Chapter 1

The red light above the door didn’t pulse; it strobed, a frantic, silent heartbeat that washed the stacks of printer paper in alternating shades of bloody crimson and sterile gray.

Code Black. Internal breach.

I squeezed myself into the gap between a shelf of industrial toner cartridges and the mop sink, pulling my knees to my chest. In the gleaming glass tower of Takara Logistics, this supply closet was the only place that smelled like honest work—ammonia and dust—rather than the ozone scent of laundered money.

I wasn’t a soldier. I was a calculator. I made the yakuza’s yen look like legitimate shipping profits. When the alarm hit, the protocol for the administrative staff was simple: hide and pray the security team earned their paychecks.

The handle twisted violently.

I flinched, turning my face toward the wall. It was instinct. Always hide the left side. Always hide the jagged, puckered ridge of skin that ran from my jawline to my ear—the souvenir from a "workplace accident" three years ago involving a rival syndicate and a shattered glass partition.

The door shoved open, then slammed shut. The lock clicked with a heavy, metallic finality.

"Move over."

The voice was deep, breathless, and familiar.

I looked up. Kenji took up the entire room. He was a wall of muscle in a bespoke suit that was currently straining at the shoulders. He had been a pitcher once, a Koshien star, before a rotator cuff injury sent him down a darker path. He was everything I wasn't: physical, beautiful, and whole.

"Kenji-san?" I whispered.

He didn't answer. He braced his back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the linoleum opposite me. His legs were so long his knees bumped against mine. In the flashing red light, I saw his knuckles were split, blood dripping onto his pristine cuffs.

"You're hurt," I said. My voice sounded small, pathetic.

"Not mine," he grunted, wiping the blood on his pant leg.

The air in the closet grew heavy, suffocatingly hot. I shifted, angling my head so my hair fell like a curtain over my scar. I hated that he was here. I hated that the most handsome man in the organization was trapped in a box with the office gargoyle.

"Why are you here?" I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "The security center is on the tenth floor. This is the fourth."

Kenji looked at me. His eyes were dark, intense, scanning my face with a precision that made me want to claw through the drywall.

"I wasn't running to the security center," he said. "I went to your office. You weren't there."

I blinked. "My office?"

"Code Black means a traitor let them in," Kenji said, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. "Admin is the first target. They want the laptops."

He hadn't been running away. He had been running to get me.

"I... I have the encryption keys on a USB," I stammered, tapping the pocket of my cardigan. "I secured the assets."

Kenji let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh. "I don't care about the money, Emi."

The way he said my name—without the honorific, rough and low—sent a shockwave through my spine.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the carpet outside. They were fast, aggressive. Not security.

Kenji moved instantly.

He lunged forward, not away from the door, but toward me. He placed one hand on the wall next to my head and the other on the shelf, effectively caging me in, shielding my body with the expanse of his own.

He smelled of gunpowder, expensive cologne, and sweat.

The footsteps stopped right outside the closet.

Kenji leaned in, his lips inches from my ear. " *Ore no ushiro ni iro,* " he breathed in Japanese. *Stay behind me.*

" *If they come in,* " he whispered, the transition to English harsh and guttural, " *I break them.* "

The door handle jiggled.

I stopped breathing. I stared at the pulse jumping in Kenji’s neck. He was tense, a coiled spring ready to snap. He wasn't looking at the door, though. He was looking at me. His gaze wasn't disgusted. It was ferocious. Possessive.

The handle rattled again, then stopped. A voice outside muttered something about "janitorial," and the footsteps moved on, fading down the hallway.

Kenji didn't move.

The red light stopped flashing. The overhead fluorescent flickered on with a hum, bathing us in unforgiving, white light.

The All Clear chime sounded over the PA system.

I let out a shuddering breath, my adrenaline crashing. "They're gone."

I waited for him to pull away. To realize he was pressing his perfect body against a woman who looked like a broken plate.

He pulled back, but only an inch. He lifted his hand—the one with the bloody knuckles—and reached for my face.

I flinched, turning my head to the right. "Don't."

"Stop hiding," he murmured.

His fingers brushed my hair aside. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the recoil. The pity.

Instead, his thumb traced the line of the scar, from my ear down to my jaw. His touch was calloused but agonizingly gentle. It wasn't the touch of a man inspecting a wound. It was the touch of a man admiring something precious.

"I thought they got you," he said, his voice raw. "When I saw your empty chair... I thought I was too late."

I opened my eyes. He was staring at me with a hunger that had nothing to do with violence.

"You came for me," I whispered. "Why? I'm just the accountant."

"You're the only real thing in this entire building," Kenji said. "Brains and guts. I've been watching you for two years, Emi. You think a little scar scares me?" He smirked, the expression transforming his rough face. "I've taken 90-mile-an-hour fastballs to the ribs. I know tough when I see it."

He finally stood up, offering me a hand.

I looked at it. The hand of an enforcer. The hand of a man who broke people for a living, offering to pull me up.

I took it. He pulled me to my feet, but didn't let go.

"My shift ends in ten minutes," he said, checking his watch as if we hadn't just survived a raid. "There's a yakiniku place on 4th. Good beef. terrible beer."

He paused, squeezing my fingers. "Come with me."

It wasn't an order. It was a request.

I touched my cheek, the skin still tingling from his thumb. I looked at the man everyone called a dumb jock, and saw the protector hiding beneath the suit.

"I hate terrible beer," I said.

Kenji grinned. "Then we'll order the sake."

"Okay," I said. "Okay."

He kicked the door open, and for the first time since the accident, I walked out of the dark and didn't care who saw me.