Amara sat on the living room sofa, her leg slightly propped up on a cushion Yamato had brought. The wound wasn't serious, but it still hurt with every movement. Yamato returned with a small bowl of warm water, clean gauze, antiseptic, and bandages.
"I need to check again. Just to make sure there's no infection," he said softly, kneeling in front of her.
Amara simply nodded, watching him carefully take her foot in his hands. His movements were slow, steady, yet there was a tension in them — as if the touch meant more to him than it should have.
From the kitchen, his mother stood behind the half-open door, peeking in while the tea simmered on the stove.
"Dear God, look at him. He's kneeling. My child is kneeling. If nothing happens now, I swear — I'm taking him to get tested. Both physically and mentally. Such a beautiful girl, brave, smart, and she can cook! And if even that can't awaken what his ancestors passed down to him — we're done. He'll be left alone with cats. And not even cats would want him if he's this slow."
She tried not to burst into laughter. Instead, she crossed herself discreetly — and kept watching.
Yamato carefully unwrapped the bandage, each touch of his hand cautious, but still... noticeably gentle. When he finally saw the wound, he let out a quiet sigh.
"Looks good. No pus. Just shallow. A few more days and you'll be as good as new."
But when he looked down… he lingered a moment longer. The foot he was holding was exquisite — delicate, elegant, with neat nails and smooth skin. It wasn't something he expected to notice. But now… now it was impossible not to.
And just when he thought, No, come on… do I have a foot fetish?, he coughed abruptly, confused with himself.
"But look at them… they really are… pretty. So what now, Yamato? Is this your new weakness?" His thoughts spiraled like an internal debate as his ears subtly turned red.
Amara watched him with a soft smile and, without shame, leaned toward him. Her voice was quiet, warm, barely audible — but enough to make his heart skip.
"They are, you know. I think my feet are pretty."
Yamato coughed harder than before. He even stumbled back a little, grabbing the nearby armrest for support.
"What…?" he stammered, but didn't get to finish. Amara was already sitting back calmly, as if she hadn't just dropped chaos into his head.
What the hell does that mean? he wondered. Is she teasing me? Provoking me? Or just… testing me?
And just as he tried to gather himself, his mother's voice rang out from the kitchen:
"Tea's ready! And just so you know — that's an aphrodisiac too, if anyone's interested!"
Yamato covered his face with his palms. Amara just laughed.
. . .
The scent of tea filled the kitchen. Amara was already seated at the table, while his mother carried out plates of cookies she'd baked earlier that day. Yamato was just about to step into the room — when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, and his expression changed in an instant. It was a look Amara hadn't seen before, but had begun to recognize — like a shadow falling across his features, wiping away all emotion.
Without a word, he pointed toward the terrace, taking the phone and stepping outside.
Amara and his mother exchanged a glance.
"Someone important?" Amara asked quietly.
"If he's this quiet — most likely," his mother replied.
On the terrace, Yamato stood tall, his face tense, gaze sharp. His voice was low and cold.
"Who? Where?" … A pause. "I want him alive. Don't touch him until I get there."
He held the phone to his ear a moment longer, then lowered it and clenched his fist. His jaw was tight, and his eyes burned with a fire he rarely revealed.
The door slammed open. Without a word, he reached for his jacket on the coat rack. His mother reacted quickly.
"Where are you going, son?" she asked, though she knew she likely wouldn't get an answer.
Amara stood up behind him, startled. "What's happening?"
"They found the shooter," he said curtly, his voice sharp as a blade. He looked through them, not at them. And he was already stepping out.
Then, as if rehearsed — both women said at the same time:
"Be careful."
He stopped.
Turned around… and found them looking at each other, then both bursting into laughter, surprised by their own synchronization. His expression softened for a brief moment.
"I'll be back soon," he said shortly, and walked out the door.
. . .
Night had fallen over the city as the warehouse lights cast long shadows on the concrete floor. Yamato stepped inside with quiet, purposeful strides. His hood was down, his face half in shadow, but his eyes — his eyes were black as the void.
Tied to a chair in the middle of the warehouse was a man. His head hung low, gasping for breath, but still conscious.
Yamato stood before him.
In that moment — he was no longer a son, a man, a host. He was what his blood had destined him to be. Silent, dangerous, cold, merciless.
He didn't need to shout. He didn't need to threaten.
He simply stood there, in silence, the darkness in his eyes choking the air in the room.
. . .
The sound of the punch echoed like thunder. Yamato's fist struck the man's face, and his head snapped back. Less than a second passed before the next blow came — precise, furious, carrying the weight of injustice and anger that had been boiling for days.
The man's face was already smeared with blood. He tried to speak, but the next hit silenced him before the words left his lips.
The others stood in silence, lined along the warehouse walls like shadows. No one dared blink, let alone intervene. When Yamato took matters into his hands — everyone knew. No mercy, no rules. Only the law he wrote in blood and fists.
"You won't talk, huh?" he hissed, grabbing the prisoner by the hair and pulling his head back. "You should've never aimed at my mother. You should've never existed."
In the warehouse's darkness, his face was twisted — not with rage, but icy control. He was more dangerous when silent, when his eyes said everything.
The man was in his late thirties. His face was unfamiliar — just a pawn, a small figure sent to do a dirty job and disappear. He had northern features, likely a former gang member. A scar crossed his left eye, and his teeth were already bloodied.
"Speak," Yamato said quietly but coldly. "Who sent you?"
The man's eyes were glazed. Just spit and blood. No answer.
A knee to the ribs followed. And another. The man folded over the chair, gasping for air.
Yamato leaned in, grabbing his face with both hands, squeezing his jaw to force eye contact. "You thought you'd hurt her and live?"
A shiver ran through the gathered men. Some looked away. But Yamato didn't stop.
He struck with his fist, with an open palm, an elbow, even a boot — the chair creaked under the force, and the man let out one final groan before passing out.
Silence.
The warehouse trembled only with Yamato's breathing.
"Take him," he finally said, voice hoarse but calm. "Feed him, let him recover. Tomorrow, we start again."
Two of the crew carefully picked the man up and dragged him out. Yamato remained standing, bloody hands hanging by his sides, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breath.
He walked to the metal sink in the corner. Turned on the water, scrubbed his hands with soap until they turned red. Drops of blood diluted down the drain. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror above — his eyes dark, unreadable.
"Boss?" one of the men asked cautiously, approaching. "This is just the start. We got a name. They brought the guy who contacted him at the bar — we're holding him overnight."
"Good," Yamato murmured, drying his hands with a towel. "If this one doesn't talk tomorrow, the other one will."
After a few minutes of silence and brief orders everyone understood instantly, he grabbed his jacket and headed out. The night awaited him.
Driving through Tokyo's quiet streets, he opened the window, letting in the night air like it might cool him from the inside. The blood was gone from his hands, but the blood within — it couldn't be washed away.
For a brief second, he saw his reflection in the rearview mirror. And he thought of her — how she'd looked at him while touching his shoulder, how she'd smiled while his mother brewed tea. How he — barely half an hour earlier — had knelt before her, holding her wounded foot like a sacred object.
And now… now he was just what he was. A beast that knows how to love, but not how to survive love.
. . .
Amara stood on the threshold of the room, unconsciously holding the doorknob like she needed extra permission to enter. It was a room she had dusted once or twice and occasionally checked the windows — more out of duty than necessity. No one stayed there. The door was always closed, like it held something precious or sad.
But now — it was hers.
Beneath her fingers, the plush ivory carpet gave way softly, and the smooth, warm oak floor creaked as if greeting her. The bed, massive and wrapped in silky champagne-colored pillows and blankets, stood like a dream island in the middle of the room. The walls were soft lavender, with discreet gold details. On the shelf, a few carefully selected books in Japanese and English. Someone had put in effort.
His mother leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a crooked smile. "You didn't really think I'd let you sleep on the couch, did you?"
Amara turned to her, still stunned. "This… this is too much. I can't accept this without giving something in return. Free lodging? I should at least clean the house. More and better than before."
"Not a chance," his mother said firmly, lowering her arms. "Your pay stays the same. The room is yours. The food — yours. And this isn't a favor, Amara. It's gratitude."
Amara tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat.
His mother approached, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the pillow beside her. "Come. Sit."
Amara did. And then heard something she didn't expect.
"You know… maybe one day you really will become my daughter," his mother muttered, half-sarcastically, but with that note of sincerity that couldn't be hidden. "If my son ever gets his act together."
Amara held her breath, then smiled. "I don't know which of us would be more shocked."
"He would, definitely," his mother chuckled. "But... you know, he pretends to be steel and stone, yet my mother's heart — it knows. He's burning on the inside. And I'm afraid, Amara. I'm afraid he'll burn out on his own... or worse, that someone else will extinguish him before he gets the chance to choose something else."
Silence fell. Only the distant sounds of the city and the ticking of the clock on the shelf filled the room.
"He's never spoken to anyone the way he speaks to you," the elderly woman continued. "And he's never brought anyone here before. Your arrival... it's a new light in this house. He doesn't know how to carry it yet, but he sees it. I just fear he'll put it out himself if you don't help him."
Amara stared at the carpet, then slowly lifted her gaze.
"If I stay here," she said quietly, "I'll still be here when the lights go out. I don't run from the dark, Mrs. Arakawa. I'm used to it."
His mother nodded, her eyes glistening.
"Then promise me one thing," she said softly. "Don't go — unless he tells you to. Don't give up if he acts cold. Because if anyone can bring him back, it's you."
Amara squeezed her hand and smiled through the tears she tried to hide with a blink.
"I promise."
The house was cloaked in darkness, and each of his steps was carefully measured, as if even the slightest sound might disturb a peace he didn't deserve. He closed the door gently, but despite his caution, his keys slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
He froze.
In the deep silence, the sound was deafening. He stood still, his forehead still damp with sweat, his palms sticky, and the dried blood on his knuckles pulled at the skin. The washed-off remnants of violence still clung to his shoulders. He didn't want to see anyone. Just his bed. Silence. One moment without words or thoughts.
But he heard a soft rustle.
The door across from his own cracked open, and from it peeked a silhouette. When she stepped into the hallway, his heart nearly stopped.
Amara.
She stood there, sleepy and worried, but he — he looked at her as if through the smoke of dangerous dreams. A tank top thinner than thought, shorts that highlighted more than they hid. There was no doubt — she was wearing nearly nothing but skin that shimmered like caramel in the dim hallway light.
He bit the inside of his cheek, his gaze involuntarily tracing the line of her neck, the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath, down her waist, to her hips. He cut off the gaze like a knife. He had no right.
"Yamato…" she whispered, stepping closer. Her voice was low, full of concern. "What happened? You look like you've been through hell again."
He didn't answer. Just turned his head, looked at her like a stranger, and walked toward his room. He had no strength, no words. He was bloodied, exhausted, furious — and dangerously entranced.
But he hadn't come alone. Amara, like a shadow, quiet and soft, followed behind him. She entered without asking, closing the door behind her.
He stopped, turned around, the scowl still on his face, but his eyes — his eyes were already on her.
"You shouldn't be here," he muttered. "I'm not… I'm not myself tonight. It's better if you go."
But she simply stood in front of him, her head slightly tilted. "You forgot our deal," she said calmly but firmly. "That you'd talk to me when something's wrong. I don't want silence. Not anymore."
His gaze wandered, but he couldn't help lingering. Her chest was within reach. Her skin looked unreal, silky, dark, and warm, and he — he was only human.
Panic sparked in his mind. He no longer knew what he was feeling. Exhaustion, rage, desire, guilt. All at once.
"I can't talk about it," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "It's not for your ears."
"But your eyes are for my chest?" she asked softly, with a smile — not a shy one, but strong, confident, as if she had read him to the core.
He coughed, caught off guard, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," he said honestly. "Maybe… I've just never had this. Never been this close. Someone who sees me, not what I am. And now that you're here… I don't know if this is the worst mistake or what I've waited for my whole life."
Amara stepped closer, slowly, without sudden movements.
"Then don't talk. Just let me be here. Tonight. You don't have to say anything."
The room was dim, only the faint light from the hallway casting warm hues on the walls. Yamato stood frozen as she approached him quietly, almost soundlessly, with that self-assured grace that always knocked him off balance.
Her fingers gently touched the top button of his shirt. She unfastened it with ease, then the next, and the next… and he — he was paralyzed.
"Amara…" he murmured, voice raspy, eyes wide. "What are you… we can't… we can't do this…"
She looked at him, confused.
"I mean, we can't — it's not right, you're young… I'm…" he stammered, his heart pounding like a hammer. "Look at me… bloody, older, messed up… you're full of life…"
She smiled, wide, a little wicked.
"Who said I want anything, Yamato?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm helping you undress. You need a shower. Just look at yourself — you look like you got into a fight with a truck."
Frozen. Stunned.
Then… his face flushed red. Like someone had poured boiling water on him. In an instant, he realized how badly he had misread the situation. He scrambled to recover:
"I… oh… of course! Of course, that's what you meant! Thank you… thank you… Just… I'll handle the pants myself."
"Of course you will," she replied with a grin, dramatically rolling her eyes. "That much you can do."
They both laughed. Awkwardly. The tension was gone, replaced by two people trying to find some normalcy in an abnormal world.
Amara turned to the door, paused for a moment, and looked back over her shoulder.
"Good night, Yamato. We'll talk tomorrow, when you don't look like a scene from a crime drama."
She closed the door behind her quietly. And he was left alone. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, he looked at himself in the mirror, shook his head.
"Idiot…" he muttered. "You really thought she…"
He paused. Looked again.
"Or maybe… you're just touch-starved. Shit… now you're the pathetic one with needs."
He shook his head, sat on the edge of the bed, the shirt slipping off his shoulder. Every muscle ached with fatigue, but in his chest — that wasn't fatigue. That was chaos. And her smile… that was chaos he could live with.