Vaughn is bald.
Ryosuke allows one eyebrow to lift.
“Seems he had already lost most of it.”
Cortez whistles.
“You’re funnier than you look, new guy.”
Inside the office, Vaughn’s voice bellows again. This time it’s half frustration, half genuine despair.
“NUCLIAREZ, WHERE’S PAGE THREE?!”
Maria’s frantic voice pipes back, muffled,
“It’s—it’s somewhere! Somewhere near the coffee—wait no—that’s not it—AH—found it! No—THAT’S A RECEIPT—WAIT—HERE—OKAY—”
A thud. A yelp. Papers flutter into the air like depressed confetti.
Ryosuke doesn’t smile. But the tiniest warmth flickers in his chest. The kind that sneaks up on you before you catch it and crush it before it causes wrinkles.
He turns back to the case file.
He hasn’t slept since arriving in America. Jet lag clings to him. Absalom alone in the apartment haunts the edges of his attention like a flickering shadow. The kid had eaten cold leftover takeout for breakfast and lunch. A seven-year-old shouldn’t be left to his own devices like a stray cat—yet here they are.
He files the guilt under “Not Useful,” folds it neatly, and stores it behind the steel plates in his mind. Later. Everything later.
Now, the case.
He circles a photo with his finger.
“This isn’t jealousy,”
he murmurs.
Cortez glances over lazily.
“What do you mean, Tanaka? Spurned-love meltdown. Classic teen drama goes horror movie.”
“Too much control in the pattern,”
Ryo replies.
“And the timing between murders doesn’t match emotional impulsivity. She wasn’t triggered repeatedly. She was following steps.”
“Steps?”
“A plan.”
Cortez snorts.
“You’re telling me a teen girl planned an eleven-body spree? Nah. Hormones don’t compute that cleanly.”
“She didn’t work alone.”
Cortez freezes.
“You got that already? You’ve been on the case for—what—twenty minutes?”
“Long enough.”
The board stares back at him—faces of children who will never grow up. Violence shaped by something colder than heartbreak. Something with strategy behind it.
Behind him, Vaughn’s voice erupts again.
“NUCLIAREZ I SWEAR ON MY ANCESTORS IF THAT REPORT HAS COFFEE STAINS—”
“IT’S ONLY ON THE EDGE!”
Chaos. Noise. The homicide floor is a storm with teeth. And in the center of it stands Ryosuke Inagawa, wearing the skin of Rick Tanaka like a perfectly tailored suit
Morning creeps in sideways, gray and uninvited.
Mac wakes up with the wrong weight on his chest—the kind that isn’t physical but still pins you down. He sits up, squints at the clock.
8:11 a.m.
“—shit.”
The light leaking through the blinds is cruel and surgical. His phone buzzes once on the nightstand, then again, like it’s impatient with him. For a brief, blessed second, he forgets everything.
Mac sits up. Abi is exactly where he left him, backpack hugged to his chest, eyes tracking Mac with the unblinking vigilance of someone who has learned that adults disappear when you blink too long.
“Morning,”
Mac mutters, dragging himself to his feet.
“You sleep at all?"
Abi nods.
“A little."
Mac groans and scrubs his face.
“You’re real,”
he mutters.
“This is my life.”
Abi tilts his head.
“Are you mad?”
“No,”
Mac says immediately, sharper than he means to. He softens it.
“No. Just… tired.”
Mac shuffles into the bathroom, splashes water on his face, stares at his reflection. Orange roots peeking through bleach. Green tips frayed. Piercings catching the light.
He moves through the bathroom on autopilot. Toothbrush. Sink. Hoodie. Backpack. His reflection in the mirror looks like a man who has absolutely ruined his own morning.
He texts Willow while pulling on his shoes.
You at uni yet?
Three dots appear almost instantly.
On the way. Why r u up so early u gremlin
Mac snorts despite himself.
Long story. I might be late.
He pockets his phone and turns—
to find Abi standing directly behind him.
Mac flinches.
“Jesus—kid, you gotta stop doing that. You move like a cat burglar.”
Abi looks up at him.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes,”
Mac says, then winces.
“I mean—just for school. I’ll be back.”
Abi’s fingers curl into the straps of his backpack.
“Can I come?”
Abi stands by the door.
Already wearing his shoes.
Backpack on. Both straps. Locked in.
Mac spits, wipes his mouth.
“Nope.”
Abi’s fingers tighten on the straps.
“I can’t bring you,”
Mac says, trying for casual, landing somewhere near panic-in-a-hoodie.
“It’s school. Boring. Long. Lots of adults asking questions. Illegal amount of questions.”
Abi doesn’t argue. He just… looks at him.
And slowly, very slowly, his eyes start to glass.
Not loud crying. Not dramatic. Just the soft, terrifying pre-cry. The kind that says I’ve been left before and I know how this ends.
Mac backpedals immediately.
“Okay—okay—hold on—don’t do that—Jesus—”
He squats down, scrambling.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t want you around. It’s just—there are rules. And attendance. And if my professor sees you, he’s gonna ask questions, and if he asks questions, I’m gonna lie, and if I lie too much, I get expelled, and then I can’t buy food, and then we both starve.”
Abi’s lip trembles.
A tear slips free. Silent. Heavy.
Mac stops.
The world narrows to that one drop sliding down a seven-year-old’s cheek.
Abandonment has a look. Mac knows it. He’s seen it in mirrors. In other kids. In himself, once.
“Fuck,”
he whispers.
Mac caves like a bad foundation.
“…You can come,”
he blurts.
The tears stop instantly.
Abi’s face brightens so fast it’s unfair.
“Really?”
Mac closes his eyes.
“Yeah. Really. You win. Congratulations. I’m ruined.”
“But you stay close. You don’t talk to strangers. And if anyone asks, you’re—”
He squints.
“—my cousin.”
Abi nods so hard it’s almost violent.
Mac hands him his beanie.
“Put this on. You look less… important with it.”
Abi beams and pulls it down over his ears.
Mac grabs his bag, opens the door, and mutters to the universe,
“I hope Rick Tanaka has a very bad day.”
The campus is already buzzing when they arrive. Students everywhere—laughing, arguing, half-asleep, caffeinated beyond reason. Mac keeps Abi close, hyperaware of every passing stranger, every lingering glance.
Then he sees Willow.
She’s standing near the steps, twin braids resting over her shoulders, pale coat buttoned neatly. Her cheeks are pink from the cold. When she spots Mac, her face lights up.
Then she notices Abi.
Her eyes widen.
“Oh!”
Mac feels his soul attempt to leave his body.
Willow steps closer, smiling softly.
“Hi there.”
Abi squeezes Mac’s hand but doesn’t hide. Just watches her, curious.
Willow looks up at Mac.
“Are you… babysitting?”
Mac clears his throat.
“Yeah. Uh. Cousin.”
Willow blinks.
“You have a cousin?”
“Surprise,”
Mac says weakly.
She crouches immediately, warmth radiating off her like sunlight.
“What’s your name?”
Abi glances up at Mac. Mac nods—subtle, firm.
“Abi,”
he says.
Willow beams.
“That’s such a cute name.”
Abi smiles. Full this time.
Mac watches the exchange, chest tight. He loves her. God, he loves her. And he hates—hates—how easy lying to her has become.
Willow stands, slipping her hand into Mac’s free one like it belongs there.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a kid.”
“I didn’t know either,”
Mac mutters.
She laughs softly, then looks back at Abi.
“You hungry? There’s a bakery near the library.”
Abi nods enthusiastically.
Mac exhales, tension bleeding out just a fraction.
Right now, he’s just a broke student with a surprise cousin and a girlfriend who loves children.
The bakery near the library smells like sugar and warm bread and regret.
Mac orders like he’s trying to end the line through attrition—two buns, one croissant, something with custard, something with red bean. Willow protests softly, hand on his sleeve.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,”
Mac says, already tapping his card.
“It’s tradition.”
“We both have debt.”
“Exactly. Let me feel rich for thirty seconds.”
Abi watches the exchange like it’s a sacred ritual. When Mac hands him a paper bag, his eyes light up again, that careful joy cracking into something real. He takes small bites, like he’s afraid the food might vanish if he looks away.
They walk to class together. Mac in the middle. Willow on one side. Abi glued to Mac’s hand.
People stare. Of course they do.
By the time they slip into the lecture hall, the whispers have already started. A kid in a room full of stressed twenty-somethings is a magnet. Abi climbs into the seat between Willow and an empty chair, swinging his legs, crumbs on his sweater.
Jayden looks over.
Then does a double take.
Then a triple.
“…Bro,”
he says, voice thick, eyes glassy.
“Why do you and Willow have a seven-year-old kid when you’ve only been dating, like… two years?”
The room goes quiet in that very specific way classrooms do when drama smells imminent.
Willow giggles. She actually giggles, cheeks flaming.
“Jayden!”
Mac feels his soul leave his body. He smacks Jayden upside the head without thinking.
“Outside,”
Mac hisses, grabbing Jayden by the collar.
“Now.”
They disappear into the hallway in a mess of whispered swearing, leaving Willow behind with Abi—who is now being gently interrogated by curious classmates.
Willow smiles apologetically.
“He’s Mac’s cousin,”
she explains softly.
“Just visiting.”
Abi nods on cue, mouth full, proud of himself.
Outside, Mac paces like a trapped animal.
“Dude, we are so fucked,”
he says.
Jayden blinks, the fog clearing just enough.
“Dude, relax. It’s a kid.”
“It’s not just a kid.”
Mac leans in, voice low.
“He’s our new neighbor’s nephew.”
Jayden shrugs.
“Okay? Rick’s chill.”
Mac grabs Jayden’s hoodie and yanks him closer.
“His name is Absalom Inagawa-Aldini.”
Jayden’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Hard name. Bro is Hebrew, Italian, and Japanese. Goes crazy—”
“Stop,”
Mac snaps.
“Think.”
Silence stretches.
“Inagawa?”
Jayden says slowly.
“Like—”
“Yes.”
“And Aldini?”
“Yes.”
Jayden swallows.
“Oh. Oh that's bad.”
The hallway hums. A distant door slams. Someone laughs. Life continues, oblivious.
“So,”
Jayden mutters,
“Rick Tanaka isn’t Rick Tanaka.”
Mac laughs, sharp and humorless.
“Congrats. You finally grew a damn brain cell.”
Before they can spiral further, a voice cuts through the air.
“Chang. Peralta.”
Professor Eric stands there, coffee in hand, ten minutes late and morally offended.
“Class started. Why are you two loitering like unpaid extras?”
Mac exhales, forces a smile.
“On our way, sir.”
Eric squints, then waves them off.
“Hurry up.”
As they head back inside, Mac feels the walls closing in.
A kid. Two mob families. A neighbor who isn’t who he says he is.
And class hasn’t even started yet.
The day stretches like chewed gum—long, sticky, impossible to ignore.
Mac spends most of it half-listening to lectures and fully monitoring the room. Every door opening makes his spine go rigid. Every unfamiliar face gets cataloged. He sits angled toward Abi without meaning to, arm always hovering close, like instinct has quietly taken over the wheel.
Jayden tries to cope the only way he knows how.
By not coping at all.
He fidgets. He whispers. He reaches for his jacket pocket three separate times before Mac slaps his hand away each time.
“No,”
Mac mutters.
“Bro—”
“No.”
“I need it.”
“You’ll need oxygen if you light that near the kid.”
Jayden groans, dramatic, eyes rolling back.
“This is emotional warfare, Malcolm Chang.”
Abi watches them like they’re a cartoon. He doesn’t say anything. Just chews thoughtfully and stays close.
Willow notices everything.
She notices how Mac positions himself between Abi and the aisle. How Jayden walks a step behind them, eyes scanning like he’s suddenly learned what situational awareness is. How Mac’s jokes are thinner, his temper shorter, his laugh slightly off-beat.
By lunchtime, the tension has fermented.
Jayden volunteers—too eagerly—to take Abi to the cafeteria line.
“C’mon, little dude. You pick. Brother Jayden’s buying.”
Mac shoots him a look.
“You’re not his brother.”
Jayden grins.
“Yet.”
They disappear into the crowd, leaving Mac and Willow at the table.
The silence lands gently but heavily.
Willow folds her hands, watching Mac over the rim of her tea.
“Okay,”
she says softly.
“Talk.”
Mac stiffens.
“About what?”
She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t accuse. Just looks at him.
“You’ve been on edge all day. You and Jayden both. And you’re… hovering.”
“I’m fine,”
Mac says too quickly.
“Just stressed.”
“Thesis stressed?”
she asks.
“Yes.”
She tilts her head.
“That’s not what thesis stress looks like on you.”
Mac exhales, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“Baby, please.”
Her expression doesn’t harden. It softens.
“You’ve been distant,”
she says.
“And I don’t need to know everything, but I don’t want you carrying it alone.”
The words hit harder than yelling ever could.
Mac swallows. He wants to tell her. Every instinct screams to. She’s right there. Safe. Warm. He imagines unburdening himself, letting her in—
—and then imagines her in danger.
“Nothing’s going on,”
he says, quieter now.
“I’m just… tired. Stop worrying about me, okay?”
Willow studies him for a long second. Then she sighs, a small sound of surrender.
“Okay,”
she says.
“But if you ever want to tell me… I’m right here.”
She leans in, kisses his cheek, brushes his hair back with her fingers.
Mac’s brain short-circuits.
FUCK. He loves her. He loves her so much it hurts. He wants to protect her from everything, even himself.
The moment shatters as Jayden plops back into his seat, Abi in tow, both carrying trays.
“They had nuggets,”
Jayden announces.
“The kid chose violence.”
Abi beams, holding up a juice box like a trophy.
Mac exhales, tension snapping back into place. The day isn’t over. The danger isn’t gone.
But for now, they eat.
And Mac keeps watch.
The rest of the afternoon drags like a bruise being pressed again and again.
Willow keeps her word. She doesn’t push. She also doesn’t sit next to Mac.
In lectures, she chooses seats a careful distance away—close enough to be polite, far enough to sting. When he glances over, she’s focused on her notes, posture straight, expression calm in the way that means she’s anything but. It’s not anger exactly. It’s hurt, neatly folded and set aside like something fragile she doesn’t want to drop in public.
Mac feels every inch of it.
He goes quiet. Not sulky—guilty. The kind that settles in his chest and refuses to move. Every time he considers leaning over, cracking a joke, apologizing without actually apologizing, he stops himself. Anything he says risks cracking the lie open. Anything honest risks dragging her into something sharp and bloody and way above a college campus.
Jayden clocks the vibe instantly and hates it.
“Oh my god,”
he mutters at one point, scribbling nonsense in his notebook.
“You two being weird is worse than finals week.”
He reaches for his stash during a bathroom break. Mac snatches it and dumps it in the trash without breaking stride.
“Bro—”
“There’s a kid.”
“I am the kid right now,”
Jayden whines.
Abi sits between them like a small, quiet satellite. He watches Willow avoid Mac’s eyes. Watches Mac stare at the floor like it owes him money. His shoulders curl inward the longer it goes on.
His mother’s voice echoes, uninvited.
You cause problems.
You make things difficult.
People argue because of you.
By the time they reach their last class—organic chemistry lab at five—the air is so tight it could snap.
The lab smells like ethanol and anxiety. Stainless steel benches. Racks of glassware gleaming under fluorescent lights. The professor’s gaze lands on Abi immediately.
“Absolutely not,”
he says flatly.
“Children are not allowed in the laboratory.”
Mac steps forward fast.
“He’ll wear PPE. He’ll sit still. I’ll take full responsibility.”
The professor looks unimpressed.
“One incident and you’re both out.”
Mac nods.
“Understood.”
He goes overboard. Completely. Gloves too big. A junior-sized lab gown swallowed by Abi’s small frame. Hairnet. Goggles. A gas mask that makes his breathing sound loud and mechanical.
Willow watches, incredulous.
“Mac, he can barely move.”
“It’s for his safety,”
Mac snaps.
“He’s not handling plutonium, he’s sitting.”
“And accidents happen.”
“So does suffocation. God Mac why do you always think you're right?”
They’re bickering now—low voices, sharp edges. Jayden rubs his temples.
“I’m begging you, please, not here.”
Abi hears none of it clearly. He just feels it. The pressure. The guilt swelling until it has nowhere to go.
Jayden reaches for him.
“Hey, buddy, let’s step outside—”
Abi panics.
He bolts.
Small feet slapping against tile. Goggles askew. Too much gear, not enough air. He darts between benches, clipping elbows, bumping stools. A beaker shatters. Someone yells. Liquid splashes across the floor, hissing.
“Hey—watch it!”
“Jesus!”
Mac’s heart drops straight through his ribs.
“Abi!”
He stops arguing mid-sentence, spins, and takes off after him, weaving through chaos as alarms start blaring and students scramble back. He doesn’t look at Willow. Doesn’t look at Jayden.
Jayden is left behind, hands up, trying to calm furious classmates and a professor whose face has gone nuclear.
“Okay—I mean, technically they're BOTH out so—”
Mac doesn’t hear him.
All he sees is a small figure running scared through glass and chemicals and noise.
He takes the stairs two at a time, lungs burning, brain static-loud. The rooftop door slams open into cold air and dying sunlight, the city stretched out below like a mess that never apologizes.
Abi is curled up in the corner near the fence, knees hugged to his chest, PPE half-peeled off like a shell he couldn’t carry anymore. He looks impossibly small against the skyline.
Mac slows down. Not because he’s tired—because rushing scares kids.
“Hey,”
he says, voice rough but low.
“Hey, hey. I got you.”
Abi flinches anyway.
“I’m sorry,”
the kid blurts, words tumbling over each other.
“I ruined everything. I was bad today. I shouldn’t have left the apartment. Oji-san told me not to. I shouldn’t have followed you. I shouldn’t have made you bring me. If I didn’t—maybe you and Willow-neesan wouldn’t fight. Maybe your school wouldn’t hate me.”
His voice cracks. Tears spill. Snot follows, messy and uncontained.
Mac crouches and puts a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Real.
“Stop,”
he says gently.
“Hey. Don’t do that to yourself.”
Abi keeps going, sobbing now.
“Okaa-sama said I cause problems.”
Mac exhales through his nose.
“Yeah? Well, your okasama's wrong.”
Abi looks up, shocked.
“Dude, you’re disgusting,”
Mac adds, deadpan.
“Like, violently crying disgusting. This is gross.”
Abi lets out a wet, startled laugh despite himself.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Mac pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, grimaces, and wipes Abi’s nose anyway.
“God. I’m gonna burn this.”
He lifts Abi—light as a backpack—and sets him on the rooftop railing, one arm braced around him, then hops up beside him. The city hums below, distant and uncaring.
Mac stares out for a second before speaking.
“I know what it’s like,”
he says.
“Being blamed for everything. Being the problem people ship overseas and pretend is ‘support.’ My parents dumped me here because I didn’t fit. Too loud. Too angry. Too… me.”
Abi listens, silent now.
“I wouldn’t be shocked if the love of my life leaves me someday, and it's no one's fault but mine.”
Mac continues, voice tight.
“I lie too much. I keep too many secrets. I do it because I think I’m protecting people. But yeah—sometimes that blows up in my face.”
He looks at Abi then. Really looks.
“But none of that means I get to leave you behind.”
Abi’s fingers clutch the fabric of Mac’s jacket.
“I might get expelled,”
Mac says honestly.
“Willow might dump me. My life might get harder.”
Abi’s chin trembles again.
“But none of that is your fault. And even if it is, that still doesn’t make me want to walk away from you the same way my parents walked away from me,”
Mac finishes.
“I wouldn't do to you what others have already done to me.”
The wind tugs at their clothes. The sun sinks lower.
“You’re not an inconvenience,”
Mac says.
“You’re a kid. And right now? You’re with me.”
Abi leans into his side, small and warm and real.
Down below, alarms fade. Shouting quiets.
For the first time all day, the panic loosens its grip.
Mac stays there with him, watching the city bruise into night, guarding a seven-year-old who should never have had to learn how to apologize for existing.
Rick leaves the precinct at 7 p.m. sharp, the kind of sharp that feels like it got sanded down by stress and fluorescent lighting. His mind tries—tries—to stay on the homicide case, but a single intrusive thought wedges itself into his skull like a splinter:
Absalom hasn’t eaten dinner.
He feels it hit him low in the gut. Not panic. Something worse. Responsibility.
He shoves his badge into his jacket pocket, slings his bag over his shoulder, and heads for the elevator. Cortez catches up, swaggering in like he’s been waiting for an audience.
“Tanaka! Heading out?”
he calls, stepping in beside him, smelling like cologne, cheap gum, and confidence he didn’t earn.
Ryosuke nods.
“Day’s over.”
The elevator doors close.
Cortez leans back against the wall, hands in his pockets.
“You look like a guy who needs a burger and a beer. First day hits hard.”
Rick presses the lobby button.
“Where’s the nearest McDonald’s?”
Cortez grins like that question just revealed a juicy secret.
“Damn, going for the classics already? Grease therapy. I respect it.”
“It’s not for me,”
Ryosuke replies.
“It’s for my nephew.”
That freezes Cortez for a second. Not suspicion—just nosy curiosity. This man collects gossip like Pokémon cards.
“Oh? Didn’t know you got family here.”
He steps out of the elevator with Ryosuke.
“Why isn’t his mom feeding him?”
Ryosuke doesn’t break stride.
“I take care of him.”
“But like—why? Mom sick? Dead? Divorce? Run off with a yoga instructor?”
Cortez shoots questions like bullets from a malfunctioning gun.
Ryosuke scans the street for golden arches. None in sight. Cortez snaps his fingers and gestures down the block.
“This way.”
They walk.
Ryosuke weighs his story carefully. He’s done this dance before—played roles, built histories out of thin air. But this one needs to be believable. Human. Grounded enough to fly under radar.
He exhales once. Slow. Then he speaks.
“His mother… isn’t in the picture.”
Cortez tilts his head.
“And the dad?”
“Worse than the mother.”
No hesitation. That part he doesn’t even have to invent.
“So you’re the guy who stepped up?”
Cortez says, a little surprised.
Ryosuke gives a tiny shrug.
“Someone had to.”
It’s just vague enough. Just sad enough. Just normal enough. People don’t question quiet tragedy.
Cortez whistles under his breath.
“Didn’t peg you as the parent type.”
“I’m not.”
Cortez laughs.
“Honest. I like that.”
They cross a street, shoes splashing through the city grime. New York buzzes around them, chaotic, alive, unaware that a mafia heir and an undercover spy are walking toward a fast-food joint like exhausted single dads.
Cortez keeps going, because of course he does.
“So what’s his deal? How old’s the kid?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?”
Cortez’s eyes widen.
“Man, that’s little. Does he talk a lot? Kids that age talk like they’re on five espressos.”
Rick answers without skipping a beat.
“He’s quiet.”
Cortez stops short.
“DNA match?”
Ryosuke glances at him.
“Do you always talk this much?”
Cortez grins proudly.
“Yup.”
They keep walking. Neon lights flick across their faces as a familiar yellow ‘M’ appears up ahead.
Cortez nudges him.
“So, serious question.”
Ryosuke already regrets this conversation.
“What’s the kid’s name?”
“Absalom.”
Cortez blinks.
“Abs—abso—what?”
“Absalom. His father named him.”
Cortez makes a face.
“Sounds like a Bible villain. Is his father's name David perhaps?”
“He’s not. And no.”
“Alright, alright.”
Cortez lifts his hands, surrendering.
“Uncle Ricky got himself a kid with a dramatic name. That’s cute.”
Ryosuke does not react. Mostly because he’s thinking about Absalom sitting alone in their spotless apartment, tiny backpack still by the door, probably watching the silence like it’s going to tell him what to do.
Cortez reaches for the McDonald’s door and holds it open.
“So, what’s Absalom’s favorite meal?”
he asks.
“I don’t know.”
Cortez stares.
“Bro. You don’t know what the kid likes?”
“I met him recently,”
Ryosuke replies smoothly.
It’s technically true. And also a horrifying sentence to say out loud.
Cortez just shakes his head.
“Man. You need help. Real help.”
Ryosuke steps into the restaurant.
“I’ll manage.”
Cortez chuckles as he follows.
“Yeah… sure you will.”
And for the first time all day, Ryosuke feels something heavier than jet lag settling into his bones.
He’s ready to interrogate suspects, hunt killers, infiltrate syndicates, manipulate entire systems.
But raising a child?
That might be the most dangerous assignment he’s ever been given.
The apartment is too quiet.
Not normal-quiet. Not tired-kid-quiet. It’s empty quiet.
Ryosuke pushes the door open with his shoulder, McDonald’s bag in one hand, keys dangling from the other. The lights are all off. The air feels still, like the room has been holding its breath.
He steps inside.
“Absalom?”
Nothing.
He flicks the entryway light on. The soft glow spills across the apartment, but there’s no small figure, no backpack by the door, no subtle rustle of movement.
A tightness grips his chest—sharp, fast, unfamiliar. It’s not fear of an enemy. Not the thrill of a mission going sideways. Something else.
Something worse.
He sets the food down. That tightness twists.
He calls out again, louder.
“Absalom.”
Still nothing.
He moves quickly now, calm-but-not-calm, like a man who knows he’s losing composure but refuses to admit it. His steps echo through the apartment.
First stop: the living room.
Couch cushions undisturbed. Rug smooth. TV off.
He checks behind the sofa just in case. Empty.
Kitchen next.
No small boy eating straight from the fridge. No chair dragged over to reach the cabinets. No mess. Just cold surfaces staring back at him like judgment.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
His pulse climbs.
It’s not logical. He knows that. Absalom is trained—hypertrained. The kid could probably sit silently in a ventilation duct for six hours straight and not break a sweat. But that doesn’t stop the sinking weight forming in Ryosuke’s gut.
He checks the first bedroom.
Bed untouched.
Closet empty.
He calls out again, voice lower, strained.
“Where are you?”
Silence answers.
He slides the door open harder than needed. Lights on. No Absalom. No sign of life. Just that eerie stillness pressing in from all sides.
The tightness in his chest sharpens. If he were honest, it feels like panic—but Ryosuke Inagawa doesn’t panic. Panic is for civilians. Panic is for people who can afford to fall apart.
But this isn’t about him.
This is about the kid.
He stalks into the hallway, jaw clenched, breath short. His mind flashes with possibilities—Absalom wandering out, getting taken, getting spotted, getting killed. Chiyuno’s voice rings in his ears:
Keep him alive.
He moves faster.
Final door: the master bedroom.
He pushes it open.
He's still not there.
The apartment exhales nothing back at him.
Ryosuke stands there for half a second too long, the silence pressing against his ribs like a held breath that refuses to release. His mind stops being elegant. Stops being precise. It turns feral.
He moves.
Keys hit the counter. Shoes are already on. The door slams behind him with more force than he intends, echoing down the stairwell as he takes the steps two at a time. The building smells like old paint and damp concrete. Every shadow feels wrong. Every sound sharpens.
Outside, Queens hums on like nothing is broken.
Cars pass. A siren wails somewhere far away. People laugh. Live. Continue.
Ryosuke scans the sidewalk, the street, the corners—calculating paths, exits, angles. If Absalom wandered, he wouldn’t wander randomly. He’d hug walls. He’d follow adults. He’d disappear.
The thought tightens something in his chest so hard it almost steals his breath.
Then—
Movement.
A familiar shock of color. Green-tipped hair. A slouched figure trudging up the block like gravity personally hates him.
And on his shoulder—
Small. Limp. Asleep.
Ryosuke stops dead.
Mac looks like hell. Hoodie stained, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and stress. He freezes too when he sees Ryosuke, relief flickering across his face before getting buried under something heavier.
“Oh. Thank God,”
Mac mutters, adjusting his grip.
“Okay. Okay, cool. You’re home.”
Ryosuke closes the distance in three long strides.
Absalom’s head lolls gently against Mac’s shoulder, mouth parted, breathing slow and even. Alive. Warm. Safe.
Ryosuke takes him carefully, instinctively—one arm under the knees, one supporting his back. The weight hits him like a delayed impact. Real. Solid.
“I’m sorry,”
Mac says immediately, words tumbling out.
“He followed me. All morning. I didn’t realize at first and then it was—he couldn’t be alone, man. I tried. I swear I tried. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Ryosuke looks down at his nephew’s face. Peaceful now. Untroubled by the chaos he left behind.
“You kept him safe,”
Ryosuke says quietly.
Mac lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding since sunrise.
“Barely. But yeah.”
There’s a pause. The city fills it with noise.
Mac straightens, expression sharpening.
“We need to talk,”
he says, dead serious.
“About him. About you.”
Ryosuke nods once.
“I will put him to bed first.”
Mac hesitates, then nods.
“Yeah. I’ll—uh—I’ll shower. I smell like chemicals and stress.”
Ryosuke turns toward the building, Absalom cradled against his chest like something fragile and irreplaceable.
As he steps back inside, the apartment doesn’t feel empty anymore.
It feels like a warning.
And a promise.
Notes:
Update: Dec. 13, 2025
I added the rest of the chapter, extending it. I posted as fast as I could because my head was aching when I initially started.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Dec. 16, 2025 Update:
I added the confrontation between Mac & Willow near the end instead of incorporating it into the next chapter, to fully establish the key characters for the story in this chapter, and focus on other events of the story in the next chapters. That way it doesn't feel like it's dragging you guys.
Chapter Text
Abi goes down easy.
Too easy.
Ryosuke changes him into borrowed pajamas, folds the too-big sleeves back twice, tucks the blanket up under his chin the way his mother never did. Abi barely stirs, just murmurs something soft and unintelligible before curling toward the warmth. Ryosuke stays a moment longer than necessary, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest like it’s proof of life he needs to memorize.
“I’m here,”
he murmurs, not sure who the words are for.
When he finally leaves the room, he closes the door quietly. Carefully. Like the world on the other side might break if he doesn’t.
The hallway balcony is narrow, concrete, overlooked by fire escapes and sagging wires. Queens breathes around him—traffic snarling, voices floating up from the street, the city doing what it does best: not caring.
Ryosuke lights a cigarette and leans against the railing.
Rick Tanaka is working. Too well. The precinct didn’t flinch. Cortez warmed up fast. Vaughn’s eyes lingered, but not long enough. The machine is already swallowing him whole, accepting him as part of its rot.
And Abi—
Abi is a variable he didn’t account for.
A liability. A child. A flashing signal in a city that eats secrets alive.
Footsteps scrape behind him.
Mac steps out onto the balcony, hair damp, hoodie replaced, exhaustion carved deep into his face. He pulls out a cigarette, taps it against the box, then pauses.
“You got a light?”
Ryosuke flicks the lighter without a word, shielding the flame with his hand. Mac leans in, inhales, exhales smoke like he’s been holding it in all day.
They stand there in silence. Two men at different ends of life, bound by a seven-year-old sleeping behind a locked door.
Finally, Mac speaks.
“Jayden knows,”
he says. No anger. Just fact.
“So do I.”
Ryosuke doesn’t turn.
“The kid gave it away,”
Mac continues.
“That name? That’s not an accident. You don’t forget something like that.”
Ryosuke exhales slowly.
“I should have warned him.”
Mac shrugs.
“Kids don’t lie well anyway.”
Another drag. Another pause.
“I’m not a snitch,”
Mac says.
“Never have been. Don’t plan on starting.”
Ryosuke’s eyes flick to him now, sharp but unreadable.
“But,”
Mac adds, voice tightening,
“I kept him safe. All day. I lost my girlfriend over it. Got suspended for a week. Ran through a lab like an idiot because he panicked.”
He flicks ash over the railing.
“So you’re gonna tell me who you really are.”
The city roars below them, indifferent as ever.
Ryosuke takes another drag, the smoke curling like a ghost between them.
He lets it hang there a second longer than necessary, watching it thin out over Queens, dissolve into nothing. Then he speaks.
“My name is Ryosuke Inagawa.”
Mac doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t joke. He just listens, cigarette burning down between his fingers.
“I was born the heir to the Inagawa-gumi,”
Ryosuke continues.
“Japan’s oldest syndicate. I stepped away from the throne before it could swallow me whole. My sister—Chiyuno Inagawa—runs it now. Absalom is her third son.”
Mac exhales slowly.
“Jesus Christ.”
“She is expanding,”
Ryosuke says, voice steady, almost clinical.
“Her husband is Antoninus Aldini. Italian. Powerful. Their marriage is a contract, not a romance. New York is the next territory. My role is to make sure law enforcement never traces the blood back to them.”
He taps ash into the night.
“Rick Tanaka is a mask. A dull one. A harmless one. The NYPD is already accepting it.”
Mac lets out a humorless laugh.
“So I’m not just involved. I’m deep involved.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… awesome,”
Mac mutters.
“In a ‘my-life-is-ruined’ kind of way.”
They smoke in silence again. A train rumbles somewhere in the distance. The city keeps pretending nothing matters.
Ryosuke studies him now. The way Mac stands—too alert for a student. The way his eyes track movement below. The ease with which he handled Abi, panic aside.
“You’re familiar with this world,”
Ryosuke says. Not a question.
Mac stiffens, then sighs. Long. Tired.
“Yeah,”
he says.
“Because I work in it.”
Ryosuke raises an eyebrow.
“I’m a cleaner,”
Mac says.
“Not janitor-cleaner. I mean… aftermath cleaner. Blood. Glass. Walls. Floors. Whatever’s left when people stop breathing.”
Ryosuke doesn’t react. He just listens.
“I tried regular jobs,”
Mac goes on.
“They don’t pay. And when your parents dump you in another country with ‘support’ that’s really just tuition and silence, you take what you can get.”
He flicks his cigarette over the railing.
“I don’t belong to any one,”
Mac adds.
“Yakuza. Mafia. Triads. Street gangs. Whoever pays. I show up after the screaming stops. I don’t ask questions. I don’t pick sides.”
A pause.
“I survive.”
Ryosuke nods once.
“That explains your composure.”
Mac snorts.
“You mean my talent for pretending I’m not terrified?”
“That too.”
They stand there, two men shaped by abandonment and necessity, bound together by accident and a sleeping child behind a locked door.
“Look,”
Mac says it finally, like he’s setting a boundary with the universe.
“I didn’t choose this. But I won’t sell you out. And I won’t let the kid get hurt.”
Then he exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction.
“But,”
he adds, eyes flicking sideways,
“you kinda did fuck my life up. Indirectly. Girlfriend dumped me. Uni slapped me with a suspension. All in one day. Impressive, honestly.”
Ryosuke turns to him fully now.
“I apologize.”
Mac blinks. The sincerity catches him off guard.
Ryosuke is already pulling his phone from his pocket.
“I will handle the suspension.”
Mac squints.
“Handle it how?”
“Which university?”
“Columbia.”
Ryosuke nods once, like that answers everything. He steps a few paces away, murmuring an apology as he switches to Japanese, voice low, precise. Mac doesn’t understand the words, but he understands the tone—the kind that doesn’t ask.
A minute passes.
Mac’s phone buzzes.
He looks down.
From: Office of the Dean
After further review, your suspension has been reduced pending administrative follow-up.
Mac stares.
“…Holy shit,”
he mutters.
“The Yakuza works fast.”
Ryosuke returns, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
“That is most of what I can do for you right now.”
Mac scoffs.
“Figures. What about the girlfriend?”
Ryosuke’s mouth twitches, almost a smile.
“I cannot fix that.”
“Could at least give me advice, old man.”
Mac says.
Ryosuke arches a brow.
“Fine. Tell me everything.”
Mac leans against the railing, cigarette forgotten.
“I’ve known Willow my whole life. Grew up together. Got shipped to America together. She’s… she’s good. Too good for me.”
“Does she know what you do?”
Mac shakes his head.
“No. And I’m not telling her. Ever. I hate lying to her. But if she knows, she’s in it. And I won’t do that to her.”
Ryosuke listens, expression unreadable.
“You believe secrecy equals protection,”
he says finally.
“It does. Sometimes. But it also creates distance. People feel when something is withheld, even if they don’t know what it is.”
Mac swallows.
“You do not have to tell her everything,”
Ryosuke continues.
“But you must tell her why you cannot. Trust is not built on full disclosure. It is built on intention.”
Mac glances down at his phone.
Unread messages from Willow sit there like open wounds. Apologies. Confusion. Hurt packed into polite sentences.
Ryosuke watches him quietly.
“Decide what kind of man you want to be,”
he says.
“One who disappears to keep others safe—or one who lets them choose to stay.”
The city hums below them, relentless.
Mac doesn’t answer.
He just keeps staring at the screen, weighing love against fear, while inside the apartment a seven-year-old sleeps, unaware of how many lives are quietly rearranging themselves around him.
Across the city, Willow sits perfectly still in the back of a luxury sedan that smells like leather, money, and old decisions.
The windows are tinted dark enough to turn New York into a moving shadowplay—streetlights smearing into gold lines, pedestrians reduced to silhouettes. The car glides instead of drives. Nothing rattles. Nothing is out of place.
Except her.
Her phone rests in her lap, screen glowing softly against her fingers. She types. Deletes. Types again.
Did I push too hard?
I just wanted honesty.
I didn’t mean forever—just space.
She stares at the chat.
Seen.
Her chest tightens. She swallows, keeps her breathing even. Crying in here would be a mistake. Crying would invite questions. Willow Liu does not invite questions.
She types again, slower this time, thumbs trembling just enough to annoy her.
I hope you’re okay.
Send.
She turns her gaze to the window before the sting reaches her eyes. The city outside looks vast and indifferent. It feels personal anyway.
Beside her, her father speaks.
He has a calm, measured voice—the kind that never raises itself because it never needs to. He talks about legacy. About responsibility. About how the world bends for those who understand how to apply pressure in the right places.
“Our family has survived because we think long-term,”
he says.
“Empires aren’t built on feelings. They’re built on patience.”
Willow nods automatically.
Her phone buzzes.
Nothing from Mac.
Her father glances at her then, sharp-eyed despite his relaxed posture.
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m listening,”
she says softly. Too softly.
He studies her for a moment, then sighs.
“That boy,”
he says, not unkindly.
“He’s temporary.”
Her fingers curl around her phone.
“You’re made for more than that,”
he continues.
“You’ll graduate soon. You’ll have a role to play. A future to inherit.”
The words land heavy, like a collar settling into place.
Willow’s mouth opens. Closes.
She thinks of Mac’s laugh. His stubbornness. The way he always walks on the street side of the sidewalk without thinking about it. The way he looks at her like she’s the only stable thing in his chaotic orbit.
She wants to say I don’t want an empire.
She wants to say I just want him.
She wants to say please let me choose.
Instead, she nods.
“Yes, Baba,”
she says.
Her phone buzzes again.
Still nothing.
The car glides through Queens like a blade through dark water. Streetlights smear across the windshield in long amber streaks, turning her father’s reflection into something sharp and segmented. Mr. Liu drives with one hand on the wheel, posture relaxed, voice calm in the way only dangerous men ever sound calm.
“The shipment was clean,”
he continues, as if discussing weather.
“Deep-sea route. No flags. No chatter. Then—nothing.”
He exhales through his nose, amused without humor.
“Vanished. Like it never existed.”
Willow hums softly, eyes on her phone. Her thumb hovers. Still typing. Still waiting.
“They hit us three nautical miles off the Philippine trench,”
Mr. Liu says.
“Professional. Surgical. No survivors. We lost men I trained myself. We lost one hundred and twenty-five million dollars’ worth of product.”
His knuckles tighten on the wheel.
“The only group blood-thirsty enough to do such an act is... the Inagawa-gumi.”
The name lands heavy. Japanese. Old money. Old blood. Willow knows that much even half-listening. Her father doesn’t explain things unless he wants them understood.
“They’re expanding,”
he goes on.
“Foreign waters. New York is a staging ground. Bold. Insulting.”
Her phone finally lights up.
Mac:
I’m okay. I’m sorry. I can explain. Please don’t worry.
Her chest tightens. Relief and anger collide, sparks flying. She types back too fast.
You vanished. Please tell me what's going on. Who really was that kid?
Mr. Liu continues, voice steady, eyes forward.
“I had my people look into the Inagawa-gumi leadership. Current head—Chiyuno Inagawa. Married to an Italian Don. Antoninus Aldini.”
He pauses, just long enough to make the name echo.
“They have children.”
Willow blinks.
“They all have cyan eyes,”
he adds, almost idly.
“Distinctive trait. Rare. Makes them easy to recognize.”
Cyan.
The word doesn’t register immediately. It floats. Drifts.
Then it hooks.
Abi.
Small hands clutching a juice box. Quiet. Watchful. Too composed for his age. Cyan eyes—bright, strange, unforgettable. Mac’s voice, casual, offhand: My cousin.
Her fingers still.
Mr. Liu keeps talking.
“The Aldini children are heavily protected. Ghosts. If one of them ever surfaced without guards—”
He scoffs softly.
“—I will have their beautiful cyan eyes.”
Willow swallows.
Her phone buzzes again.
Mac:
He followed me. I couldn’t leave him alone. I swear I was trying to protect him.
Her pulse quickens. The car feels smaller. The city outside presses in closer, louder, sharper.
She doesn’t look at her father. Doesn’t let her face change. She’s learned that trick young.
Willow types carefully now.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Mac doesn’t reply.
Mr. Liu changes lanes smoothly.
“We are at war now,”
he says, matter-of-fact.
“The Inagawa-gumi made sure of that.”
Willow locks her phone and rests it face-down on her lap.
She nods again. Obedient. Silent.
“Yes, Baba.”
But her mind is no longer in the car.
Instead, she nods.
The car slows in front of her building—glass and steel stacked into the sky like a monument to money laundering itself clean. Valet lights glow warm and artificial. Security cameras blink like unblinking eyes.
Mr. Liu pulls to the curb. The engine idles. For a moment, neither of them moves.
“Be careful,”
he says at last, not looking at her. Not because he’s cold. Because if he looks, he might say more.
“I always am,”
Willow replies.
She opens the door. Night air spills in—cool, damp, buzzing with traffic and distant sirens. She steps out, smooth and composed, handbag on her shoulder, spine straight.
She turns. Waves.
Mr. Liu lifts two fingers from the wheel. The car glides away, swallowed by the city in seconds, taillights dissolving into red dots and then nothing.
Only then does Willow exhale.
Her shoulders drop. Just a little. Enough to hurt.
She turns and walks inside.
The lobby smells like polished marble and expensive flowers. A doorman nods.
“Good evening, Miss Liu.”
“Evening,”
she says automatically.
The elevator ride is silent. Her reflection in the mirrored walls looks fine. Perfect, even. Lip gloss intact. Eyes steady. No cracks.
The elevator ride is silent. Her reflection in the mirrored walls looks fine. Perfect, even. Lip gloss intact. Eyes steady. No cracks.
The doors open. She walks the hall. Plush carpet. Soft lighting. A neighbor steps out with a dog.
“Hello, Miss Liu,”
they say.
“Hey,”
she answers, smiling like muscle memory.
The doors open.
Her apartment door is already unlocked.
Her roommate, Ellis is there the second she steps inside, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes too alert. He’s been pacing. He freezes when he sees her.
“Hey,”
he says carefully.
“You’re late.”
That’s all it takes.
Willow drops her bag. The sound is loud in the quiet apartment.
“Ellis,”
she says, voice breaking immediately, and then she’s talking—too fast, tripping over words.
“Something’s wrong. Like really wrong. My dad—he’s—there’s a war, okay? With a Japanese Yakuza family and—Mac—”
Ellis’s face drains of color.
“Will. Slow down.”
“I can’t,”
she snaps, hands in her hair now.
“The kid, Ellis. The kid Mac had? The one with the eyes? My dad literally just said—cyan eyes—Italian Mafia—Japanese Yakuza—and Mac disappeared and I think I might be dating into the Yakuza family my dad's started a war with—”
Ellis grabs her wrists, grounding, a little shaky himself.
“Okay. Okay. Breathe. You’re spiraling."
“I’m not spiraling,”
she insists, eyes wet, wild.
“I’m connecting dots and they’re bad dots.”
Ellis swallows. He’s pale now. He glances toward the door like it might start bleeding men any second.
“You said your dad used the word war.”
“Yes.”
“Like… actually?”
“Yes!”
“Cool,”
Ellis mutters.
“Cool, love that for us.”
She lets out a half-laugh that turns into a sob. He pulls her into a hug, awkward but fierce, like he’s holding the world together with his arms.
“I told you I didn’t like him,”
Ellis says quietly, voice tight.
“Not because he’s a bad guy. But because he hides shit. People who hide shit around you get you hurt.”
“I know,”
she whispers into his shoulder.
“I know. But I love him. Or—thought I did. I don’t even know who he is anymore.”
Ellis leans back, looks her dead in the eye.
“Listen to me. If your dad says the Inagawa-gumi are enemies, and Mac is anywhere near that orbit—”
She nods. Already there.
“I have to talk to him,”
she says.
“Now. Before this gets worse.”
Ellis exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s forcing his heart rate back down to something survivable. The apartment feels too small all of a sudden. Too many sharp corners. Too much history in the walls.
“Okay,”
he says finally. His voice is steady, even if his hands aren’t.
“Okay. You go talk to him.”
Willow blinks.
“You’re… not stopping me?”
Ellis gives a weak, crooked smile.
“I want to. Believe me. But knowing it's Mac, you’re already gone.”
He gestures vaguely at her chest.
“You’ve been halfway out the door since you got back.”
She swallows.
“What if I’m wrong?”
she asks.
“What if I’m reading into things and I blow everything up for nothing?”
Ellis steps closer, gentler now.
“Then you asked a question. That’s not a crime.”
A beat.
“Lying to you is.”
That lands.
He reaches out and straightens the strap of her bag, a small, familiar gesture. Grounding. Sibling-coded.
“I’ll be right here,”
he says.
“Phone on. Door unlocked. If your gut twists even a little, you call me. If he dodges, deflects, or starts acting like you’re crazy—”
He stops himself, jaw tightening.
“You leave.”
Willow nods, eyes glassy but resolute.
“Promise me you won’t disappear,”
Ellis adds, quieter.
“I won’t,”
she says.
“I promise.”
She grabs her coat, hesitates at the door, then turns back and pulls him into a tight hug. He stiffens, then hugs her back just as hard, like he’s memorizing her shape in case tonight goes sideways.
“Be careful,”
he murmurs.
She pulls away before fear can talk her out of it.
The hallway lights flicker as she steps out. The elevator ride down feels longer than physics allows. Each floor ticks past like a countdown.
Lobby. Night. Glass doors sliding open.
The city breathes in her face—sirens in the distance, traffic hissing over wet asphalt, neon reflected in puddles like broken promises.
She steps to the curb and raises her hand.
A yellow cab swerves toward her, brakes squealing slightly as it stops.
She opens the door, slides inside, and gives the driver an address she’s said a hundred times before—only now it sounds unfamiliar in her mouth.
As the cab pulls into traffic, Willow presses her fingers together in her lap, steadying herself.
Somewhere ahead, answers are waiting.
And whatever Mac Chang has been hiding... tonight, it stops hiding back.
Mac is mid-drag when the balcony door creaks again.
Jayden steps out like a man crawling from a desert, eyes bloodshot, shoulders sagging, hoodie half-zipped.
“Fucking finally, bro.”
He pats his pockets, already hopeful. Already delusional.
Mac doesn’t even look at him. He reaches over, plucks the blunt straight from Jayden’s fingers, and flicks it cleanly over the railing.
It disappears into the Queens night like a dying firefly.
Jayden freezes.
“…You are a bad person,”
he says quietly.
“Like. Spiritually.”
“There's a kid,”
Mac says flatly.
“There is no kid here,”
Jayden fires back.
“There is only vibes, and you keep murdering them.”
Ryosuke exhales smoke through his nose, watching the ember arc down into darkness. He doesn’t smile, but something in his eyes loosens. Chaos, at least, is familiar.
Jayden finally notices him properly. The posture. The stillness. The way he occupies space like it owes him rent.
He squints.
“So. You’re not Rick.”
Ryosuke tilts his head. Neither confirms nor denies it.
Jayden snorts.
“Cool. Love that for us.”
He leans against the railing, digging out a cigarette instead, resigned.
“So let me get this straight. Our neighbor is yakuza royalty, the kid is mafia-adjacent Pokémon, Mac here is a professional crime janitor, and I—”
he gestures to himself
“—am the only one who tried to stay normal today.”
Mac shoots him a look.
“You hotboxed a stairwell at eight in the morning.”
Jayden shrugs.
“Stress response.”
Silence settles in again. The city hums below them—cars, sirens, a distant train rattling steel bones. Smoke curls and fades. Somewhere inside, Absalom breathes, small and even, unaware of how many lives have started orbiting him.
Ryosuke finally speaks.
“You stayed with him.”
Jayden lets out a dry laugh first. Short. Sharp. Like a bark.
“Stayed?”
he echoes.
“Man, please. That kid looked at me like I was the last NPC before a bad ending. What was I supposed to do—despawn?”
Mac scoffs too, but there’s no humor in it. Just tired truth.
“Yeah. No. We don’t do that.”
A beat.
“People already did that to us. Enough times.”
The words hang there, heavy and unpolished.
Ryosuke studies them the way he studies threats—quietly, thoroughly—but this time his shoulders ease. Just a fraction.
“…Thank you,”
he says.
“For that alone, I owe you both my life.”
Mac stiffens. Jayden’s grin glitches.
“Whoa,”
Jayden says quickly.
“Hey. Let’s dial it back from samurai blood-oaths, yeah? I’m not emotionally equipped for that before midnight.”
Mac rubs the back of his neck.
“Yeah, uh. No offense, man, but if you start owing us lives, I’m gonna start expecting bad shit to happen.”
Ryosuke inclines his head, accepting the deflection. Wise choice.
Jayden snaps his fingers, seizing the lifeline.
“Speaking of expectations—so what’s the mission now? Because today felt like a side quest that unlocked six boss fights.”
Mac doesn’t miss a beat.
“Mission is fixing my relationship with Willow.”
Jayden claps a hand on his shoulder, solemn.
“You are on your own, buddy.”
“Traitor.”
“Realist.”
They’re just about to spiral—voices overlapping, old rhythm kicking back in—when Ryosuke’s gaze sharpens. His eyes slide past them, down to the street.
“Mac.”
Mac keeps talking.
“I’m serious, I just need—”
“Mac.”
Something in the tone freezes him solid.
Ryosuke points. One finger. Precise.
A yellow taxi idles at the curb below.
The door opens.
A young woman steps out, posture tight, movements clipped. Anger radiates off her like heat distortion. Even from here, it’s unmistakable.
Mac’s blood drains from his face.
“…Shit,”
he whispers.
Jayden follows the line of sight, squints—then his survival instincts kick in hard.
“Oh. That’s her.”
He backs toward the door immediately.
“Nope. I love you, bro, but I choose life.”
“Jayden—”
Jayden is already halfway inside.
“Text me if you live!”
The balcony door clicks shut.
Ryosuke watches the woman scan the building, jaw set, eyes sharp. He doesn’t need confirmation.
“That would be Willow,”
he says calmly.
Mac doesn’t answer.
He just stares down at the sidewalk as fate starts climbing the stairs.
The stairwell breathes before she reaches them.
Footsteps. Measured. Not rushed. Each step deliberate, like she’s counting heartbeats instead of floors.
Ryosuke exhales through his nose, flicks the cigarette over the railing, watches the ember die on concrete.
“You’re on your own, kid.”
he tells Mac, already turning away.
No bravado. No warning. Just fact.
The balcony door slides shut behind him.
Inside, the hallway lighting is low and unforgiving, yellow bulbs buzzing faintly like they resent being awake. Ryosuke steps back into the apartment and nearly collides with her at the threshold.
Willow Liu stops short.
For half a second, they assess each other.
She’s composed, but the composure is tight—knuckles pale around the strap of her bag, jaw set a little too firm. Her eyes flick over him, registering details automatically: height, posture, unfamiliar face, cigarette smoke clinging to fabric.
Ryosuke offers a polite nod. Neutral. Civilian-safe.
“Excuse me, sir,”
she says, voice controlled, edged with something sharp beneath the silk.
She slips past him without waiting for a response.
Ryosuke watches her go, the way predators recognize other predators even when they’re dressed like students. He says nothing. He just moves deeper into the apartment, giving the lie space to work.
Mac hears her before he sees her.
The door opens. The air shifts.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
Her voice cracks on the last word—not loud, not dramatic. Just enough to hurt.
Mac turns.
“Will—”
She doesn’t let him finish. She steps into his space, hands already on his jacket like she needs proof he’s solid, real, not something that vanished while she wasn’t looking.
“I’ve been texting you all night,”
she says.
“I didn’t know if you were okay. Or if something—”
He pulls her in.
No hesitation. No explanation yet. Just arms around her shoulders, firm, grounding, familiar. She stiffens for half a second—then melts, forehead pressing into his chest, breath shuddering out like she’s been holding it since sunset.
Mac closes his eyes.
This. This is why lying hurts.
“I’m here,”
he murmurs into her hair.
“I’m okay.”
Her hands fist in his shirt. She exhales again, slower this time. The anger drains, leaving worry behind like a bruise.
“You scared me,”
she says quietly.
“I know,”
he replies.
“I’m sorry.”
They stand there for a moment longer than necessary, the world shrinking to breathing and warmth and the familiar cadence of each other’s hearts.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes search his face.
“So,”
she says.
“Start talking.”
Mac swallows.
This is the narrow bridge. One misstep and everything collapses.
“I found the kid,”
he says carefully.
“Earlier. Alone in the building.”
Her brow furrows.
“Alone?”
“Yeah. Wandering the hallway like he was lost.”
He lets out a soft, humorless huff.
“You can’t leave a kid like that. Especially here.”
Willow’s expression shifts—not suspicion, not accusation. Concern.
“So you stayed with him,”
she says.
“I stayed with him,”
Mac nods.
“I lied about him being my cousin because—”
He grimaces.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey babe, I picked up a random seven-year-old and took him to class’? I didn’t want you thinking I kidnapped someone.”
She snorts despite herself. A small sound. Relieved.
“That was a terrible lie,”
she says.
“I know,”
he admits.
“I’m bad under pressure.”
Her shoulders relax another inch.
“And you didn’t text because…?”
“I didn’t want to worry you until I knew what I was dealing with,”
he says. Another half-truth.
“That was stupid. I’m sorry.”
She studies him for a long moment.
Then she sighs, long and tired, and steps forward again, arms sliding around his waist this time.
“Next time,”
she says into his chest,
“just tell me you’re safe.”
He kisses her hair, slow and careful, like the moment might shatter if he rushes it.
“I will,”
he promises.
She tilts her face up, kisses him—soft, lingering, forgiveness pressed into the space between breaths.
From the dim interior of the apartment, Jayden watches like he’s front row at a soap opera.
He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, jaw finally unclenched.
“Smooth,”
he mutters under his breath. The word is reverent. Professional respect.
Beside him, Ryosuke says nothing.
He stands half in shadow, half in the low spill of hallway light, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. He’s been watching Mac since the moment Willow stepped inside—watching the timing, the tone, the way the lie slid into place without cracking.
Quick thinking.
No snitching.
No panic.
That, Ryosuke believes, has value.
Outside the doorframe, the city keeps breathing. Inside it, something delicate balances on a knife’s edge.
Mac pulls back just enough to look at Willow properly. His hands stay on her arms, thumbs rubbing small, grounding circles like he’s afraid she’ll disappear again if he lets go.
“Hey,”
he says softly.
“I gotta ask you something.”
She hums, still close.
“That tone never means anything good.”
He winces. Then exhales.
“Would you help me… protect him?”
Her eyes flicker.
“Abi,”
he adds quickly.
“Just—keep an eye out. Help me make sure he’s safe.”
The word safe lands heavier than he intends.
Willow goes still.
Not stiff. Not cold. Just very, very quiet.
Her mind splits cleanly down the middle.
On one side:
Mac. The boy she grew up with. The one who holds her like the world can’t touch her when he wraps his arms around her. The one who looks at her like she’s home. If he asks, she wants to say yes before the question finishes forming.
On the other side:
Cyan eyes.
A name she hasn’t said out loud.
Her father’s voice in the car, calm and lethal.
We are at war now.
The Inagawa-gumi.
Enemies.
A child of enemies.
Her fingers curl tighter into Mac’s jacket without her realizing it.
She looks past his shoulder, down the hallway—toward the closed bedroom door. Toward the quiet. Toward the small, sleeping gravity well that’s already pulling adults into collision courses.
“He’s just a kid,”
she says finally.
Mac nods immediately.
“Yeah.”
Not defensive. Not arguing. Just agreement.
That matters.
Her jaw tightens. Then loosens.
“I don’t want him hurt,”
she continues, choosing each word carefully.
“By anyone.”
Mac’s shoulders sag with relief so obvious it almost hurts to see.
“Me neither.”
She studies his face, searching for tells. Secrets. Cracks.
She doesn’t find the whole truth.
But she finds sincerity.
Willow exhales, slow and controlled.
“…Okay,”
she says.
The word is quiet. Dangerous. Powerful.
“I’ll help,”
she adds.
“But you don’t lie to me again about this. Not about him.”
Mac nods. Earnest. Grateful. Terrified.
“Deal.”
Behind them, unseen, Ryosuke shifts his weight.
A Triad daughter has just agreed to protect a Yakuza heir.
The universe, it seems, has a dark sense of humor—and a fondness for slow-burning disasters.
rose (Guest) on Chapter 3 Mon 15 Dec 2025 10:55PM UTC
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JinxedMadness on Chapter 3 Tue 16 Dec 2025 07:54AM UTC
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