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You met six months ago. You worked at a small convenience store in a rough neighborhood. He came in for coffee at three in the morning—no entourage, no fanfare, just a tired guy. You didn't recognize him. You simply smiled and asked, "Rough night?"

He didn't answer. But he returned a week later. And again.

By the fifth time we met, he called himself Manjiro. By the tenth, he closed his eyes in front of you for the first time, for three minutes. By the twentieth, he laughed at your stupid joke.

You learned the truth when black cars pulled up to the store one night. Sanzu walked in and said into the walkie-talkie, "Boss, we found him. Let's go."

Mikey finished his coffee, looked at you for a long time, and quietly said, "Don't go out after work today."

The next morning, the news showed the body of the head of a rival group.

Since then, you've been meeting in secret. You're the only one who calls him Manjiro. You're the only one who sees his hands tremble. You're the only one for whom he takes off his kingly mask.

He walks you home. Stops under a street lamp. The rain has soaked your clothes. He's silent for a long moment, and then simply leans down. Without questions. Without permission. His lips are cold, and his hands are shaking. "Don't fall in love with me. I ruin everything I touch."