ANYA'S POV
Five—
The metal split with a violent, deafening crack.
A shower of white-hot sparks sprayed into the tiny panic room as the thermal lance finally broke through. Ren's shadow loomed behind the blinding glare of the molten steel. He was seconds away from kicking the door in.
My heart didn't just pound; it screamed. My bloody hands scrambled frantically over the dark steel wall behind Kenji's slumped body. Think, Anya. Think! A man like Kenji Tanaka didn't build a cage he couldn't escape from. There had to be a backdoor.
My fingers snagged on a recessed groove near the floorboards. A hidden lever.
I didn't hesitate. I yanked it hard just as the heavy steel door began to cave inward.
With a heavy, mechanical clunk, the floor beneath us simply vanished.
My stomach dropped into my throat as we fell. The air turned instantly freezing as we slid down a steep, pitch-black metal chute, the sounds of Ren's men shouting violently cutting off above us. We hit the ground hard, tumbling out onto damp, freezing concrete.
Kenji hit the floor beside me with a heavy, sickening thud. The violent impact did what I couldn't—it shocked him awake. The sheer pain of the fall jolted his nervous system, and a sharp, ragged groan ripped from his chest.
The air down here smelled like ancient dust, motor oil, and rusted pipes. I had spent years pushing a mop through basements just like this in the North District. I knew exactly the kind of filthy, abandoned place we had just landed in.
"Kenji!" I scrambled through the pitch-black darkness, my hands slapping against the cold, wet floor until they found the lapel of his ruined suit jacket. "Come on, get up. We can't stay in this basement. If they find the chute—"
"It's not... a basement," a rough, gravelly voice rasped from the dark. I could hear him struggling to drag himself up against the damp tunnel wall. Even half-dead, he moved with a stubborn, terrifying pride. "These are the old sub-levels. The forgotten... rotting roots of the Tanaka empire."
"I don't care if it's a historical landmark," I snapped, wrapping my arm around his massive waist and hauling him upward. "I'm motivating you. Move your feet, Tanaka."
"You have... shockingly little upper body strength for a cleaner, Fauka," he breathed heavily, his arm coming around my shoulders. He was practically crushing me, his massive weight buckling my knees, but I gritted my teeth and kept us walking.
"And you have a shockingly low pain tolerance for a mafia boss," I shot back, my voice shaking with a mix of terror and adrenaline. "Don't you dare pass out on me. If you die down here, I'm going to find your ghost and bill you for the overtime."
A weak, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating against my shoulder. "Always the professional."
We dragged ourselves through the labyrinth of tunnels until we found a heavy iron door slightly ajar. I kicked it open, dragging him into an abandoned, dusty utility room. It was windowless and safe.
I lowered him to the floor, my arms screaming in protest. He leaned back against the concrete wall, his head tipping back, eyes closed. The dim emergency lights in the corridor cast a faint, pale glow into the room, and for the first time, I could really see the damage.
The left side of his charcoal suit was soaked black.
"I need to see it," I said, my voice dropping the sarcasm. My hands were trembling as I reached for his jacket.
He didn't fight me. I stripped the ruined suit jacket off his broad shoulders and went to work on his button-down shirt. The fabric was too soaked in blood to unbutton, so I gripped the collar and ripped it open, the sound of tearing cotton echoing in the quiet room.
My breath hitched.
I had been so focused on the blood that I hadn't prepared myself for what was underneath. Kenji Tanaka wasn't just a man in a suit. He was built like a weapon. His chest was broad, his muscles deeply defined and sculpted, moving with a tense, coiled power even as he fought for breath. But what made my stomach flip wasn't just the sheer, masculine perfection of his physique—it was the history written on it.
A faint, jagged scar cut across his collarbone. Another faded burn mark grazed his ribs. This was a man who hadn't just inherited his power; he had bled for it. He was a masterpiece of violence, terrifyingly beautiful.
"See something you like?"
My eyes snapped up. Kenji was looking at me through half-open lids, his dark eyes gleaming with a faint, arrogant amusement despite the blood loss.
"I—you—I wasn't staring!" I stammered, the words tumbling out of my mouth as my cheeks burned instantly hot. I aggressively wadded up the torn fabric of my blouse, scowling to cover up my massive embarrassment. "Keep talking, Tanaka. One more word and I won't just pack this wound, I'll poke it. I'll stick my finger right in there and see how much you like that."
A weak, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, but it instantly turned into a sharp hiss as I pressed the cloth hard against the gunshot wound just above his hip. His large, hot hand shot out and clamped over my bloody wrist like a vice.
"Sorry," I whispered, holding the pressure steady, all the humor draining out of me. "I have to stop the bleeding."
His grip on my wrist didn't loosen, but it stopped being a restraint. His thumb slowly stroked the pulse point on my wrist, smearing our blood together. The touch was so intimate, so possessive, it sent a jolt of electricity straight down my spine.
"Why?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a silken, exhausted whisper. He studied my face, his dark eyes stripping away all my defenses. "Why didn't you leave me in the chute? You could have run."
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat suddenly making it hard to breathe.
I knew the logical answer. Because you're the anonymous donor. Because if your heart stops, my father's heart stops. That was the truth I had clung to. It was the excuse I used to justify why I hadn't run away.
But looking at him now—at his pale face, feeling the frantic, very human beat of his heart under my bloody hands—the choice felt much simpler. If Kenji died, Ren won. And if Ren won, the world would be a much darker place. I didn't just want Kenji to live for my father. I wanted him to live so the monster above us wouldn't get the satisfaction of his death.
"Because," I whispered back, my voice breaking slightly as I looked down into his dark eyes. "I don't like messes I can't clean."
Kenji's lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. His hand slipped from my wrist, his knuckles brushing softly against my cheek, leaving a streak of red on my skin.
"Good girl," he breathed.
His hand dropped. His eyes closed. This time, he didn't wake up.
"Kenji?" I shook his shoulder. Panic flared in my chest. "Kenji, hey. Tanaka!"
His chest was still rising and falling, but the exhaustion had finally taken him. The adrenaline was leaving my own system, replaced by a bone-deep, freezing chill. The damp concrete room felt like an icebox.
I couldn't leave him. And I was too cold to sit across the room.
Moving awkwardly, I shifted closer, keeping my hands pressed firmly against the makeshift bandage on his side. I curled my legs up, pressing my back against the uninjured side of his side. His body was a furnace, radiating a heavy, comforting heat. Even unconscious, as soon as my weight settled against him, his heavy arm draped over me instinctively, pulling me flush against his side.
Surrounded by the smell of ozone, blood, and his dark, expensive cologne, I closed my eyes. The darkness finally pulled me under.
Hours later.
I didn't wake up gently. I woke up to a sudden, blinding light hitting my face.
My eyes snapped open, my heart instantly hammering against my ribs. I scrambled backward, my hands flying up to shield my face from the harsh glare of a tactical flashlight.
Ren.
The name was a death sentence in my mind. He'd finally found us. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the cold heat of a bullet to end it all.
"Found them," a deep, gravelly voice echoed in the small room.
It wasn't Ren's voice. It was deeper, like grinding stones, and completely devoid of mercy.
I squinted through my fingers, my breath hitching. Three massive silhouettes stood in the doorway, blocking the only exit. They were geared for war, their weapons drawn and leveled. Professional killers. Ren's cleanup crew.
The man in the center—lowered the flashlight completely. He didn't look at me again.
He looked at Kenji.
Then back at me.
Cold. Deciding.
"Separate them," he commanded, his voice flat and lethal.
My breath caught.
Two of them stepped forward, their shadows stretching across the floor like hungry ghosts.
I tightened my grip around Kenji's blood-soaked shirt, my voice breaking. "No—don't touch him—"
A hand grabbed my arm.
Hard.
Ripping me away from his warmth. From his heartbeat. From him.
"Wait—!"
My nails scraped against his blood-soaked shirt as they dragged me back, the friction burning my fingertips.
Kenji didn't move.
Didn't wake.
Didn't fight.
And for the first time—looking at the dark barrels of their guns and Kenji's motionless body—I realized something worse than dying.
He wasn't going to save me.