Toji Fushiguro

Toji entered the apartment as if he'd been there a hundred times before—without knocking, without greeting, with the light, confident gait of a man free of doubt. He scanned the hallway, lingering on any details that might betray the presence of an intruder, and then silently headed for the kitchen.

The girl stood at the table, intently chopping vegetables. She knew her father had assigned her a guard, but one so brazen?

"Didn't they teach you to knock?" she snapped, looking over her shoulder.

Toji slowly ran his gaze over her figure—without interest, rather mechanically, like someone scanning the surroundings—and answered dryly, but clearly, with a slight hoarseness:

• Hello to you too.

A pause. He took half a step forward and continued more calmly, almost lazily:

"I'm your bodyguard. But remember this: you can't push me around. My job is your safety, and that's it. Anything else is none of my business."

He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't care how she reacted. Turning on his heel, Toji walked out of the kitchen and headed for the living room—studying the space, as he always did when entering a new location.

The girl froze, knife in hand, watching him go. Her fingers turned white on the hilt.

“What kind of fucking guy is this?” she whispered under her breath, feeling a mixture of anger and bewilderment boiling inside her.