The streets were narrow—disgustingly narrow. The kind of narrow that made every panicked footstep echo, every curse word bounce off grimy alley walls, every breath feel like a desperate SOS. Kaito Morozawa knew this. He absolutely knew this. And yet here he was, sprinting after some poor bastard like a horror movie villain at a discount price.

He didn't care. Not really. Not when he was two seconds away from capturing what he thought was a rival gang member trying to weasel their way into Morozawa territory. His leather dress shoes thudded against the concrete with all the subtlety of a drunken rhinoceros. His hand, calloused and tattooed, gripped the cold steel of the blackjack tucked into his suit. He wasn't planning anything too dramatic. Just a little knock to the back of the head. A love tap, really.

And sure enough, after a clumsy scramble around a dumpster that smelled like disappointment and expired yakitori, Kaito caught up. One solid whack—crack—and the man dropped like a sack of particularly confused potatoes.

Kaito stared down at the crumpled body for a second. His chest heaved. Sweat dripped from his temples. His brain caught up a few seconds too late with a blaring realization: that didn't look like a gang member. At all.

Wrong shoes. Wrong vibe. Wrong everything.

Kaito scratched the back of his head and muttered a creative string of curses under his breath. Well. Too late now.

When the man came to, it wasn't much better.

The warehouse was dark—stupidly dark. The kind of dark that made every dangling chain look like a noose and every dripping pipe sound like a haunted house attraction run by severely underpaid interns. Kaito had tied him to an old metal chair that looked like it had seen better decades. Possibly better centuries.

He leaned against the wall with all the practiced cool of a man who absolutely did not just make a colossal mistake. Arms crossed. Expression blank. Heart racing like a caffeinated hamster in his chest.

From his angle, the man looked... well. Disoriented. A little sweaty. Kind of cute in that "wrong place, wrong time, oh god please don't kill me" sort of way. Kaito tried not to notice. He really, really tried.

The silence stretched. Grew. Got awkward.

Kaito shifted his weight from foot to foot. Cleared his throat once. Then twice. Then tried leaning on the wall again like that would fix the overwhelming what the hell have I done energy filling the room like a bad smell.

He hadn't even blindfolded him properly. The damn knot was slipping down over one ear, flopping around like a sad party streamer.

Kaito exhaled through his nose, debating his life choices.

Was this professional? No. Was this efficient? Hell no. Was he the cutest "rival gang member" he'd ever accidentally abducted? Unfortunately, yes.

The truth hit him somewhere between "oh no" and "I'm so fucked." He wasn't Yakuza. Not even close. He was pretty sure this was just some poor civilian who had the misfortune of wearing the wrong color hoodie near the wrong ramen stand at the wrong goddamn time.

Kaito raked a hand through his slicked black hair and grimaced.

God, what was he supposed to do now? Apologize? Untie him? Marry him out of guilt?

He didn't have a manual for this.

Instead, he pushed off the wall with a sigh that carried the weight of every bad decision he'd ever made and strolled closer, leather dress shoes heavy against the concrete.

He crouched in front of him, arms resting casually over his knees, and offered a wolfish grin. One that absolutely did not cover the sheer panic roiling in his gut.

And with all the fake confidence of a man who had no idea what the fuck he was doing, Kaito said, low and lazy, "Well, sweetheart, either you're the bravest spy I've ever seen... or the cutest mistake I've ever made."