Emi Fujimoto walked briskly down the dimly lit street, her footsteps echoing on the slick pavement. Her bag felt heavier than usual, not from weight, but from the emotional gravity pulling at her spine. She should have felt relief. Her father's debt was cleared. The loan sharks wouldn't be banging on their door, cursing in slurred tones and demanding interest that grew faster than mold on damp wood. But the truth left behind a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
Because the moment Ren Kazama stepped in, everything shifted. He wasn't some neighborhood thug who happened to pass by. He wasn't one of Takahashi's rivals or a kind stranger with bad timing. A man like that didn't do anything without reason. And now, for reasons she didn't understand, he had intervened.
Emi exhaled sharply, trying to shake the unease from her shoulders. No. That wasn't true. She hadn't asked for his help. She never would have. She wasn't some damsel waiting for rescue. She had been handling things on her own for years, scraping together her strength like change at the bottom of a nearly empty jar. She could handle one more night. One more storm.
She turned onto the main road—and stopped dead in her tracks.
A sleek black car waited at the curb, its engine quietly running. It looked out of place on this worn-out street, more suited for a movie scene or a red carpet. In the back seat, Ren Kazama sat still, his face partly lit by a nearby streetlamp. He didn't get out. He didn't have to. Even behind the glass, his presence was clear, and with just one look, the night felt colder.
He looked the same as he had in the backroom—calm, composed, and entirely unreadable. The city lights caught in his dark hair, casting sharp shadows across the sculpted angles of his face, making him seem even more untouchable. There was no smirk this time. No theatrics. Just presence—solid, unmoving, undeniable.
Emi swallowed the knot in her throat. "Are you waiting for me?" she asked, her voice carefully leveled.
Ren didn't reply immediately. He simply observed her, like someone reading the final lines of a book before deciding whether to close it or keep turning the pages. "You should be more careful," he said at last, his voice low and deliberate. "Walking around this late. Alone."
"I do it all the time," she answered stiffly.
"Doesn't mean it's safe."
She felt her irritation flare. "I didn't ask for your concern, Kazama-san."
He tilted his head slightly, not insulted—just quietly amused, as if her fire was more entertaining than annoying. "You didn't. And yet, here we are."
The unease that had been quietly building in her chest thickened. "I don't understand."
Ren straightened from the car and took a slow step toward her, unhurried. Measured. "Because we have unfinished business."
Emi took a half-step back without meaning to. "I already said—I didn't ask for your help."
"Your father's debt is gone."
She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "His debt. Not mine."
Ren gave her a slow, assessing look. "And yet you were the one trying to pay it." His gaze dipped to her hands—cracked knuckles, red palms. "You work yourself to the bone fixing mistakes that aren't yours. That kind of loyalty is rare. And dangerous."
"You don't get to decide what's dangerous for me."
He exhaled, the breath barely audible. "Regardless… you owe me now."
The words landed heavy. She knew they were coming—but hearing them out loud tightened something in her chest.
"Let me guess," she said coolly. "You don't clear debts for free?"
"I don't make a habit of it."
She narrowed her eyes. "Fine. How much do you want?"
His jaw shifted slightly. "You think I want your money?"
"Then what?" Her voice rose, tension cracking through it. "What do you want from me?"
For a moment, Ren didn't answer. Something flickered behind his eyes—just for a second—then vanished beneath a layer of practiced detachment.
"Call it a favor," he said finally. "I'll collect when the time is right."
She stiffened. "A favor."
"You'll find out what it is when it matters."
There were a thousand things she wanted to say—none of them safe. The ambiguity was worse than a number. Worse than a threat. Because men like Ren Kazama didn't ask for trivial favors. And once you owed someone like that… they never forgot.
"Get in. I'll take you home." Ren said.
"I can walk."
"I'm sure you can," he replied calmly, "but tonight, you won't."
She hesitated. There was no overt menace in his voice. But there was no room for argument either.
Emi got into the car, her fingers hesitating on the cool handle before she pulled the door open. The interior was sleek and dimly lit, the scent of leather mixing with faint cologne and something darker—like smoke and steel.
She slid into the back seat.
Ren Kazama was already there, seated in the far corner behind the driver, one leg crossed casually over the other. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes—those calm, unreadable eyes—locked on her the moment she entered.
Daiki, the silent man at the wheel, gave a brief nod through the rearview mirror and pulled away without a word.
Emi sat stiffly, keeping to her side of the seat, arms folded across her chest, gaze glued to the city slipping past the window. But no matter how she tried to ignore him, she could feel Ren. Not just the physical presence of him beside her, but the weight of his attention. The quiet intensity of a man who never looked without purpose.
The car was too quiet.
No honking. No music. Just the whisper of tires on wet asphalt and the steady thrum of the engine. It made the space between them feel too loud.
"You've got fire," Ren said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence like a match struck in the dark.
She turned her head sharply. "That's not a compliment."
His eyes didn't leave her. "It wasn't meant as one. It's a warning."
Emi scoffed lightly, but the sound held no humor. "And you strike me as the type who prefers obedience."
Ren tilted his head just enough for a small, unreadable smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "I prefer results. But I admire people who bite when they're cornered."
She exhaled through her nose, turning back to the window. "Well, I'm not yours to admire."
He didn't answer right away.
The car slowed at a red light, and Emi felt, rather than saw, the shift in him. He leaned ever so slightly closer—his voice softer now, nearly impossible to ignore.
"Doesn't it get heavy?" he asked.
She blinked.
He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. She knew what he meant.
She hesitated, eyes locked on her reflection in the rain-specked glass. "I manage."
A beat passed. Then another.
She felt his fingers brush her wrist.
It was light—barely there—but it was deliberate. Not possessive. Not even comforting. Just a touch. Testing a line. Crossing one.
Her breath hitched, her muscles tensing in response, but she didn't pull away.
His gaze was still on her, and when she turned to face him, the space between them seemed smaller. The shadows inside the car softened him, blurred the sharpness of his cheekbones, made him look almost human—until you met his eyes and remembered he wasn't.
"For how long?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Didn't know how.
And for the first time that night, she didn't feel angry. She felt seen.
The light turned green. Daiki drove on as if nothing had passed between them. But the air in the back seat had changed. Heavier. Quieter. Charged.
The rest of the ride was silent.
When they arrived at her apartment building, the car slowed to a smooth stop. She reached for the door handle, then hesitated, her fingers curling around the grip.
Ren's voice came low from behind her. "You think I'll disappear until I want something."
She looked back at him over her shoulder. "Won't you?"
His gaze met hers in the dark.
"I don't disappear," he said. Then after a pause, "And I always collect."
Emi stepped out, the cold night air hitting her like a wave. The car's door shut with a quiet, final click. She stood on the curb, her breath fogging in the air, watching the taillights blur into the city's haze.
His touch still lingered on her skin.
The apartment was dark when Emi stepped inside, the stale scent of cheap alcohol and cold leftovers clinging to the air. The narrow hallway creaked beneath her steps as she slipped off her shoes and tossed her bag onto the floor with more force than necessary. The only light came from the flickering television in the living room, its volume low but constant, casting blue shadows across the cluttered space.
Her father was there—right where she had expected him to be.
Slouched on the couch, one hand loosely holding a half-empty bottle, the other fumbling with the remote. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot, and the ashtray on the coffee table was full again.
"You're back late," he mumbled, not looking at her.
Emi didn't answer right away. She just stood there, watching him. Something inside her cracked—not suddenly, not loudly. Just quietly. Tiredly.
"You need to stop," she said finally, her voice low but firm.
He glanced at her, confused. "Stop what?"
"This," she snapped, gesturing toward the mess—the bottle, the couch, the ashtray, his entire pathetic routine. "The gambling. The drinking. The excuses. I'm done cleaning it up."
He blinked, dazed for a moment. "But… the debt…?"
Emi crossed her arms. "It's cleared."
His eyes lit up, the way a child might light up at the word present. "Really? It's paid off? All of it?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Don't ask me how. Just know it's over."
He laughed—soft, disbelieving. "That's good. That's real good." His hand reached for the bottle again. "Maybe I'll try my luck again, eh? Might be a good time."
The words felt like a slap.
Emi's chest tightened, but she said nothing. What was the point? He wouldn't hear her. He never did.
She turned without another word and walked down the hall, her legs heavy, her throat tight.
Her room was the only space in the apartment that still felt like hers. Small, cluttered with books and boxes of things she couldn't afford to throw away, but quiet. Safe.
She shut the door behind her, leaned against it for a long breath, then pushed herself toward the bed.
She didn't even bother changing.
Her body hit the mattress like a stone dropped into water—no resistance, no grace.
She lay there in the dark, still wearing the clothes she'd fought the day in, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything finally crashing down on her all at once.
Her father.
The debt.
Ren Kazama.
Her fingers drifted to the necklace at her collarbone, her mother's voice echoing faintly in her memory.
Be stronger. Be braver.
But tonight, she couldn't be either.
Tonight, all she could do was close her eyes and hope that morning would feel a little less heavy.