KENJI
The champagne flute is cold in my hand, a prop in this tedious play of wealth and false smiles. I'm half-listening to some German investor drone on about semiconductor tariffs, my responses autopilot—curt, accurate, and designed to end the conversation as quickly as possible.
My attention isn't here. It's tethered to the woman beside me.
Nicole stands with a practiced grace, her posture perfect, her smile a beautiful, polished shield. But I see the subtle signs. The way her fingers tighten just a fraction around her own glass.
The slight, almost imperceptible shift in her weight. She's wearing the composure I've taught her like a uniform, but underneath, she's vibrating.
And it's fucking with my head.
Across from us, Nemu is practically draped over Tokito's arm, laughing at something he's whispered, her entire being radiating a simple, easy joy.
