POV: Ayanokoji
I stirred the heart the barista had drawn in my coffee foam with my spoon. I wouldn't have ordered it, but there it was—an unexpected flourish that clearly annoyed the woman sitting across from me.
She frowned, shooting murderous looks at the young woman behind the counter. The expression was so obvious that I was sure if I stood and left right then, she'd demand to speak to a manager and file a complaint about "inappropriate conduct."
The barista, for her part, lost some of her shine when she saw I barely reacted to the gesture. She'd taken care with the little design—tracing that milk-heart patiently—and my indifference dimmed whatever pride she'd felt.
"You should have ordered it black," my companion said, not bothering to hide her irritation, and gave my calf a sharp kick under the table.
"That was unnecessary." I slid my hand beneath the table and touched the spot she'd hit, still keeping my voice level.
"At least I'm not stabbing you like in past years. You should be grateful." She sipped her coffee, unruffled.
Her eccentricity, her poise, that cold beauty—nothing had changed. She still moved with the same precision. And, reluctant as I was to admit it, a small stab of nostalgia passed through my chest. Seeing Horikita Suzune again—my old coworker—stirred memories I'd thought filed away.
"We should be speaking Japanese, by the way. I don't see the point of using English." She set her cup down with a soft clack.
When we'd first met here she'd congratulated me on my language skills, without surprise. Suzune knows what I can do; speaking English isn't something that impresses her.
"No problem." I switched languages without effort.
She'd pursued law. The spark had come in her first year, she told me—defending Sudō during those incidents Ryuen staged. She discovered she liked the idea of shielding the innocent. That's the romantic version, the one films hand you.
Reality is messier: lawyers defend criminals too. Suzune had already been through that.
"How long are you in New York?" I asked after a measured sip.
"Five months, maybe more. Depends on what my boss decides." A shadow of a smile touched her lips. "Harvey Reginald Specter. The best in his field. A... peculiar man."
I felt movement under the table. Suzune had slipped her right foot free of the heel and, with a knowing boldness, began to rub my groin. She didn't seem to care that the table sat in a busy café. She rested her cheek in the palm of her hand, watching me with that inscrutable air she always had.
"I see." I kept my face neutral. "I need a favor."
"A favor?" She raised an eyebrow and pressed a little harder with her foot.
"I'm seeing someone. An interesting type… but he's likely to end up in court."
"You want me to defend him?"
The pressure increased, almost irritating now. Suzune watched me as if the answer should be obvious.
"Something like that."
"I don't do favors. Nothing with me is free. You should remember that." Her voice was soft but firm, as ever.
"Would you accept payment in installments? I'm short this month." I stayed calm, mentally running my account balance and feeling relief that the bank wouldn't let me slip into the red.
She let out a small laugh—more a sigh threaded with malice.
"You can pay me other ways. For old times' sake. Maybe we should… reminisce."
I sighed, understanding exactly where she was heading.
I'd always wondered why, years ago, she never hated me when I chose to move classes. Even after showing her there were boundaries I couldn't cross.
A renewed pressure under the table was enough. I signaled for the bill with a curt motion. Our gazes met—cold, steady, expectant.
If she wanted to settle accounts, we would. Now.
And as always, I would steer things my way. In the end, the victory would be mine.
Just like Horikita Suzune tonight—she would be mine too.
For old times' sake.