Kaede freezes mid-step, a thin shiver crawling up her spine. Sothing in the air feels wrong, heavy and warped, like Ryoma’s shadow suddenly grew teeth she can’t see.
"R-Ryoma...?" she tries to reach him.
But her voice cos out thin, unsure, barely more than a breath that never reaches him.
Ryoma doesn’t blink, doesn’t turn. His gaze stays locked on the magazine as if chained to it, pupils dark and unfocused.
Inside him, sothing whispers.
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Kaede swallows hard, forcing her hand to reach him. Her fingers tremble as they brush his arm.
"Ryoma... what’s wrong?"
The contact breaks sothing, just a hairline crack. Ryoma blinks, a faint hitch in his breath, like waking from a dream he’s not ready to admit he had.
His expression reorganizes itself in an instant, smooth, composed, and detached.
"I’m fine," he says lightly.
They walk to the register, then out of the store.
Kaede still watches him from the side; how his steps stay asured, how his face doesn’t soften, how the warmth from earlier never returns.
He isn’t slipping back into the cheerful Ryoma she knows. He’s settling, quietly, slowly, into the Cruel King once more.
Into the version of him she’s seen too often on TV lately: the cold-eyed fighter from his last match, the unbothered persona from his recent interviews.
***
Back at the apartnt, the kitchen lights shine with a clean, steady brightness, casting sharp reflections across the counters. Ryoma stands before the cutting board, shoulders squared, knife in hand.
He begins slicing. At first it looks like normal prep work. But then the rhythm tightens, sharp, fast, and unbroken.
Each chop lands with machine-like precision, vegetables falling in uniform pieces as if asured by a ruler.
His movents aren’t the smooth confidence of a practiced cook. They’re locked, hyper-focused, tension wound tight through every tendon.
Kaede sits on the dinner table, hands hovering uselessly in front of her. She had said she would help him earlier, but now...
His eyes. Just looking at his hyper-focused eyes, gives her dread.
They’re slightly too wide, pupils sharp, tracking each slice with unnatural intensity. The knife flashes, chop-chop-chop-chop, too fast for comfort, the sound crisp and dangerously clean.
Kaede doesn’t dare speak. Not because she’s afraid of Ryoma, but because she’s genuinely terrified that if she breaks his concentration for even a second, he’ll cut himself with that blade moving like an engine part running hot.
Only when he places the knife down, when the chopping stops and the air seems to exhale with him, does Kaede gather enough breath to speak.
"Ryoma... there’s sothing I want to tell you."
He doesn’t turn. There’s only a small glance over his shoulder, but even that glance is razor-sharp.
And instantly, the Vision Grid activates.
***
[Quick Scan: Discomfort detected.]
Indicators: tightened lips, subtle shoulder withdrawal, gaze shift to the table.
Emotional classification: Unease. Possible anxiety.
***
Kaede doesn’t know what he sees, only that his eyes flicker, calculating, reading her far too easily.
And Ryoma stays where he is, calm, controlled, and observant. Then he turns back to the kitchen, lifting the pan with one hand and flicking on the stove with the other.
A thin layer of oil spreads across the tal, catching the light. He doesn’t wait for it to fully heat. He moves with a kind of silent urgency, tipping all the vegetables and aromatics he just cut into the pan.
The mont they hit the surface, the oil crackles sharply.
Kaede watches the vegetables glide across the pan, the scent rising, the rhythm steady and precise. The quiet between them stretches, heavy and fragile, until she finally draws in a breath.
"Ryoma... about what I wanted to tell you."
He doesn’t stop sautéing. Just shifts the pan in his hand, the ingredients sliding with a soft hiss.
"I... got an offer at work." Her voice wavers, but she pushes through. "A promotion. They want to move up to Senior Marketing Executive. It’s a big step. Really big."
Ryoma pauses mid-motion. Not a full stop, just a tiny catch in his wrist before the pan resus its arc.
But the shift is unmistakable, because he suddenly knows where this conversation is headed. And he’s been here before, in his previous life.
A promotion. And with it, cos the dilemmatic choices.
"But the position is in our Malaysia branch." Kaede swallows. "If I take it, I’d have to move there."
Ryoma’s composure cracks, just a breath, barely a flash, but enough for the fracture to show.
"I knew it..."
The system slides into his mind like a whisper slipping under a door.
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Just as he feared, Kaede shifts, softly and cautiously, toward the heart of it.
"I know you’ve been doing well with your boxing lately... and I’ve been thinking." Her fingers knot together. "Maybe we could... move forward. Just a little. In our relationship."
There’s a short breath.
"And I don’t mind declining the promotion if... if that’s what it takes."
Right on cue, the system presses in again.
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Ryoma’s chest tightens, not with panic, but with a crushing clarity. Kaede has the right to ask this, and he knows that.
She has been the one watching over his mother while he’s away. She gives her ti, her care, her weekends, her patience.
And he can’t just take everything good she offers and pretend commitnt is optional. A man can’t ghost responsibility just because it’s inconvenient.
But commitnt, real commitnt... he made that choice once.
And the system is right: it didn’t end well before.
His mother ended up neglected. He ca ho to find her collapsed at the doorway, alone, cold, already gone.
And even after sacrificing so much, his relationship with Kaede still broke apart under the pressure.
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The present tilts, déjà vu tightening around Ryoma’s throat.
It’s another choice, the sa shape, but with a different lifeti’s weight pressing on it.
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