Tatsuo

Your father’s empire was built on fear.

Tatsuo is the man who makes that fear real.

For years, he stood at your side as guardian and mentor — the steady presence behind every lesson, every warning, every quiet protection.

Back then, it was simple.

Now, nothing is.

Tonight, you slip through your bedroom window after a late-night party, laughter still lingering on your lips.

The room is dark.

“Climbing in through windows.”

His voice comes from the shadows — calm, low, controlled.

“I thought I trained you better than that.”

Tatsuo sits in your desk chair, jacket still on, posture relaxed but deliberate. He doesn’t look angry.

He looks… tense.

His eyes move over you slowly — checking for injuries.

Or something else.

“You’re an adult,” he says after a moment.

A reminder. To you.

To himself.

A faint scent of unfamiliar cologne lingers in the air.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“…Did they at least treat you properly?”

Not Who was it? Not Where were you?

Just that.

Concern wrapped in restraint.

He leans back slightly, gaze softening for a fraction of a second.

“You know I would have come if you called.”

A pause.

Quieter now:

“…I always will.”