Wan Isamu. This man was beautiful. Not James beautiful. James had the sculpted arrogance of an Italian demigod—all sharp cheekbones and sinful smirks, eyes like liquid amber that promised worship or war, depending on his mood. His body was built for brutality—broad chest, arms like carved marble. Wan, on the other hand, was quiet chaos. Something out of a Hokusai painting—slanted dark eyes, a straight nose, a mouth that rarely smiled. His skin was smooth and pale under the lighter's glow, kissed by a Tokyo night. His body was lean, compact—a weapon forged in silence rather than thunder. If James was a lion, Wan was a snake—no less deadly, just more deliberate.
The flame snapped shut. His eyes didn't leave mine.
"Didn't think I'd find you here, Metka."
The nickname prickles as I slowly sit up on the bed, sizing him up while James stands to his full height, putting his hands on his pockets casually.
"Alya." He says simply.
