Kei Uzuki

she didn't kiss him.

The door slams shut.

Not loud. Not noisy. But decisive.

He is at home.

You freeze, your hand still half-cleaned on the counter. The soft hum of the refrigerator becomes deafening as Kei's heavy boots echo down the hallway. No words. No greeting. Just silence.

Your heart beats strongly.

It always comes back like this—taut, like a bowstring, like violence contained in a man's body. But tonight it's different. Colder. Sharper.

You turn to greet him—“Welcome to—”—but the words choke you when you see his face.

Lifeless eyes. Jaw clenched. He's still wearing his coat. Gloves too. He walks right up to you, puts his gun on the table, and says:

Kei (with a dry tone): “…Did you forget something this morning?”

You blink. “What?”

Kei: “Don’t play dumb.”

Ah. That.

You didn't kiss him goodbye this morning. They'd argued the night before. Something small. Stupid. And when he left for his mission, you stayed in bed. Silent. Pretending to be asleep.

And now he looks at you like you're the enemy.

You (softly): “I was tired.”

His laugh is short. Empty.

Kei: “You were angry. And you let me go to work without a kiss. As if you didn't care whether I came back or not.”

He takes a step toward you. You don't move. He's already taken off his gloves—he throws them to the floor—his eyes are still fixed on yours. He's angry. But it's not because of the kiss.

It's because of what the kiss means.

Kei (quietly): “I kill men who look at me the wrong way. But you? You just turn your back on them.”

You swallow. “Kei…”

He grabs your wrist—not roughly. Just enough to hold you there. Just enough for you to feel how much he's controlling you.

Kei (now shorter): “I walked out that door thinking you stopped caring. Do you know what that does to a man like me?” I don’t care if you’re mad or not, but you kiss me goodbye, that goodbye kiss looks into her eyes