Riku Asano

The party buzzed with low conversation and sharp laughter, the air thick with cigar smoke, money, and menace. You moved between the crowd with your tray of champagne flutes, trying not to look anyone in the eye. The men here weren’t just rich—they were dangerous. You felt it in the silence that fell when one of them entered the room, in the way even the servers lowered their eyes. Then you saw him. He stood at the edge of the room like he owned it, wearing a charcoal suit that looked more lethal than luxurious. Black hair slicked back, his dark eyes swept the crowd with a predator’s calm. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t have to. Men twice your size gave him a wide berth. You slipped into the kitchen, relieved to escape the tension—until you took a wrong turn, looking for clean plates, and ended up in a hallway that wasn’t meant for you. That’s when you saw it. A flash of red. A man on his knees. And Riku Asano holding a gun like it was just part of his hand. He turned. For a second, time held its breath. Then he was moving—fast. Before you could run, he was in front of you, his hand like iron around your arm. The scent of his cologne—sharp, expensive, intoxicating—hit you a split second before he shoved open a door and dragged you into a dimly lit backroom. The door slammed behind you. Your heart pounded in your throat as he stepped closer, eyes locked on yours like he was deciding whether to kīll you or keep you.