Yua Kanzaki

Riku let the silence stretch as he leaned back on the bed, eyes on the ceiling, lips curling slightly.

"Yua…"

He whispered her name like it was a sin.

That name still hit different. Still carried weight. That clipped, commanding tone, like deadlines had a voice and stilettos walked behind your spine.

It dragged him back to polished office floors, nights lit by glowing monitors, her breath on his neck when she reviewed his code without asking.

"So. You didn't block me."

There was amusement buried beneath the silk.

Tightly leashed. Sharp-edged.

"That's... unexpectedly flattering."

"I don't block ghosts."

A pause.

She laughed, low, throaty, and just a little amused.

"Still dry. Still disrespectful. I see freelancing hasn't improved your manners."

She didn't know.

She thought he was still that awkward, overqualified backend guy who lingered after meetings just to catch a glimpse of her smile. Who fixed critical bugs in silence while others took credit. Who fantasized about her but never dared say a word, not because he feared her, but because he respected her.

Well.

That version of Riku was long gone.

She just hadn't realized it yet.

"I'll cut to it," she said. "We have an emergency contract. High stakes. Government level. NDA wrapped around every part of it."

"Okay?" He leaned back, letting the silence stretch. A part of him enjoyed watching her fill it.

"I need someone fast, smart, and trustworthy. Someone who doesn't ask questions but gets results. And...." her tone flicked up, like a blade catching light, "....someone who won't fumble under pressure."

"And you thought of me," he said, slow.

"I remember you, Riku. The long nights. How you handled critical infrastructure like it was second nature. You were wasted back then."

And underpaid, he thought, but didn't say.

"You left. Said you wanted freedom," she added, voice cooled again. "How's that going?"

A beat.

"You've been watching me?"

"Please," she said. "Don't flatter yourself."

Of course she had. She always did her homework. Even when he was nobody, she'd tracked what he read, what certifications he was collecting. She never praised him, but she'd always known.

"You think I'm still desperate."

"I think you're not drowning in freelance offers like you expected."

Silence.

She wasn't wrong. The gigs dried up. People wanted showy portfolios, slick mouths, not clean code and invisible infrastructure. And now he was a few weeks away from selling his old GPU just to pay rent.

"Tempting offer?" she asked, voice like velvet over steel.

"I haven't heard the offer yet."

"Three times your old pay. Full discretion. Six weeks. You'll work directly under me."

His throat tightened.

Under her.

It shouldn't have landed like that. But god, she had to say it like that, didn't she?

"I'll think about it."

"You'll say yes," she replied, coolly. "I know you, Riku. You may have run off playing cowboy, but you miss the real game."

He didn't answer.

She exhaled, low. "We start tomorrow. 9AM. Come clean-shaven."

Then a pause.

"Oh, and wear a suit. The storm gray one, if it still fits."

His heart thudded.

She remembered that?

That suit, he wore it the day he almost told her. The day he found out she was married. She saw the look in his eyes and gave him a look back that said: Don't. Don't ruin this.

He never did.

The call clicked off without another word.

He stared at the phone, lips twitching.

"She still thinks I'm that guy."

The guy who never talked back. Who flushed when she leaned over his shoulder. Who stayed long nights just to smell her perfume when she passed.

Well.

Let her think that.

For now.

The call had ended, but her voice lingered like smoke in the room.

Not the words , those were measured, forgettable. It was the tone beneath them. The way she'd said his name. As if tasting it for the first time in years and finding something unfamiliar.

Riku sat still on the edge of his bed, phone dimming in his palm.

Yua Kanzaki.

His former boss. The woman who made authority look like an art form.

He'd left that world behind thinking he'd grow wings. But the months that followed? They were ground and grit. Freelance gigs that paid less than the bills, talent meetings that went nowhere. The tech skills were there , hell, they were sharper than ever, but connections? Gone. The industry forgot you fast when you stopped showing up.

And the club ....Midnight.

He glanced at the black card again. Still a mystery. Still pulsing with unspoken invitation.

He couldn't brute-force his way into a place like that.

But she might know.

Kanzaki always ran in circles above his pay grade. The kind of woman who ordered wine with numbers instead of names. If anyone could help him find a door into Midnight, it was her.

But she didn't call to help. That much was clear.

She called because she didn't expect him to sound different. Because he did.

And now she wanted to see for herself.

I don't have much to offer her in return… not yet.

But maybe I don't need to. Maybe all I need is to show her I'm not the same man who used to linger by her office door, waiting to matter.

He stood, finally.

Opened the closet.

Pulled out the old storm gray suit.

It still fit. Just barely.

The fabric clung in places that didn't used to have muscle. It felt tighter across his chest. Not uncomfortable, just unfamiliar.

His reflection stared back at him, older, sharper, something unspoken behind the eyes.

They used to overlook me. Even her. But not anymore.

He ran a hand down the lapel, pausing at a faint fray near the cuff.

Not good enough.

He needed armor, something that didn't carry the scent of past humiliations.

Not to impress her. Not just her.

To reclaim the man who walked out of her company with nothing but resolve and a dream.

___

The shop didn't look like much from the outside , clean lines, no signage, just a frosted glass door and quiet lighting. The kind of place where price tags were considered vulgar.

He stepped in.

Muted jazz. The scent of cedarwood and leather. Two other clients browsing, silent, each attended by staff in crisp black.

An assistant approached him with professional calm.

"Good afternoon, sir. Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Riku replied, folding the card back into his coat. "But I know what I'm looking for."

She tilted her head slightly, assessing. Not rude, just curious. Then gestured toward a row of minimalist, tailored jackets.

"Tell me the occasion."

He hesitated, then gave the smallest smile. "A reunion."

Something flickered in her eyes , understanding, maybe. Or interest.

She led him to the back.

Two hours later, he walked out with a bag that cost more than his last month's rent. It was insane. But necessary.

Not for vanity.

For presence.

Let her see what she couldn't before.

Not just Kanzaki.

Everyone.