Page 56 of The Oyabun's Boy

"Three."

My dislocated shoulder would slow me down, but not significantly. The broken ribs were more concerning—limited rotation, compromised lung capacity.

"Two."

The leader's smile crumbled entirely, something in my expression finally penetrating his bravado. Too late.

"One."

His knife hand trembled noticeably now. "What happens at zero?" he asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

My smile was all predator, all promise. "I go home to my Princess."

With a single fluid motion, I snapped the ropes and lunged forward, the knife at my throat suddenly in my hand instead of his. The leader's shock lasted exactly half a second—the time it took for the blade to find its new home in his throat.

As he collapsed, gurgling, I was already moving toward the second man, broken ribs screaming in protest, dislocated shoulder a symphony of agony I translated into purpose.

Blood splattered across my ruined suit as I worked. More stains. Joy would be upset about that.

I would have to make it up to him when I got home.

Chapter Fourteen

~ Joy ~

I held my breath as I turned another page in Kenji's childhood file, my heart breaking a little more with each new horror revealed under the harsh glow of his desk lamp.

Three in the morning, and here I was, diving into the darkest corners of my captor-turned-lover's past while Chen stood like a statue by the door, his hand never straying far from his gun.

The office felt too quiet, too empty without Kenji's commanding presence—just the soft rustle of paper and my occasional sharp intake of breathe to punctuate the silence as I waited for a man who might never come home.

The files had been hidden in a compartment behind his bookshelf—a collection of documents that painted a picture so bleak I could barely breathe through the weight of it.

The system Chen had mentioned had indeed recognized me, granting access to secrets Kenji had never shared with anyone. Proof, I supposed, of a trust I wasn't sure I deserved.

"Jesus," I whispered, my fingers trembling as I traced the faded photograph of a six-year-old Kenji, his tiny face already set in that stoic mask, but his eyes—those eyes held a universe of pain no child should know.

The report attached was clinical, detached, as if describing furniture rather than a child:"Subject displays minimal emotional response following three-day isolation treatment. Improvement noted in combat exercises. Recommend continuation of current regimen."

Isolation treatment. A euphemism for locking a kindergartner alone in the dark for days. I swallowed back bile.

"You doing okay?" Chen asked, his voice startling me. It was the first time he'd spoken in hours.

"No," I admitted, not bothering to hide the catch in my voice. "I'm not. How could anyone do this to a child?"

Chen's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "TheOyabunsurvived. He became stronger."

"That doesn't make it right," I snapped, anger flaring hot and bright before collapsing under the weight of sorrow. "No wonder he is the way he is. They didn't raise a child—they created a weapon."

I turned another page and felt my heart physically ache. Medical records. A broken arm at seven, treated without anesthesia as part of "pain endurance training." Three cracked ribs at nine during "combat immersion." A stab wound at eleven that had required surgery.

Eleven years old and being trained to withstand torture.

I pushed the file away, unable to bear any more. "How long have you known him?" I asked Chen, desperate for some connection to the man we were both waiting for.

"Since he was sixteen," Chen replied, his gaze fixed on the door. "When he killed his first handler and took control of his own training."

The words hung in the air between us, neither accusation nor defense. Just fact. A sixteen-year-old boy who'd had enough of being shaped into someone else's instrument of death.