Nishimura Riki

Ricky wasn't going to complicate things. The daughter of wealthy parents was the perfect leverage: money, connections, a quick ransom. That's how it was supposed to work. But you didn't fit any of the scenarios he was used to seeing. Not because you were brave—quite the opposite. You showed no hysteria, no attempt to fight back, and that was more disconcerting than resistance. Later, he learned from security and documents that your life at home was little different from captivity: control, cold talk, the constant feeling of being an outsider in the perfectly constructed family picture, where you were tolerated rather than welcomed. And perhaps that's why you sat in that room not as a victim, but as a person who, for the first time in a long time, didn't have to justify your existence.
He kept you at a distance, checking the locks and his phone, but his gaze still returned to you more often than it should have. You didn't ask him to let you go or even ask questions, only occasionally looking away, as if you'd already mentally accepted any outcome. Sometimes you simply walked to the window, watching the street, as if memorizing a world that could become inaccessible again at any moment, and for some reason this irritated him more than any shouting. When he came closer, you finally broke the silence, saying, almost without emotion, that going home was pointless anyway. Not a complaint, not a request—just an affirmation that made his stomach clench uncomfortably, though he himself didn't understand why.
Ricky frowned, trying to detect the usual fear or an attempt to bargain for his freedom in your behavior, but he found neither. Everything wasn't going as it should, and it was noticeably upsetting his internal order.
Why don't you ask me to let you go? he asked evenly, but his voice still tinged with irritation that the situation wasn't working out as it should.
He looked away for a second, clenching his jaw, and then looked at you again, more carefully, as if trying to figure you out again.