Penthouse

As soon as she heard the front door click shut, Rei splashed back onto the bed, arms flung wide, laughter spilling from her lips before she could stop it. Relief, wild and giddy, broke loose in her chest. While pressing trembling fingers to her mouth, she appreciated the lingering warmth, the taste of him still on her tongue.

She had gotten her kiss, and it wasn’t disappointing. The memory of it curled through her like smoke; dangerous, impossible to bottle. After having pushed him, teased him, against all odds, Takumi had finally bent. Even if only for a moment. Still smiling faintly, she forced herself upright and padded toward the bathroom. A cold shower, she thought, a necessary reset. But when she slid the glass door open, her breath caught. All her belongings were there, neatly arranged as if she had moved in.

Her skin prickled with unease. The apartment in Sakura Avenues; her one slice of freedom, her little cage she could still call her own, all packed up and moved; or worse, been absorbed, erased. Takumi hadn’t asked. Still his intention was clear; to let her stay here, in his penthouse, folded neatly into his control.

She stood frozen for a long moment, fists clenched, before forcing herself under the spray. The water hissed ice-cold against her flushed skin, shocking her back into herself. Rei scrubbed every inch of her body, not to wash Takumi away but to feel her own skin, her own curves, to reclaim the intimacy for herself. When she finally emerged, dripping and pink, she went looking for her sweatpants; the only armor she had left. But they were gone. Her loungewear, the soft comforts of her private life, carefully removed.

Rei exhaled a sigh, a curse, a surrender. The closets yielded something else: men’s clothes. Black suits, white shirts, well-kept but not quite the polished perfection of Takumi’s wardrobe. They were his size but seemed too plain for him. For staff, maybe? A shadow of his presence, nonetheless. She pulled one of the white shirts over her damp skin. It hung loose, falling past her thighs, smelling faintly of starch and soap. Somehow more intimate than silk or lace.

She returned to the vast bed and curled into it, legs folded beneath the shirt. But sleep didn’t come. Her mind spun, tumbling over the kisses, over the sight of her belongings displaced, over the thought of being trapped in a prison that looked like paradise. Desire, fear, defiance; Takumi had planted them all in her, twisting together until she almost couldn’t tell them apart.

Staring vacantly upwards, her lips tingled again. She touched them and grumbled frustratedly into the dark. The ceiling above her felt endless, like the vault of some basilica she hadn’t chosen to pray in. Rei rolled onto her side, the oversized white shirt wrapping around her thighs, and closed her eyes.

Cillian’s face came first. Steady hands on the wheel, that calm green gaze. He never touched unless necessary, never presumed. Even his silence had weight, like he was guarding more than her body. In his company, she breathed easier, laughed easier. It felt human, not transactional.

But what had she done tonight? Chosen him, placed him squarely inside Takumi’s dangerous little experiment. Her throat tightened. She could already imagine the heat of his kiss again, how it had rattled her pretense. If Takumi had seen it, and of course he had seen it, what might follow?

Then Karasu rose in her memory, sharper, darker, like a blade dragged across old scar tissue. She remembered the smell of smoke and whiskey in his club, the sound of his low voice calling her by name. The dangerous warmth in his eyes, when he touched her, not to own, but to claim in a way no one could ever imitate. She missed him. God, she missed him so much it hurt to breathe. His was a world of blood, grit and ruin, yes, but it was also hers. Her heart had chosen him.

Here she was nothing but a product. Takumi dressed her, moved her, touched her or kissed her only when it served him, then adjusted his perfect suit and left her in a cage draped in silk. He called it work, promotions and progress; but every single touch, every order, stripped away a piece of her independence.

The emotional whiplash of the evening, the calculated kisses, Takumi’s claiming mouth, the chilling discovery of her moved belongings, had left her nerves exposed and buzzing. Her body craved the familiar, grounding ritual of cooking. The methodical chop of vegetables, the sizzle of oil in a pan, the transformation of raw ingredients into something nourishing. It was her mother’s legacy, her secret act of defiance and self-care in a world that wanted to consume her whole.

Rei slipped from the bed, the hem of the borrowed white shirt dancing against her thighs and padded into the penthouse’s open-concept kitchen. It was a showpiece of minimalism and obscene wealth. A waterfall island of polished cobber, integrated induction hobs that looked like slabs of obsidian, a climate-controlled wine fridge humming quietly. Everything glamourous, state-of-the-art and utterly unused.

Her hope flickered as she opened the first glossy, handle-less cabinet. Inside she found only emptiness, not a crumb, not a grain of rice. The next, and the next, revealed the same vast, hollow interior. The refrigerator, a monolith of stainless steel, offered a cruel punchline: several bottles of premium imported soda water, several bottles of obviously expensive white wine, and in the freezer contained only three perfect trays of diamond shaped ice cubes.

Rei leaned against the cold door, letting out a soft, frustrated string of curses punctuated by a tired, “Of course”. He stocked a bar, not a pantry. This was a place for entertaining, for mixing drinks to fuel negotiations or seductions, not for the mundane human act of feeding oneself. It was a space designed for performance, not for life. The absence of basic food felt like a deliberate extension of his control, a denial of her most fundamental comfort.

Her eyes drifted across the living area to the bar, set against a panorama of the city’s eternal rain and neon. Crystal decanters glowed with amber and ruby liquids. It was a temptation and an admission of defeat. But her nerves were too frayed for stillness. Fine, she thought, If this is the only kitchen he’s given me, I’ll use it. She crossed to the bar, the plush white wool of the sofa brushing her calves. Selecting a heavy cut-crystal tumbler, she opened the ice compartment. The clink of cubes was comforting familiar. She dropped three in, then swirled them, letting the glass chill. The sound, the cold weight in her palm, was a small anchor.

As she reached for a decanter of aged bourbon, her fingers hesitated. The memory of a kiss, not Takumi’s, surfaced unbidden: Shoma’s. Bold, confident, practiced. The hand on her neck, the sure, hungry rhythm. Predictable, she’d called it. But in this quiet moment, she acknowledged the technical skill. It was a kiss that knew its own effect, that played a self-aware, winning tune. She poured two fingers of bourbon over the ice, watching the liquid swirl and amber.

The scent of the spirit rose, woody and sharp. Another memory, warmer, more complicated: Cillian’s. His hand on her elbow, not her neck. The kiss that had been careful, then deep, then real. One she couldn’t dissect. Rei felt the ghost of it now, the way her breath had hitched, the way she had leaned in too much. She added a splash of soda water from a sleek bottle, watching it foam and settle. His kiss was like this drink, she thought: seemingly simple, but its clarity revealed every nuance, every dangerous depth. It had rattled her cage.

Finally, she lifted the glass to her lips but didn’t drink. The most recent memory eclipsed the others: Takumi’s. The command, the bending, the shocking heat of his mouth finally on hers. It hadn’t been practiced or careful, it had been a seal on the entire sick, disturbingly thrilling experiment. It was the taste of the cage itself; intoxicating, and inescapable. That kiss had been the opposite of cooking; it wasn’t about creating something to sustain her; it was all about consumption.

She took a slow sip. The bourbon was smooth, smoky, and utterly failed to calm her. It just burned a warm path down her throat, mingling with the lingering phantom tastes of the three men. The empty cupboards mocked her. The stocked bar enticed her. She was surrounded by every possible luxury except the one she needed: autonomy.

Rei set the half-finished drink down. The nightcap was a failure, it only made her more aware of what was missing. She stood in the center of the multimillion Fund Unit penthouse, in another man’s shirt, with a head full of stolen kisses and a heart screaming for something true to hold onto.

The exit wasn’t on a map, it was in the defiance of this emptiness. As soon as possible, she decided, staring at the rain-blurred neon scars of the city below, she would find a market. She would fill his pristine, useless cupboards with garlic, onions, tomatoes, pasta and make his idle kitchen smell of her mother’s Italy. It would be a small rebellion. A quiet, simmering one.

Rei settled back in bed, then sat up in frustration, hugging her knees. The cold determination forming inside her was stronger than the enticing ache still left by Takumi’s mouth. She would get back to Sakura Avenues, get back to the small space, cluttered and alive with her collages and cheap incense, where the neon bled warm instead of sterile. She wouldn’t let Takumi place her in his tower, reduce her to a perfect simulation wrapped in his curated lingerie.

Her lips curled faintly as her mind wandered to Cillian again. Maybe she could find an ally in him, not for lethal betrayal, but a way of reminding her that she was still real. He had already shown her kindness, when he shouldn’t have, looked at her not as an asset but as a woman. She would need him to avoid going truly crazy.

Her fingers traced the edge of the sheet as if it were the edge of a map. Somewhere in this gleaming prison there had to be an exit. The thought steadied her. She lay back down, still wide awake, but no longer restless. Her freedom wasn’t gone; it was only hidden. And she would reclaim it.