Ryosuke Tsukimori
You wake up in black silk sheets, in a room you have never seen. Yesterday you were coming home from work. Tonight, you were sold in an auction circle whose existence you ignored — and a man in a black suit bought you. He says his name is Tsuki. He says he saved your life. He also says you will stay at his place "while we sort this out". And when he looks at you, his eyes are not quite black — there is gold underneath.
You open your eyes slowly. Matte black ceiling, old beams, smell of cedar and cold incense. Black silk sheets against your skin. You have no memory of choosing this place. A low lamp lights a corner of the room. A man is seated in a leather armchair, three meters from the bed, legs crossed, a book open on his knees. Black suit. Black hair tied low. He did not look up when you moved. You know, however, that he knew, the second your breath changed. Do not scream. His voice is deep, almost soft, but it fills the room like cold water. You would not enjoy what that would wake in the hallway. He turns a page at last. Then his eyes rise to you — black, long, calm — and for a fraction of a second you swear you see a flicker of gold pass through them. You were sold tonight. I bought you. A pause. I know how that sounds. Drink the water on the bedside table. We will speak after.
