You Shouldn't Have Seen That, Emi

(EMI)

The days crawled by slowly—really slowly. It had now been three weeks since she shared her bed with Aoki. Her mysterious neighbor would be gone for about a week, then randomly come home at odd hours of the night, shower, and leave before sunrise—but usually not before dropping by her place, planting a kiss on her, cracking an improv dry joke, and walking out laughing along with her.

And another thing—he always left a gift on the table. Last time, it was a 24-karat pure gold chain with her name, "Emi," etched into it. Custom jewelry—the kind that did not come cheap, even by luxury goods standards.

She wondered who he was and what he did for a living. There was no way of stalking him; the man was a ghost online. When she asked for his phone number, he just casually said, "I'll be back," like he was imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator.

The one time she managed to ask what he did for a living during his "touch and go," as he used to call his morning kiss, he simply quipped, "I am a man of steel, but I won't say what I stole," and laughed sarcastically as he walked out the door, wishing her a nice day ahead.

He always left her room with the lingering scent of his musky designer perfume, tormenting her with the elusiveness of his presence. She wondered if this was deliberate.

Her girly dreams were all she could cling to for the moment—dreams of how everything on him was designer. Heck, even he himself was designer, tailor-made specifically for her. He had to be; there was no other way—he simply fit all her fantasies, like he had just walked out of one of her dreams. But well, at least the gifts he left her proved he was real, not just a dream… she would remind herself in moments when he really did seem like a character from a dream.

He was perfect. Too perfect.

As the flashbacks from their first and only night together yet kept hitting her back to back, she somewhat wished they had gone the whole way. But she was somewhat glad they had not. They had left the best for last—delayed gratification. She felt her groins get frothy at the thought of him eating her out.

Besides, Aoki's seeming lack of interest in taking her body, using her body, or—was it patience? Yes, his self-assured patience attracted her even more. Like he knew sooner or later she would throw herself at him. He did not chase; he attracted, and she was not going to fight that attraction.

After all, she usually lost interest after making love to a man once or maybe twice, so she was sure this was just a passing cloud. Like the one they had stuck their heads in while on a Marijuana trip. But then again, she knew this was different. She could feel it.

Emi's daydreams were interrupted by the sound of Aoki's door opening unexpectedly… and the sound of multiple footsteps shuffling in, but no voices.

She quickly jumped to her feet, alert, all ears like a guard dog. Her heartbeat quickened at the prospect of seeing him again as she headed for her window to spy on her prince charming, as she had come to label him in her private little world.

She felt like a puppy welcoming its owner back home—until she opened the curtain to peek.

She had seen the man named Ryan visit Aoki's apartment more than once. The way they moved—silent and calculated—reminded her of something she couldn't quite place. And then there was that tattoo on Ryan's neck—a symbol she had glimpsed before in an old documentary about the Yakuza.

She got to the window just in time to see Ryan push a bloodied man with his head covered in a hood through the doorway. He turned to scan if anybody had seen them before shutting the door behind him with a light click.

Fear coursed through her veins.

Who was the hooded man? Was it Aoki? Should she call the cops? The questions ran through her mind faster than she could answer them. Thoughts flooded her mind faster than she could process.

Then she heard a screech of tyres, followed by Aoki walking briskly from the elevator to his door. He was fuming. He walked in and shut it behind him with a loud bang.

"In my goddamn house!? Are you crazy? Why would you bring him to my goddamn house?" she could hear Aoki's voice from the other side, full of rage—but controlled. She could sense the authority and command in his voice.

"Anyway, let's get it over with!"

There was a pop sound, like the ones guns with silencers made in movies, followed by the sound of a mass falling to the ground, like a bag of potatoes.

"Ahh!!"

Emi, who had been listening through the wall, let out a scream as she realized what she had just witnessed—a mafia execution by the Yakuza. By Aoki.

"Huh? Is there anybody else here?" she heard Ryan ask in a gruff voice.

"Negative," Aoki responded in a businesslike tone.

But he knew she had heard it all.

He knew what he had to do.

"Nothing personal," he thought to himself.

He would have to take care of her himself.

Ryan knew something was up but knew better than to question Aoki. So he simply moved on to roll the body of the police informer they had just liquidated in a carpet and proceeded to carry it out to the car, with Aoki right behind him to distract any potential witnesses—an all-too-familiar routine.

Emi watched them step out through her window, her palms wet with sweat.

Curiosity and fear burned in her veins like wildfire.

But if curiosity really did kill the cat, she was about to be its next victim. A willing victim.

So when she noticed Aoki's door had been left slightly ajar, she did not hesitate before slipping in to peel back yet another layer from the infinite onion that was Aoki.

She felt thrilled doing this, like the lead actor in an Indiana Jones movie… stepping into the unknown, into the danger zone.

The apartment was immaculate, cold, and impersonal—everything meticulously arranged, as if he lived in a space that wasn't his own. Too perfect for comfort.

Her pulse pounded as she stepped further inside, her eyes scanning the room.

And then she saw it—a sleek black laptop left open on the desk, the screen glowing with files.

She shouldn't.

But she did.

Clicking through the folders, her breath hitched.

S. Nakamoto. BTC Genesis Code.

Her hands trembled as she opened file after file, finding transaction logs that dated back to the birth of Bitcoin.

Billions—no, trillions—of dollars moved through hidden channels, all leading to one undeniable conclusion.

Aoki Hiroshi was the real Satoshi Nakamoto.The creator of Bitcoin and by far the most wanted man in the world.

Wanted by both friends and foes.

Her heart pounded in her ears as the pieces fell into place.

The secrecy, the men in dark suits, the constant disappearances.

This wasn't just about wealth—Aoki had power beyond comprehension.

And the Yakuza… were they protecting him, or were they the reason he was constantly running?

A floorboard creaked.

Emi barely had time to register the sound before the air shifted behind her.

A hand slammed the laptop shut, and a wave of pure Alpha dominance crashed over her.

The scent—dark, rich, laced with something primal—paralyzed her where she stood.

"You shouldn't have seen that, Emi."

His voice was cold, lethal.