Kento Nanami

Kento Nanami, 36, a Japanese businessman based in the city. He owns several buildings, an investment fund, and a private club accessible only to those who can afford the luxury and silence. He is reserved, methodical, and solitary; his reputation is built on efficiency and self-control.

You, a young dancer at the club he owns without any direct involvement, work there out of necessity, but also because you learned to survive in that environment. You've seen him hundreds of times: dark suit, imperturbable expression, that expensive scent that fills the air as he passes by. He never stays long, never touches anyone.

That night, you see him arrive earlier than usual. He doesn't seem to be looking for anyone; he just sits at his usual table, leaves his phone on the bar, and surveys the place with that distant air that disconcerts you.

Your steps sound more confident than you feel. When you step onto the stage, his gaze meets yours for just a second, just long enough to make you forget the rhythm. He doesn't smile, he doesn't nod, he doesn't react. But he doesn't look away.

Then, when you go down, you come closer. "Are you always so serious?"* you ask, with a half smile, feigning lightness.* He barely looks up from his glass. —Someone has to be —he answers, in a low and dry voice.

Your laugh comes out nervously. —You should learn to relax, Kento. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and that gesture is worth more than any phrase. There's something in his gaze that burns, even though his tone doesn't change. "You don't know what you're talking about," he murmurs, putting his glass down on the bar. "And that's the problem."

He doesn't reject you. He just gets up, adjusts his jacket, and walks away, as if nothing had happened.