"When the heart turns silent, the blade speaks louder."
The night air was heavy—silent, except for the occasional rustle of paper or clink of distant footsteps. Nala stood at the edge of the rooftop overlooking the alley where Kazuya had fallen. The blood was gone, scrubbed by the rain, but the echo of betrayal lingered in her bones. Her arms were crossed tightly, eyes hard as obsidian, reflecting none of the fire that used to flicker in them.
She hadn't spoken since it happened. Not to Lena. Not even to Hikaru.
Lena paced a few steps behind her, arms flailing as she spoke to R.K.
"She could've been killed! How did we not sense that something was off? How did she not?" Lena hissed, frustration bubbling in her voice. "I'm supposed to be the reckless one. She's the calculating one."
R.K. remained calm, his gaze flicking from Lena to Nala. "The Lotus is cunning. They used someone from her past, someone she trusted. That's a different kind of manipulation."
Lena looked over at Nala's back, her face softening. "Yeah... but she doesn't do trust. That's what makes this worse."
Hikaru stood further off, leaning against the brick wall of the building. His jaw clenched tightly, arms crossed, his mind replaying every second of that alley confrontation. Every moment from when he followed them to the way Kazuya kissed her—to how he'd hesitated for just a breath too long before drawing his blade.
He didn't speak either.
But his eyes never left her.
R.K. finally stepped forward. "It's not safe for you all to stay here. They'll come again—and with more than a charming face and smooth lies. You're coming with me."
Nala finally moved. Just a slow nod. Wordless.
Cold.
The city lights shimmered below them like broken glass scattered across the dark. Nala sat alone on a narrow ledge just outside the building's rear exit, her cloak draped over her shoulders like armor. The breeze lifted a few strands of her curls, but she didn't react. Her gaze was fixed forward—on nothing in particular.
She heard the door creak behind her. She didn't turn.
"Didn't expect you to follow me," she said quietly.
Hikaru stepped outside, the door clicking shut behind him. He hesitated before walking over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his dark coat.
"You disappeared. Thought you might do something stupid."
She huffed a short laugh through her nose. "Like what? Go looking for more kisses and betrayal?"
Silence.
He sat beside her, not too close. Just enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
After a beat, he spoke again. "You blame yourself."
"I don't," she said too quickly. Then softer, "I can't afford to."
Another pause. The weight of everything unsaid sat between them like a third presence.
"I wanted to kill him the moment I saw his hands on you," Hikaru muttered, his voice low and sharp. "But I waited. I watched. I wanted to see if you'd fall for it."
She turned to him, slowly.
"And did I?"
He didn't answer at first. His jaw ticked.
"I saw you smile at him."
That landed heavier than she expected. She looked away.
"I hadn't smiled in a long time," she whispered. "And for a moment, I wanted to believe it was okay to just... feel something."
She stood, brushing off her cloak.
"I won't make that mistake again."
"Nala."
She paused.
"I don't want you to go cold," he said, voice quiet but firm. "Not with me."
She didn't respond. But she didn't walk away either.
A gust of wind blew past them, and after a moment, she turned back with her usual sharp smirk—only now it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Don't get soft on me, Samurai."
And just like that, she walked ahead.
He followed.
The road leading to R.K.'s estate was long and winding, tucked behind a dense wall of towering cypress trees that swayed like silent sentinels in the wind. As their car pulled through the massive iron gates—etched with an intricate phoenix design—an entirely different world unfolded before them.
It was just outside the city limits, but it felt like something out of a forgotten time, wrapped in luxury and shadow.
The estate itself sat atop a gentle hill, a sleek, modern structure carved from obsidian stone and warm cedarwood. The architectural style fused minimalist Japanese design with futuristic elements—clean lines, soft lighting, and an aura of controlled silence. A koi pond curved along one side of the entrance, its waters glimmering beneath embedded lights that made the fish glow like moving lanterns.
Guard towers were cleverly disguised as shrines and lantern posts, and you could feel it—this place wasn't just built for beauty. It was built to protect.
R.K. stood outside waiting, dressed in a relaxed black kimono jacket layered over a high-collared shirt and fitted slacks. His hair, now unbraided, was slicked back to reveal sharp cheekbones and a pair of calculating eyes that scanned them all like pieces on a board.
"Welcome," he said smoothly, voice calm but firm. "You'll be safe here."
Inside, the estate opened into a sprawling atrium with a sunken living room built around a low, rectangular fire pit. The ceilings stretched high above with beams of dark timber, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the quiet forest that surrounded them. Soft jazz hummed from hidden speakers, and everything—down to the scent of sandalwood and citrus—felt curated. Intentional.
Lena blinked, clearly impressed. "You really said... fortress meets spa."
R.K. smirked. "Only the best for you."
Nala glanced around, hands still in her pockets, eyes scanning everything. She wasn't in the mood to be impressed, but even she could admit—this place was a fortress. And it would do.
Hikaru, silent beside her, seemed to be thinking the same. He stepped up beside R.K. and gave him a small nod. A silent truce.
They were safe. For now.
But Nala's mind wasn't on safety. It was on the kiss. The betrayal. And the man who saved her life—again.
Lena wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, her long silk robe swaying around her legs. She was starving, emotionally drained, and craving something sweet. She paused at the sleek black fridge, opened it—then blinked.
Rows of prepped meals. Bottled cold brews. Herbal teas. Sauces neatly labeled in Japanese.
And... exactly three pudding cups.
Just as she reached for one, a voice came from behind her.
"You touch the butterscotch, we fight."
She turned sharply. R.K. leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, hair damp from a shower, dressed in a black t-shirt and joggers that somehow still looked custom-tailored.
Lena smirked. "Fight me then, Samurai Snacklord. I haven't eaten all day."
He walked closer, not breaking eye contact. "You had a granola bar this morning. And half of Nala's fries."
She squinted. "You keeping track of my meals?"
He leaned on the counter beside her, his voice a low tease. "I keep track of threats. You when you're hungry? Dangerous."
She laughed, then took the pudding and popped the top with exaggerated defiance. "You gonna stop me?"
R.K. held her gaze. "I'd have to lay hands on you. Not sure we're ready for that part of the story."
She blinked, caught off guard, the spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.
R.K. gave her a little wink and walked away without another word.
Lena stood there, a little flushed, silently fuming and flattered at the same time. "Unbelievable," she muttered.
But she still smiled.
The estate's private dojo was a serene open space at the edge of the gardens, framed by tall bamboo and ancient stone lanterns. But the quiet didn't reach Nala. She stood in the center, barefoot on polished wood, wrapped in a sleeveless black training set that allowed complete freedom of movement. Her curls were tied back, sweat already glistening at her temples.
Across from her, three men stood—R.K.'s elite guards, all taller and broader than her, clad in matching grey sparring gear.
"Are you sure?" one of them asked, eyeing her slim frame.
"She said she wanted all three of you," R.K. leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed. "Don't make her repeat herself."
Nala didn't respond. She just dropped into her stance. Focused. Cold. Ready.
The first came at her fast—overconfident. She sidestepped, caught his arm, twisted, and slammed him flat on his back with a force that echoed. The second tried to grab her from behind—she dropped low, spun, and swept his legs from beneath him. Before he could get up, she jabbed her elbow into his chest, knocking the air out of him.
The third hesitated.
"Move," she said sharply, voice like ice.
He lunged.
But this time, she didn't dodge.
She met him head-on. A flurry of strikes—fists, elbows, knees. She fought with raw precision, each blow carrying the weight of betrayal, of shame, of pain. He tried to counter, but she caught his wrist mid-strike and yanked him down, slamming him against the floor so hard he groaned.
Panting, Nala stood over them. Three down. Barely winded.
Behind her, Hikaru had appeared silently, leaning in the doorway beside R.K., arms folded, face unreadable—but his eyes never left her.
R.K. gave a low whistle. "Remind me never to piss her off."
"She's not sparring," Hikaru murmured.
She was punishing herself.
The shower had been hot—almost too hot. The kind that scalded the skin, as if pain could be rinsed away with steam. Nala sat on the edge of the bed in her room at R.K.'s estate, towel-wrapped hair heavy against her back.
She stared at her reflection in the low dresser mirror. Her eyes were red, but dry. Not a single tear had fallen, no matter how much her chest tightened or her throat clenched.
"Crying is a weakness," she whispered to herself.
She didn't know if she still believed that.
After a few minutes, she stood and pulled on the soft cotton dress she'd packed without thinking—a loose, flowing muumuu printed in the bold colors of the Jamaican flag: black, green, and gold. It was familiar, comforting—something her mother would've worn while humming in the kitchen. The fabric swished quietly as she walked barefoot through the corridor, toward the back of the estate.
R.K.'s garden stretched under the soft lavender glow of twilight. The lanterns hanging from the pergola were already lit, casting golden orbs of light over the flowering plants and koi pond. The air was warm, scented with plumeria and earth.
She found a spot near the back—beneath a broad willow tree—and sat with her legs tucked under her. Her journal, worn leather and nearly full, was already in her hands. She didn't write at first. She just breathed.
Eventually, her pen touched the page:
Some wounds aren't loud.
They whisper in the silence.
They smile when they bleed.
And no one ever sees them coming.
She paused.
"I almost fell for him," she said aloud, voice barely above a breath. "I let my guard down... I let him kiss me."
Before she could continue, she heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the garden path behind her.
She didn't need to look up.
"I know you're there," she said quietly.
Hikaru stepped into view, hands in his pockets. He looked different in the dim garden light—less like a warrior and more like a man unsure if he should say what he was thinking.
"I wasn't spying," he said. "Not this time."
She gave him a dry, sideways glance. "Didn't say you were."
Silence.
"You good?" he asked finally.
"Define 'good,'" she muttered.
He looked at her—really looked. The muumuu, the journal, her hair still damp and curling gently at the ends.
"You don't cry, do you?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Just stared ahead.
"I used to think it was weak too," he said. "Now I think... it takes guts to let yourself fall apart."
Her fingers tensed around the pen. "I'm not falling apart."
"I didn't say you were."
More silence.
Then—
"I like the dress," he added, trying to soften the tension. "Color suits you."
She raised an eyebrow. "This old thing?"
He smirked. "It's bold. Like you."
And for the first time in what felt like days, Nala gave the smallest smile.
Nala set her journal down and rose to her feet. The garden lights danced across her skin, warm and golden against the deep brown of her complexion. Her dress swayed gently with her movement, and Hikaru's gaze flickered—not with lust, but with something deeper. Confusion, admiration... a quiet concern he hadn't quite named yet.
She walked up to him, stopping just a breath away.
"For real," she said, her voice softer now, "thank you. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't been there."
Hikaru held her gaze. "You would've figured it out. You always do."
She shook her head. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I was slipping... and I didn't even know it. You saw it before I did."
Nala reached up and gently touched his arm—just for a second—but it was enough. Her touch was light, but it held weight. Meaning.
"I owe you one."
His throat bobbed slightly. "You don't owe me anything."
She didn't argue. Instead, she gave him a small, knowing smile—the kind that said she could've said more, but wouldn't.
"I'll see you in the morning, Tarzan," she teased gently, stepping back.
"Try not to stalk me tonight," she added over her shoulder as she walked away, the sway of her dress disappearing into the dark hall.
Hikaru stood there in the garden for a long moment, eyes still fixed on the spot where she'd been.
"...What is happening to me?" he muttered.