The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as Masahiro stood at the counter, methodically pouring the dark liquid into a ceramic mug. The quiet hum of the early morning was broken only by the faint sounds of Clyde’s paws tapping against the floor as the cat followed him around.
Masahiro glanced down, raising an eyebrow at the cat’s persistent presence. “You don’t drink this,” he said dryly, gesturing to the coffee. “There’s food and water in your spot. Go.”
Clyde meowed in protest but didn’t budge, his tail flicking lazily as he watched Masahiro take his mug and head toward the balcony.
The morning air was crisp, a gentle breeze rustling through the city below as Masahiro leaned on the railing, the warm mug resting in his hands. He sipped his coffee slowly, his gaze wandering over the familiar urban sprawl. For a moment, everything seemed ordinary—the distant hum of traffic,
Masahiro sat in a café a few blocks away, his coffee forgotten as his eyes lingered on the street outside. The car was still there, parked in the same spot it had occupied since morning. This time, its engine was running, a faint plume of exhaust curling into the chilly air, setting his nerves on edge.Then his eyes caught on a figure across the street. Matthew.Masahiro’s stomach churned. Matthew strolled casually, hands in his pockets, utterly unaware of the danger.Pulling out his phone, Masahiro dialed Matthew’s number. Once. Twice. No answer. The bastard wasn’t picking up.“Come on, Smith,” Masahiro growled under his breath, dialing again.The car’s headlights flicked on. The low growl of the engine grew louder as the vehicle inched forward, angling toward the crosswalk.Masahiro shot to his feet, abandoning his coffee. “Matthew!” he shouted, sprinting out of the café. His voice barely carried over the traf
Masahiro’s pacing had worn an invisible path into the living room floor. The clock ticked too loudly, and the silence between him and Matthew grew heavier with each minute."Any harder and you’ll stomp right through," Matthew said, lounging on the couch. His tone was playful, but his eyes followed Masahiro’s movements with interest.Masahiro ignored him. The doorbell rang, and he practically sprinted to answer it. He pulled the door open to reveal Yumi, standing there with a bag slung over her shoulder and an expression caught somewhere between worry and confusion."Masahiro," she greeted, stepping inside. Her gaze landed briefly on Matthew, who gave her a lazy wave from the couch."What’s going on?" she asked, shifting her attention back to Masahiro. "You sounded urgent on the phone.""Just check on him," Masahiro said briskly, gesturing toward Matthew."Check for what, exactly?" Yumi frowned, approaching
Masahiro sat stiffly in the hospital waiting room, his eyes flicking occasionally toward Matthew, who was lounging casually in the chair beside him. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional cough or shuffle of paper from the front desk."Why do you look so serious?" Matthew asked, his voice cutting through the silence, a teasing smile on his lips.Masahiro shot him a sidelong glance. "Because I’m getting this damn cast off. Finally."Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You're sure you don’t want to keep it for a little longer? You know, for the sympathy points.""I don’t need sympathy," Masahiro grunted, his expression tightening. "I just need this to be over with."A nurse called Masahiro's name, and the two stood up in unison. Matthew slung a lazy arm around Masahiro's shoulders as they followed the nurse down the corridor. Masahiro tried to ignore the smirk on Matthew's face as he walked, but the fami
"Well, well, well, look who's back on his feet," Lewis said with a grin, leaning against the doorframe. "Thought you were six feet under, Payne."Masahiro’s expression didn’t shift, his cold, stoic demeanor as unbothered as ever. "Not today, Lewis," he replied flatly, his voice steady. "We’ve come to talk to Jones about something that happened yesterday."Lewis raised an eyebrow, glancing between Masahiro and Matthew, who gave him a smile in return. "Oh? Is this about Rocco’s death?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.Masahiro shook his head. "No. Matthew's the next target."Lewis’s face dropped. "What do you mean?"Matthew sighed, the playful gleam in his blue eyes fading as he shifted his stance. "When I got back from here yesterday, I almost had a car accident."Masahiro’s voice was matter-of-fact, cutting through the tension. "Wasn't an accident. The mafia’s trying to kill him."Matthew shot him a pointed look, but the se
Masahiro pushed open the heavy door of the surveillance control room, its creaking hinges echoing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit space. The walls were lined with monitors, each screen flickering to life with the cold glow of different camera feeds scattered throughout the precinct. The air was thick with tension, underscored by the low hum of machinery.“Sorry, I’m a little bit late,” Masahiro said, his voice steady, even as his heart raced with the gravity of the case they were tackling.Inside, he found Lewis hunched over a screen, scrutinizing hours of footage. A technician sat beside him, fingers deftly gliding over buttons, bringing different angles of Rocco’s cell into focus.“It’s okay,” Lewis replied, not bothering to look up, his eyes fixated on a grainy image.The rivalry still simmered between them, but necessity dictated their cooperation. They knew the stakes were high, and bickering would yield nothing.“So… did we get something?” Ma
Masahiro stepped out of the police station, his mind racing with the implications of what he had just learned. Nicholas Murray was the first person he needed to see… an assistant in the kitchen on the night of Rocco’s murder. He had to get answers, even if it meant confronting the weight of suspicions looming over everyone involved in the case.The drive to Nicholas's home was quick, but the tension in the air was notable. Every turn seemed to hide an unseen threat, a feeling that only intensified as Masahiro parked outside Nicholas’s modest house. He took a deep breath, needing a moment of clarity before moving forward.He knocked firmly on the door, and the silence that followed seemed to stretch on. Moments later, the door opened, and Nicholas stood in the doorway, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up at the visitor.
Masahiro opened the door to his apartment, exhaustion settling into his bones. The night had been a blur of interviews, dead ends, and mounting frustration. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and found Matthew sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. The low hum of the television filled the room, but it was clear Matthew wasn’t paying much attention to it."You’re still awake?" Masahiro asked, his voice rough from the long day.Matthew glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. "You look like shit. What’s wrong now?"Masahiro let out a sharp breath, his shoulders sagging as he tossed his jacket onto the chair. "We’re not any closer to solving Rocco’s death. We’ve got a bigger mess now."Matthew turned down the volume of the TV, his gaze sharpening with interest. "What happened?"Masahiro ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly as he talked. "Someone infiltrated the police station. Used Charles&
Masahiro stepped out of the steamy bathroom, his body glistening with moisture, the scent of lavender and mint lingering on his skin. He had just finished a relaxing bath, his mind at ease as he padded across the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. His toned, muscular physique was on full display, the pale skin of his chest and arms contrasting with the dark fabric of the towel. As he reached the other side of the room, he noticed Matthew laying on the bed, his attention fixed on his phone.Matthew looked up from his screen, his eyes at the sight of Masahiro. He couldn't help but admire his physique, the way his broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. Masahiro's hair, still damp from the bath, fell in messy strands around his face, giving him a wild, untamed look. Matthew casually averted his gaze.Masahiro tossed the towel onto a nearby chair an
The clock crawled past noon.Clark slouched on the leather couch, whiskey in hand. The ice had melted. He didn’t care. His shirt stuck to his skin, wrinkled and loose from the night before. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t showered. The bruises on his neck were impossible to ignore. Dark splotches, some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. A goddamn masterpiece, signed in pain.Adam, though? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cologne advertising.Shirtless. Loose sweatpants slung low. Muscles on full display, carved deep beneath dark skin. The light caught every scar, every ripple. And those hands — Clark’s gaze kept catching on them. Rough, wide-knuckled, capable of wrecking anything. He knew that better than anyone now.The worst part? Adam wasn’t even trying.He moved through the kitchen like he owned the air. Coffee in one hand, the other lazily resting on the counter. Like nothing happened. Like Clark’s body wasn’t still a battlefield."You act like n
The air between them was suffocating.Clark’s eyes flashed, his bare chest still heaving as he jerked the sheets higher, though there was little point. The bruises were already visible—dark purple splotches along his neck, across his chest, down his sides. Some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. He felt every mark. Every ache. And the soreness that ran deeper than his skin."You—" Clark’s voice cracked, still rough from sleep, from the night before. He swallowed. "You took advantage of me."Adam stood at the edge of the bed, already tugging his sweatpants back on. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just pulled the waistband up with that same brute force that lingered in Clark’s bones."I'm just as horrified as you are," Adam muttered, his voice low, stripped of anything that resembled guilt. "I’m making breakfast.""Breakfast?" Clark's laugh was sharp. "You think I care about breakfast? You think eggs and coffee are going to make me forget that you—" His hand flew to the side of his
Adam woke to the sound of his phone vibrating.The dull hum buzzed somewhere on the nightstand, insistent and unforgiving. He ignored it at first, the weight of exhaustion still heavy. His body ached. Not the usual ache—not from fights or workouts or even a bad mattress. This was different. Deep. Lingering. And the sheets tangled around his legs, damp with sweat and something else —something worse. Then it hit him.Clark.Barely covered. Skin marred with darkened bruises and red marks that Adam’s hands—his hands—had left behind. The bite marks at the base of Clark’s neck. The faint outline of teeth against pale skin. The way his chest rose and fell, lips parted, a mess of tangled blond hair sprawled over the pillow. He looked ruined.Adam swallowed hard.`What the fuck did I do?’The memories clawed back like a slow burn. The rough kisses. The bruising grip. Clark’s gasping, stuttering pleas. The bed creaking beneath the relentle
The second bottle was already half empty.Clark’s glass dangled loosely between his fingers, half-forgotten. The amber burn had long since softened to something gentler. Warmer. It dulled the edges, smoothed out the cracks. But the fire inside him? That wasn’t from the scotch.It was from Adam.Barefoot, loose sweatpants slung low... he sprawled across the couch, the muscles in his chest and arms carved deep beneath dark skin. The light brown of his eyes gleamed under the dim lamplight, their sharpness dulled only slightly by the alcohol. Every now and then, Adam’s hand curled lazily around his glass, swirling the drink, his fingers broad and rough. Unbothered. Unapologetically masculine.And Clark? Clark was eating him alive.He wasn’t hiding it anymore.Why should he? The flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol. The way his eyes lingered a second too long, traced the line of Adam’s collarbone, the slope of his shoulders—none of it was subtle. And A
Clark’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the glass. He glanced at the screen, Masahiro flashing in bold letters.He sighed, snatching it up. “Masahiro.”“Clark.” Masahiro’s voice was clipped, but not tense. “Good. You’re alive.”“Is that disappointment I hear?” Clark’s tone was effortlessly dry. “Or were you hoping I’d leave you with one less headache?”“We went to your place. It was empty.”“Yes, I’m aware. That’s generally the goal when one isn’t home.”“We heard about the gunfire.” Masahiro ignored the jab. “You alright?”Clark adjusted his glasses with precise, deliberate finesse. “Charmed, as always.”“And where are you?”Clark hesitated. He could practically hear the judgment loading.“Adam’s.”A pause. Just long enough to register the surprise without voicing it.“Of course you are.” Masahiro’s voice was too level. “And this decision was made with the full clarity of your legal genius?”“Obviously. Nothing
Smoke still clung to Clark’s jacket like a ghost he couldn’t shake. He’d barely had time to process the ambush—just flashes of gunfire, Adam shoving him down, the brutal jolt of the car door slamming shut. Now they were speeding down a back road, the city lights thinning behind them.Clark stared out the window, heart still jackhammering under his ribs. Asphalt blurred under the tires. The direction felt wrong.“This isn’t the hotel district,” he said, adjusting his glasses with clipped precision. “Where are we going?”Adam didn’t look at him. His grip on the wheel was tight, jaw clenched. “My place.”Clark blinked. “Your what?”“My place,” Adam repeated. “We’re layin’ low.”Clark snapped his head toward him. “Since when is your house suddenly the panic room? Take me to a hotel.”Adam exhaled, sharp and irritated. “A hotel ain’t safe.”“And your place is?”“Yeah.”Clark scoffed. “That a joke? What’s next, you gonna tuck me in with a loaded Glo
The door clicked shut behind them, soft but final.Clark was the first to move, striding across the room and dropping his file folder onto the table like it had offended him. He didn’t take off his coat. Didn’t loosen his tie. Just leaned forward, both palms on the table, head low.The air felt like it hadn’t been breathed in properly for hours.Masahiro stood near the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable as always. His coat was still buttoned, not a hair out of place, voice low and clipped.“You did well,” he said.Clark didn’t lift his head. “They were the ones who did well.”“Don’t be modest. You controlled the tempo from the moment you stood up,” Masahiro added, voice firm. “Even she couldn’t shake the narrative.”Clark finally straightened. Adjusted his glasses. “She’ll try harder on monday.”“And you’ll handle it,” Masahiro replied simply. “You’re still one of the best in Middlesbrough, whether you’re spiraling or not.”From the corner,
The courtroom resumed with the same weight it had carried before the recess—but now the air felt thicker. Tighter. Every word from the judge landed heavier than before.“All rise,” the bailiff intoned.Clark didn’t bother looking at the prosecutor. He didn’t need to.He had work to do.Witness One: ArthurArthur sat rigid in the stand, hands folded tightly iin his lap. He wore a pale blue shirt that made him look even younger than usual, and his eyes kept flicking toward Cassidy—never quite meeting his gaze.Clark approached slowly, with no notes in hand. He didn’t need them.“State your name for the record.”“Arthur Cooper.”“Arthur, can you tell the court how you came to know the defendant?”Arthur hesitated. “He… he saved me.”Soft murmurs rippled through the gallery.Clark’s tone didn’t change. “Saved you from what?”“I was taken,” Arthur said, voice cracking only once. “Held in a warehouse with other victims. I don’t know how long. We were moved often. Kept in darkness.”“Did Ca
The courtroom was a theater, and Clark knew it.Not the overblown, high-drama kind. Not screaming matches or grandstanding.This was colder.Sharper.This was where reputation meant leverage. Where presence was its own kind of weapon. And today, Clark stood center stage with every light on him.He adjusted his cuffs with slow precision, stepped into place before the jury, and met each face without flinching.“Good morning,” he began. Calm. Even. Clean.“This trial will present you with blood, with violence, and with the kind of fear most people are lucky to never know.”The jurors stilled.“You will hear about what Cassidy did. About what Cassidy stopped. And about the lines he crossed to do it.”He let the silence land.“I will not stand here and pretend he’s a saint. That’s not what this is.”Eyes narrowed. Attention sharpened.“But you’ll learn—very quickly—that th