Keito slowly turned his head, his gaze drifting toward the window where the day was fading into dusk.
His hands, clasped behind his back, seemed carved from stone—unyielding, without a trace of tremor or weakness. He stood like a statue forged from cold iron, indifferent to the world around him.
The setting sun bathed the room in crimson light, its glow reflecting off the windowpanes. It was as if the sky itself bled, scarlet streams spilling across the glass. That ominous light fell upon his face, yet found no response in his expression.
His composure was unnatural. Almost unsettling.
As if he had already decided that everyone in the room was nothing more than shadows—unworthy of his notice.
Who are they to me? Pawns? Marionettes? Or merely dust scattered by the wind?
Meanwhile, Zhao Meili moved silently, like a specter gliding through the shadows. Her steps were light, yet each one was a precise movement in a deadly dance.
She approached Shigeru, whose tense, unmoving back betrayed his inner turmoil.
Her eyes, dark as the midnight sea, gleamed with a predatory spark. She knew her power—knew how a single glance, a single touch, could make men forget everything.
Her slender fingers, delicate as the petals of a poisonous flower, reached for his shoulders. The motion was slow, almost tender, yet laced with a subtle threat. She touched him, gently kneading his taut muscles, her touch both soft and commanding.
"If that is your wish, my lord," her voice was like silk dipped in honey, but with a hint of venom. "We will gladly fulfill your every desire… down to the very last drop."
Her words dripped with sweetness, yet beneath them lay a cold, calculated edge. She leaned in closer, letting the scent of her perfume—delicate jasmine laced with something forbidden—envelop him.
You won't resist. No one ever does.
But her words still lingered in the air when Keito's hand, swift as a whip's crack, caught her wrist.
The movement was lightning-fast yet devoid of roughness—precise, like the stroke of a calligrapher's brush, and just as flawless.
He didn't look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the window, on the blood-red sunset, but his fingers gripped her hand with cold resolve.
"Do not dare touch me, my lady," his voice was even, yet sharp as a katana's edge. Each word fell like a hammer's strike, shattering her enchantments into dust.
The room froze.
The air grew thick, almost tangible, like the calm before a storm.
Elena Gromova, Haruko, and Catherine, standing aside, stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear their eyes away. Their breaths faltered, their hearts quickened.
They knew Meili. Knew her power. Knew how she toyed with men like marionettes, making them believe they chose their own fate. How many times had they seen her victims fall at her feet, blinded by her charm?
But Keito…
He didn't just resist.
He rejected her.
As if her beauty, her voice, her power were worth less than a broken coin.
Who is he? How dare he?
Meili's smile faltered—for just a moment, but it was enough.
She stepped back, her eyes narrowing, though her lips still held the ghost of a smile.
Interesting… Very interesting.