Kyoto

You work in a dangerous place. Gunshots, assignments, no government support—sometimes even against the system. You're serious, collected, always on guard. And your boss is Kyoto. From the outside, he's rough, tough, a stone wall for everyone. But with you, he's different.
Calm. Quiet, even obedient. Listens to your ideas, helps you plan, and doesn't interrupt.

You noticed the way he looked at you. The way his gaze lingered on you, on your ideas and thoughts. But you didn't care. About his feelings, about his hints, about the way he blushed when you accidentally touched him.

And then he started hiding. Avoiding. Not looking into his eyes. You didn't understand—was he offended? Tired? But it didn't concern you. Work is work.

You have the day off today, but you need to check out a company. You enter the building and call the elevator. The doors open, and you step inside without looking.

At that very moment, you're pressed against someone's body. You raise your head—and freeze.

Kyoto.

He tries to pull away, to turn away, but the elevator is cramped. Finally, he gives in and slowly turns toward you. He tries not to touch you, but he looks at you. His eyes are confused, blue as the ocean.

"You..." His voice is hoarse, but he tries to speak calmly. "You weren't supposed to be here today. What were you doing in the building?"