He sat in his office with the lights dimmed and a glass of whiskey sweating in his hand, the skyline stretching out beneath him like a constellation of problems. Nagoya at night looked the way he liked his world: neat, contained, predictable. Which made it a terrible lie.
Hana had gone home for the weekend—something about Ren's birthday and Yuna threatening to kidnap them both for moral corruption and overpriced cocktails. She'd smirked over her shoulder as she left, curls bouncing, hoodie three sizes too big on her, and muttered something about taking her baby brother to a strip club "so the poor kid develops a bit of personality."
Katsuki hadn't laughed. He rarely did. But the corner of his mouth twitched—just enough to piss himself off.
The door opened without a knock.
Kai strolled in, already reaching for the second glass and pouring himself a drink. He moved like someone who'd never heard the word no and wouldn't believe it applied to him if he had.
Katsuki didn't bother looking at him. Just took a slow sip, then said, "Where are we with Kirishima Law?"
The pause was deliberate. Too long. Kai's smirk practically echoed.
"Surprised you didn't know about it."
Katsuki exhaled through his nose, not a sigh—more of a controlled pressure release. "I asked you and Naomi to handle it personally. It'll bring unnecessary panic to the firm."
He didn't say to her. But the implication landed anyway.
"Including Hana," Kai said lightly, swirling his whiskey.
Katsuki didn't respond.
That was answer enough.
Kai leaned back in the chair like it was a throne and this was all a chessboard he'd designed himself. Of course it was Katsuki's idea—the Tokyo merger had been in the works even before Hana stepped foot in their office, back when Hasegawa & Sato was still pretending it wasn't too big for its own bespoke suit.
And yet, somewhere between now and then, Kai had thought—stupidly, maybe—that Hana would slow Katsuki down. Balance him. She was the first variable he couldn't control, couldn't outwork, couldn't scare off.
But clearly, he'd underestimated just how deep Katsuki's ambition ran.
"You'll have to tell her," Kai said, more gently than he usually spoke. "Before she finds out herself."
Still no answer.
Katsuki's eyes were back on the skyline, jaw tight.
"She's overcompensating."
Kai blinked. "What?"
"She thinks she has to overperform. Overachieve. Like she's on probation and one mistake will get her fired. She thinks I don't notice." He said it flatly, as if the very idea irritated him. It did.
Kai tilted his glass. "That's what you get for sleeping with the person who signs your paychecks."
He saw the flicker. The sharp clench of Katsuki's jaw—small, precise. Controlled. The emotional equivalent of a hairline fracture no one was supposed to see.
Too late. Kai saw everything.
"Look," Kai said, softer now. "I love Hana. We both know she's brilliant. And I'm the last person she needs to prove herself to."
He took a sip, then added, "But other people don't see it. Not the way we do. So yeah—I get her."
Katsuki didn't speak. Which was its own kind of confession.
Kai stood, tossing back the last of his whiskey before straightening his tie like the conversation hadn't just cut bone-deep.
"Kirishima wants us in Tokyo tomorrow afternoon," he said. "We leave in the morning."
A pause.
"I won't say a word to Yuna."
Katsuki didn't thank him.
He just nodded once, slow and deliberate, then turned back to the window like he was trying to will the city into giving him an answer.
Kai had a point. Several, in fact.
But he couldn't tell Hana. Not yet. Not until he knew exactly what the fallout would look like—and how to shield her from it.
-----
The Tokyo office was everything Katsuki hated—open concept, glass walls, minimalist furniture that screamed fragile egos and overpriced design firms. He didn't sit to be impressed. He sat to close deals.
And this one needed to close. Efficiently. Quietly.
Across the table, the Kirishima team laid out the numbers. Revenue growth. Expansion potential. Office acquisition. A slide deck that said all the right things in the wrong tone—too polished, too strategic, too full of back-patting and forward-thinking synergy.
Katsuki nodded at the right moments. Asked questions that made two associates visibly flinch. He didn't care. He was here for the structure. Not the fanfare.
Everything was proceeding exactly as predicted—until it wasn't.
"Before we proceed further," said Kirishima himself—an older man, sharp in a way that dulled with too much wealth and not enough challenge—"we have one stipulation."
Katsuki's gaze narrowed. Kai didn't move.
"If we're going to integrate Hasegawa & Sato into our Tokyo operations," Kirishima continued, tone as casual as if he were discussing dinner reservations, "you'll need to let go of all non-legal personnel. Secretaries, assistants, admin, paralegals. The COO can stay. But the rest—" he made a vague, dismissive gesture, "—they'll need to be replaced with our internal staff. Standardization is key in mergers this size."
Kai didn't breathe. Not yet.
Katsuki's face didn't change. That would imply emotion. And Katsuki didn't bring emotion to the boardroom.
But Kai was watching. And he saw it—the slight stillness. The delay between blink and breath. That was the tell.
Standardization. Efficiency. Internal cohesion. Kirishima's logic was the kind you couldn't argue with on paper.
Except they weren't talking about paper. They were talking about people.
Kai's mind moved fast. Naomi—safe. The COO title bought her protection, and thank god, because if they touched her, he'd start flipping tables.
But what about Hana?
What about Aya, who'd worked for Takahashi for ten years and whose son needed weekly therapy after a car accident? What about their front desk receptionist, who studied at night to become an engineer and still showed up early every morning with tea for everyone?
He looked at Katsuki. Waiting. Hoping for one of those moments where Katsuki reminded the world why they feared him. That razor-sharp, impossible refusal. The kind that could end careers in one word.
But instead—
"We'll discuss internally," Katsuki said, voice perfectly flat. "And send you the updated list of personnel."
Kai blinked once. Slowly.
Discuss?
Saying no should've been the answer. Telling them to shove it up their overpriced, consolidated asses should've been the answer. Hell, walking out should've been the answer.
But no.
We'll discuss.
Which meant—we'll compromise.
And Kai knew better than to think it was a real discussion. Because Katsuki didn't discuss. He decided. Which meant he already knew what he was willing to trade.
And Kai wasn't sure if Hana was on that list.
He forced a smile for the room. Leaned back in his chair. Nodded like they hadn't just watched a goddamn guillotine drop.
-----
The car ride from Tokyo to Nagoya had been quiet.
Not the usual tension-laced, simmering, I'll-kill-you-in-your-sleep kind of quiet Katsuki specialized in. This was heavier. Muted. Like the air had been vacuum-sealed inside the Porsche, all smooth leather and loaded silences, and Kai could feel it pressing down on his chest the closer they got to home.
He didn't speak.
Not when Katsuki started driving like a precision algorithm. Not when he refused coffee at the rest stop. Not even when Hana texted to ask if they were back—Kai didn't reply. He was trying very, very hard not to commit murder.
And Kai Sato did not kill people. He dismantled them. Neatly. Elegantly. Without bloodstains.
But this?
This was testing his limits.
They arrived at the Nagoya office just before 6 pm. Sleek, sterile, full of people who still smiled when they passed Kai in the hall. Not because they were afraid of him—but because they knew he gave a damn. That when things got ugly behind closed doors, he was the one keeping the wolves outside the glass walls.
Katsuki barely paused at the elevator.
Kai followed.
Waited until the doors opened on the executive floor.
And then—
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" His voice was low, deadly calm. The kind of calm that came right before a tactical strike.
Katsuki didn't flinch. He just walked toward his office like the world wasn't crumbling beneath their feet.
Kai followed. Shut the door behind them. No more glass. No more audience.
Just war.
"You're really going to do this?" Kai's tone was still smooth, but the edges were fraying now. "You're going to gut the firm to impress Kirishima?"
Katsuki peeled off his coat. Loosened his tie like they weren't having this conversation. "That's what the firm needs if we want a foothold in Tokyo without resistance."
Kai laughed. Short. Hollow. Dangerous. "We have billion-yen clients. A six-month waitlist. We're already dominating Nagoya and the north. You want Tokyo? Fine. But tell me—" he stepped forward, eyes sharp, "—what more could you possibly want?"
Katsuki said nothing.
Of course.
Always the silent martyr. Always chasing ghosts only he could see.
Kai exhaled slowly. "You know Hartwell will walk if Hana is not on the team."
Katsuki's response was instant. "Not if their contract doesn't specify non-legal staff."
And there it was.
That single sentence.
Cold. Strategic. Detached.
Kai's vision tunneled for a second.
"Who are you?" he said, voice shaking now, not with weakness but fury. "So if someone offers you the fucking moon, you'll let me go too?"
Katsuki looked at him. Finally. And it was almost worse—because there was no malice. Just calculation. Like Kai was another asset. Another chess piece on the board he was trying to control.
Kai stepped back. Straightened his jacket.
"Go to fucking Kirishima," he said, each word crisp, lethal. "And find yourself a new managing partner."
Then he turned on his heel and walked out.
The entire floor went quiet when the door slammed. Phones paused mid-ring. Conversations died. And Kai didn't care.
Hana called him up from her desk.
He ignored her.
Kept walking until he reached Naomi's office, knocked once, and stepped inside. Closed the door.
Then locked it.
Naomi didn't look up from her screen.
"Lover's quarrel?" she asked, sipping her tea.
Kai sat with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, trying to decide if slow poisoning or blunt trauma would be more satisfying. Not that he'd actually kill Katsuki. Probably.
Naomi still hadn't looked up.
Finally, she said, "You know him better than anyone."
Kai didn't lift his head. "That's what makes it worse."
"No." She reached for her tea again, calm as ever. "That's what should make you trust him."
He looked up at her then, scowling. "Trust him? Did you hear anything I just said?"
Naomi raised an eyebrow. "I heard a tantrum. Very eloquent. Very dramatic."
"I said he's throwing people under the bus—"
"No," she cut in. "You said he's making a decision you don't agree with. There's a difference."
Kai leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. "He didn't even blink. Do you know what it took for Hana to stop flinching every time she made a mistake? And now he's just—what, offering her up as collateral?"
Naomi closed her laptop with a quiet snap. "He's not offering her up. He's making time. And space. And buying leverage in the only way Kirishima understands."
He stared at her, unmoving. Waiting.
"He's an arrogant bastard," she said evenly. "Always has been. But he's also still the same twenty-seven-year-old I met in that basement—hungry, brilliant, half-mad with ambition, and still asking if we could afford to hire a third paralegal because the first two were burning out."
That pulled a breath out of him.
Naomi continued, softer now. "He doesn't do things without reason. He's just… not the best at explaining himself. Not when he thinks everyone should already see the map he's building in his head."
Kai looked away. The worst part? She wasn't wrong.
"And you," Naomi said, folding her hands. "You're the one who's always been able to read that map. The one who draws the lines Katsuki doesn't know how to connect. So stop sulking. These people need you. They need to know someone up there is still fighting for them."
Kai was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "He better have a plan."
Naomi rolled her eyes. "Of course he has a plan. He probably has three. And a backup."
She reached into her drawer, pulled out a folder thick with notes and scribbles and schedules.
"Come on," she said, sliding it across the desk to him. "Let's go back to Hasegawa and start planning for these people."
Kai stared at the folder.
He didn't move for a second.
Then he reached for it—slowly, like touching it was also choosing something heavier.
Like choosing to stay.