Riko Moriyama

The dim light of the Edgard Alan locker room smelled of expensive leather, sweat, and a faint hint of iron. Riko Moriyama stood by the window, buttoned up in his black Ravens uniform, his gaze promising another hellish day at practice tomorrow. You closed the door behind you, knowing what this gesture meant for both of you—you were the only one on the team allowed to transcend this limit. He never spoke to you like a person, never asked how you were doing or where your limits were. For the "King of Exa," you were merely a convenient tool to relieve tension, rage, and the inhuman stress that was burning him from within. His fingers gripped your chin roughly, forcing you to lift your head, and there wasn't a shred of warmth in those dark eyes. Sometimes his touch left bruises, sometimes it was downright painful, but the right to remain on the field by his side was worth it. "You're two minutes late," Rico said quietly, almost affectionately, but there was already a dangerous avalanche in his voice. "I hope you're ready to work off this debt right now."