047

Ren was feeling... awkward.

More awkward than the usual “my superior just called me a pet in front of the literal boss of the mafia” kind of awkward.

He tried to make small talk. You didn’t reply.

He tried commenting on the hallway renovations. You didn’t even blink.

He was halfway through recounting the number of rats he’d counted on the sixth floor just for something—anything—to fill the silence when he finally stopped, dead in his tracks.

“Sir?” he asked, irritated.

No answer.

He turned around.

You were gone.

Gone.

No sound, no warning, no flicker of light or shadow. Just gone, the air behind him still faintly warm where you once stood.

Ren groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You always do this!”

A group of passing subordinates looked away, pretending not to notice his breakdown.

Someone in a black coat whispered something about “foreign trauma response,” and Ren felt very close to slapping someone.

But you?

You had other plans.

Elsewhere, in a certain office room…

The office was warm.

Not welcoming, not cozy—but warm, in the way candle flames are: flickering, soft, dangerous if left unattended.

Rows of bookshelves stood like silent sentinels, thick with dust and secrets, each crammed with ledgers, scrolls, red stamped dossiers, and archaic tomes that probably hadn't seen daylight since the Meiji era.

The scent was one of old paper, dried ink, and... faintly, unfortunately, of stress sweat.

Seated at his desk, Sakaguchi Ango was meticulously sorting through files that could implicate half the political elite of the country.

His glasses reflected the soft amber glow of the lamp, and his brow was furrowed in that way it always was when trying to triage which disaster to prioritize.

The door was locked.

The lights were dimmed.

The hallway was silent.

So naturally, when a voice whispered right into his ear—"Sakaguchi-san," —and warm breath brushed the shell of it like a lover’s tease, Ango did what any normal man in his position would do.

He shuddered. Violently.

His hand spasmed and knocked over his pen.

His shoulders jerked up to his ears.

The folder he had been annotating slipped from his lap and fluttered onto the floor in a humiliating mess of clattering paperclips and scattered documents.

Because of course.

Of course you were back.

"No," he whispered to no one. To the heavens, maybe. Or the demons. Whichever was less cruel.

His head turned slowly—the kind of slow turn one makes when they know a jumpscare is coming, but it’s too late to stop the movie.

And there you were.

L/N Y/N. Standing far, far too close. That same unsettling serenity on your face, your fingers lightly resting on his shoulder as though you hadn’t just manifested like a teleporting poltergeist into his private workspace.

"You missed me?"

Your smile was languid, all teeth and suggestion.

Ango blinked. Once. Twice.

He stared. “I didn’t.”

After all these years...he thought he could finally have a peace that is you not existing in his life...

You leaned forward, propping your chin on your hands, eyes shining with unholy delight. “Liar.”

“Please get off my desk.”

“Only if you say you missed me.”

“Get. Off.”

You pouted, dragging yourself off the desk like a disappointed lover.

You walked a slow circle around him, observing how he subtly turned to keep you in sight.

Smart man.

Traumatized, but smart.

“Do you remember the first time we met four years ago?” you asked wistfully.

“Vividly,” Ango muttered. “You threatened to inject me with horse tranquilizer if I didn’t give you the information of the port mafia's classified information.”

You clapped your hands, delighted. “You do remember!”

“I remember screaming. That’s not the same as reminiscing.”

“And the second time?”

“You haras— Ehem, you tried seducing me in the elevator. You caressed my neck.”

“Oh, right,” you mused, tapping your lip. “I said something about wanting to see how red you could get.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘let me corrupt the bureaucrat in you.’”

“Poetic,” you nodded. “I’ve always had a way with words.”

Ango rubbed his temples. “You were a plague.”

“I was mafia’s most eligible psychopath,” you corrected.

“No one called you that.”

“I did. That counts.”

You pulled up a chair uninvited, sitting backward on it like a teenager about to ask the guidance counselor if weed would ruin their life.

"It’s been three years," you said, watching him with gleaming eyes. "Did you cry in my absence?"

"Yes," Ango said flatly. "Every night."

You gasped, mock horrified. "You do care."

"Like one cares about a recurring infection."

Your eyes widened, the grin never fading. "I missed our banter. You always knew just what to say to make me feel warm."

"I also know which nerve in the thigh causes paralysis. Doesn’t mean I want to use it on you."

"You remembered my favorite flirting line!"

Ango pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"What do you want."

You leaned closer.

"Information."

"No."

"You don’t even know what about."

"You never want anything good. The last time you asked for information, three people ended up hypnotized, and someone mailed me a raccoon."

You tilted your head innocently. "That raccoon was a gift."

"It was wearing a tracking collar."

"Wonderful. You're safe wherever you go!"

"It gave me rabies."

"Even better."

Ango turned away, muttering something about needing a raise. Probably a lobotomy.

You draped yourself over the back of the chair with the dramatic flair of a Roman courtesan.

"Don’t be so tense. I just need a few files. The last three years. Any inter organizational shifts. Notable deaths. Executions. Arrests. Any pretty little scandals you've hidden under your desk."

Ango gave you a dry stare. "So everything."

"Essentially."

He swiveled slowly in his chair. "Why should I give it to you."

"Because you like me."

"I don’t."

"Because I’m charming."

"You’re disturbing."

"Because I could straddle this desk right now and make you wish you were into men."

Ango made a pained noise. "We talked about this."

"Did we?"

"Yes! You cannot use seduction as a form of interrogation."

"Then why do you blush every time I do it?"

His glasses fogged slightly.

You smirked. "That wasn’t a denial."

"L/N-kun."

"Sakaguchi-san."

"Stop."

"Make me."

He reached for his emergency bottle of antacids.

You leaned closer, voice dropping into a whisper that was all silk and daggers. "You know, I had so much free time overseas. I thought about you often."

"What, while carving up dignitaries and seducing Swiss bankers?"

"Don’t be jealous."

"I’m not."

You leaned further in, your elbow now on his desk, chin propped in your hand. "You are."

Ango's expression was flat. "Even if I was, I would rather be eaten by a telekinetic tiger than indulge in your brand of lunacy."

"That could be arranged."

He blinked. "Is that a threat?"

You winked. "A promise."

Ango stared at you in exhausted silence for a moment. Then he sighed, opened a drawer, pulled out a thick black folder, and slammed it on the desk.

"Fine. You can look."

You opened the file, humming happily.

Ango muttered, "Why me?"

"Because you’re pretty when you’re exasperated."

"Leave."

"You’ll miss me."

"I will experience peace."

"Then I’ll come back sooner."

Ango looked physically pained.

You skimmed through the documents rapidly, absorbing the blood soaked events of the past three years.

Dead executive. Shifts in allegiances. A few familiar names now struck through with bold red stamps of termination.

Ango watched you out of the corner of his eye.

When you were still, like this—reading, focused, calm—you almost seemed human.

Almost.

"You stopped threatening to dismantle my bones for information," he said after a moment.

"You stopped being fun to scare."

"Because I started keeping tranquilizers in my desk."

"Coward."

"Survivor."

The silence returned, thicker this time. Not hostile, but... charged. Unspoken memories dangled between the two of you like cobwebs.

The time you pretended to be a newly hired secretary just to sneak into Ango’s file room.

The time you invited him to dinner and showed up at his apartment with wine, three files, and a scalpel.

The time he woke up in a safehouse with your handwriting carved into the ceiling above him: "You should smile more."

You closed the folder slowly, expression unreadable.

"You got better."

Ango blinked. "What?"

"The files. Cleaner. Less bias. Less fear."

Ango looked away. "I had time."

Ango gave you a side eye. “And you? Any Vatican level incidents recently?”

“I was very well behaved,” you said, sitting again. “Only three major international accidents. Maybe four, if you count the incident with the underground black market cloning project.”

“God help us.”

“No, thank you. I do just fine on my own.”

Ango looked tired. Like, soul level tired.

“Please just take the files and go.”

“I like talking to you.”

“You traumatize me.”

“It’s bonding.”

He pointed to a thick envelope on the side. “Those are the records for the last three years. Take them and go terrorize someone else. I beg you.”

You didn’t move.

Instead, you leaned forward and whispered, “You’re very flustered, Sakaguchi-san. Are you sure you don’t enjoy my attention?”

He slowly, slowly, turned his head toward you.

His expression was that of a man walking into a minefield and seeing the sign after the explosion.

“I. Don’t.”

“Mm.” You twirled a strand of your hair. “You looked pretty pink last time I kissed your hand.”

“I was sick.”

“Of love?”

“Of whatever disease you carry.”

You grinned. “Your denials are adorable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I missed you too.”

Ango opened his drawer and pulled out a stress ball. He began squeezing it with precision and fury.

You sighed contentedly, leaning back. “This feels right. Like I never left.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

“Please don’t.”

“I will. We’ll have tea. I’ll wear something you like.”

He dropped the stress ball. What does that even mean?

You stood, collecting the files. “Thank you for the reunion. It was touching.”

“I’m filing a formal complaint.”

You leaned over and patted his head.

He slapped your hand away. You were laughing as you left.

As the door clicked shut behind you, Ango slumped in his seat and whispered to no one in particular:

“…There is no God.”