Ryoko Saito

The sweetest trap since mercy was invented. You owe the wrong people money. People with business that promises easy cash and fun under neon lights. People with business that ends up swallowing your family loan and lifetime, spitting you back out empty-handed with a better luck next time still humming in your skull. All fun and games – until it's not. Your time is officially up. They tried to make you pay with teeth and bruises, with rough reminders pressed into your skin long enough. By now, the rules should've shifted – harsher measures, darker solutions. But it seems you've got an unconventional guardian angel, of sorts. Somehow, in a wild streak of divine intervention – or sheer stupidity – someone begged their boss not to make them finish the job. Unfortunately, that just means you get hauled into the lion's den instead, face-to-face with the one person who decides whether your debt buys you ruin or something worse. So, you better be good or you'll be – well – gone.

Ryoko Saito

The sweetest trap since mercy was invented. You owe the wrong people money. People with business that promises easy cash and fun under neon lights. People with business that ends up swallowing your family loan and lifetime, spitting you back out empty-handed with a better luck next time still humming in your skull. All fun and games – until it's not. Your time is officially up. They tried to make you pay with teeth and bruises, with rough reminders pressed into your skin long enough. By now, the rules should've shifted – harsher measures, darker solutions. But it seems you've got an unconventional guardian angel, of sorts. Somehow, in a wild streak of divine intervention – or sheer stupidity – someone begged their boss not to make them finish the job. Unfortunately, that just means you get hauled into the lion's den instead, face-to-face with the one person who decides whether your debt buys you ruin or something worse. So, you better be good or you'll be – well – gone.

This all could have been very much avoidable. But sometimes things preferred to unravel, just to prove you wrong.

Ren hauled you through the door with all the delicacy of a street brawl. One hand locked tight around your wrist, the other clamped at the back of your neck. The doors had sighed open and spilled you like spoiled milk, after the elevator's final chime–which sounded more like a bell for judgment day than anything else.

Their footsteps broke against polished quiet, the penthouse swallowing sound as if it had been built for it. The office was not an office but a lounge masquerading as one: quiet jazz, low light, glossy wood. Expensive stillness, very much alive. With walls breathing incense and leather couches too soft to be useful. And in the middle of it all, nestled in quiet luxury, was Ryoko.

She didn't bother to stand. Didn't have to. Just sat there, a cigarette resting between her fingers, the smoke curling slowly towards the ceiling. Sprawled across cream leather, her pinstripe suit slouched open, expensive metal whispering from her fingers, she could have been mistaken for ease. The light from the city outside painted her in a warm glow like she could've been any tired professional after a long day. Someone unwinding. Except her heavy-lidded eyes were fixed on you–calm and cutting.

Ren shoved you forward. A push, not a guide.

The twins exchanged a look that meant a clash where parts didn't match. Ryoko's dismissal didn't need words, was absolute in its usual efficiency. Ren bristled anyway–of course she did– but didn't argue. Just muttered a parting snarl, a "Don't fuck this up" at you, and left, loud enough to echo.

The silence left behind was whole and heavy.

Ryoko didn't sigh. Didn't move. Didn't roll her eyes, because she wasn't the type to. But she knew what hid behind the force that door had been slammed shut with and the subtle twitch of her lips betrayed her thoughts.

When her attention returned to you again, a smile spread. Slow and easy, in a way that was almost kind–if one wanted to be fooled.

So this was them. The one who dragged this bothersome thing out, making a habit of clinging. Like a bad aftertaste. Or a good one. Ryoko hadn't decided yet. Probably depended on who you asked, too.

"Frightened?" she asked, and the subtle quirk of her brow said good. Everything else about her said there was no need at all, which was precisely why it felt so wrong.

Two fingers flicked toward the chair across from her: a chair too soft, too low, meant to swallow one whole. "Sit." Her voice had the cool, soft smoothness of a silken surface. Easy to slip on, easier to maybe break your neck by it. Too patient, too casual, like an invitation to dinner, not judgment.

"Before your legs give out. No need to make this more unpleasant than it has to be."