Page 57 of The Oyabun's Boy

"He never had a chance, did he?" I whispered, more to myself than to Chen. "To be anything else?"

Before Chen could answer, his phone buzzed. He checked it, his face betraying nothing, but his posture shifting subtly into something more alert, more dangerous.

"What is it?" I demanded, rising from my chair. "Is it Kenji? Have they found him?"

"No news," Chen said, but his eyes never left the security display on the wall. Something had changed.

I sank back into Kenji's chair, the leather still holding the faintest trace of his scent—sandalwood and something uniquely him. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine him here, safe and whole.

The image kept dissolving into those childhood photographs—dark eyes too old for such a young face, shoulders already squared against a world that had never shown him kindness.

"He's going to come back," I said aloud, needing to hear the words even if I wasn't sure I believed them. "He has to."

Chen didn't respond, his attention fixed on something I couldn't see. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken fears.

Then, so faint I almost missed it—a chime from the private elevator that connected directly to Kenji's garage. My heart stopped, then thundered back to life with painful force.

Chen moved with terrifying speed, drawing his weapon and positioning himself between me and the elevator doors. "Stay back," he ordered, voice leaving no room for argument.

But I couldn't move anyway, frozen in place as the elevator ascended, each passing floor marked by a soft electronic tone that seemed to echo my racing pulse. Up and up, closer and closer.

"Is it him?" I whispered, hope and dread warring in my chest. "Chen, is it him?"

Chen's only response was to tighten his grip on his gun, eyes never leaving the elevator doors.

The final chime sounded, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The doors slid open with excruciating slowness, revealing—Blood. So much blood, and in the center of it all, barely standing, barely recognizable—Kenji.

His once-immaculate suit hung in tatters, soaked through with crimson. His face was a map of cuts and bruises, one eye swollen shut, lips split and bleeding. He leaned heavily againstthe elevator wall, his breathing labored and wet in a way that spoke of internal damage.

But he was alive. Alive and looking straight at me with his one good eye, recognition and something like relief washing over his battered features.

"Joy," he rasped, the single syllable carrying more emotion than I'd ever heard from him.

I screamed—a raw, primal sound I didn't recognize as my own—and lunged forward, only to be caught in Chen's iron grip.

"Let me go!" I struggled against him, desperate to reach Kenji, who was now sliding down the elevator wall, his strength finally giving out. "Chen, please! It's him! Let me go to him!"

"Protocol," Chen said tightly, but I could hear the conflict in his voice. "We need to verify—"

"Fuck your protocol!" I fought harder, tears blinding me. "He's dying! Can't you see he's dying?!"

Kenji's head lolled to one side, but his gaze remained fixed on me, as if I were an anchor in a storm of pain. "Princess," he managed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth with the effort.

Something in Chen broke at the familiar endearment. His grip loosened fractionally, then released altogether.

"Go," he said, stepping aside but keeping his gun trained on the elevator, ever vigilant.

I didn't need to be told twice. I crossed the distance in what felt like slow motion, the world narrowing to just Kenji and the space between us. Then I was dropping to my knees beside him, hands hovering over his broken body, afraid to touch him, afraid of causing more pain.

"You came back," I whispered, voice breaking on each word. "You came back to me."

I cradled Kenji's face between my trembling hands, barely recognizing the man beneath the mask of blood and bruises. Hisright eye was swollen completely shut, a deep gash above it still oozing fresh blood that mingled with older, dried streams down his face.

His perfect cheekbone was definitely broken, the skin above it split and angry. His lips—those lips that had claimed mine with such devastating effect just yesterday—were cracked and bloody, one side split so deeply I could see the white of his teeth through the wound.

"Oh god, Kenji," I whispered, my voice breaking as I tried to find somewhere, anywhere, on his face that wasn't damaged. There was nowhere. "What did they do to you?"

My eyes traveled down his body, and my stomach lurched violently. His once-immaculate suit was shredded, the expensive fabric hanging in blood-soaked tatters that revealed glimpses of worse horrors beneath.