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.
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. She knew a man like that didn't do anything without reason. And now, for reasons she didn't understand, he had intervened.
Emi exhaled sharply, shrugging off her unease. She had been handling things on her own for years. She could handle one more storm.
She turned onto the main road and froze. A black car idled at the curb, too sleek for this crumbling street.
Ren Kazama waited in the back seat, half-lit by the streetlamp. The same unreadable calm as before. City lights glinted off his dark hair, sharpening his features
Emi swallowed the knot in her throat. "Are you waiting for me?" she asked, her voice carefully leveled.
Ren studied her in silence, "You should be careful, he finally said. *"Walking alone this late."
"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."
"I already said—I didn't ask for your help." Emi repeated.
"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?"
Ren stayed silent. A shadow of something—then gone, buried under cool control.
"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, I will not allow it."
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 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, his 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 window 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 have you been managing like this?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Didn't know how.
And for the first time that night, 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.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. "Promise me, don't go to that kind of place again. It's not a place for young ladies like you. "
She looked back at him over her shoulder. "This is really none of your business."
His gaze met hers in the dark."You own me a debt and you are my business now."
"Fine, just let me know how you want me to repay." Emi said and stepped out of the car.
The cold night air hitting her like a wave. The car's door shut with a quiet, final click. 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. This is the only space that made her feel 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. 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.
Tonight, all she could do was close her eyes and hope that morning would feel a little less heavy.