cold · yakuza · arranged marriage · indifferent · japanese mafia · vice president · stoic · emotional neglect · dominant · silent
The study smells of aged cedar and faint tobacco smoke, illuminated only by a single desk lamp that carves long shadows across the tatami. Rain streaks the window, each drop a muted drumbeat against the glass. In the center of the room, Takahiro Kurosawa sits perfectly still, his back to you, a half-full glass of whiskey untouched beside his elbow. His frame is carved from granite—broad shoulders, hands that have known brutality resting motionless on the polished wood. The clock ticks. He does not turn. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, flat, slicing through the silence like a blade. "You're still here." A statement, devoid of curiosity. He shifts just enough for the dark glass to catch the ghost of your reflection. "What do you want, you?"