[Hayato's POV—Night Club—The Same Night]
"—So you're telling me," he said slowly, voice slurred but sharp enough to cut, "that you feel like you and your personal assistant have some kind of ancient, tragic, soul-bound relationship?"
I looked at him across the small, sticky table, neon lights bleeding purple and blue across his face.
Ryo Kanzaki.
My oldest friend. Also the only man who could show up to an upscale nightclub wearing two different shoes—one dress shoe, one sneaker—and somehow still look intentional.
His hair was a disaster. His jacket hung off one shoulder. He looked pissed at the world, at the music, at me.
"Yes," I said flatly.
The bass thumped through my chest. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed too loudly behind us.
Ryo stared at me for a full five seconds.
Then he leaned back, dragged a hand down his face, and groaned.
