Kaito Kuroda was not a man of trivial curiosities. In his world, information was the difference between a market expansion and a funeral. But as he sat at his ebony desk, the image of Haru Mizushima — curled up, shielding a box of cheap paints as though it were his own life — refused to leave him alone.
A black manila envelope landed on his desk. Yuki walked in, his usually mocking expression replaced by a grimace of professional distaste.
"Here you go, brother. Haru Mizushima. Twenty-five years old. Omega. Graduated with honors from Tokyo University of the Arts. A prodigy, according to his professors. Married Ren Ichijo three years ago."
Kaito opened the envelope. The first thing he saw was the wedding photo. Haru looked radiant, with a smile that reached his eyes, holding a bouquet of lilies. He compared that image to the terrified specter living next door and felt a metallic chill crawl down his spine.
"The Ichijos..." Kaito muttered, his eyes scanning the medical reports. "A family of 'traditional values.' Translation: retrograde alphas who believe an omega is private property."
"It's worse than you think." Yuki pointed to a page stamped by private hospitals. "Frequent emergency room visits. 'Fell down the stairs,' 'domestic accidents,' a broken rib six months ago, multiple contusions. There were never any reports filed. Ichijo money buys a lot of silence, Kaito. The divorce was signed yesterday. Ren kicked him out of the mansion and gave him that apartment to get rid of him while he shows off his new lover — an omega from the Akemi family."
Kaito gripped the paper so hard his knuckles turned white. The report detailed not only the physical violence but the systematic annihilation of Haru's career. They had canceled his exhibitions, shut down his bank accounts, and isolated him from any human contact.
"Ren Ichijo," Kaito said, his voice vibrating with a latent threat that made Yuki straighten up. "He thinks he can break a human being and just throw him in the trash when he gets bored."
"What are you going to do?" Yuki asked. "Technically, it's not our business. The Ichijos are minor commercial allies of one of our legal fronts."
Kaito closed the file. His amber gaze was now a controlled inferno.
"No one who lives under a Kuroda roof is 'not our business,' Yuki. That building is mine. And I won't tolerate that omega's fear contaminating my hallway."
Meanwhile, in 12-B, Haru was trying to breathe. The smell of oil paint had begun to fill the small, empty living room. He had placed a small canvas on the floor since he had no easel. His hands still trembled, but the contact with the brush was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.
He tried to draw a line, but the memory of Ren's belt slashing across his back ambushed him without warning. The brush slipped from his fingers, staining the wood. Haru hugged himself, rocking back and forth.
"He's not here... he's not here..." he whispered, eyes squeezed shut. "You're alone. You're safe."
But the silence of the apartment reminded him of his absolute solitude. He had no money, no friends, and his neighbor was an alpha who radiated a power that terrified him. Suddenly, a rhythmic knock on the door made him jump. It wasn't a violent knock — it was steady and firm.
Haru crept to the peephole, holding his breath. It was Kaito. He carried a bag from one of the most expensive cafes in the area and what appeared to be a long wooden case.
Haru opened the door just a few inches, leaving the security chain in place.
"I said I didn't want—" Haru began, his voice shaking.
"I know what you said," Kaito interrupted, unfazed. "But my sister says artists can't work on an empty stomach. And my building manager found this in storage. It's a cherry wood easel. It was taking up space."
Kaito set the bag of food and the heavy easel on the floor in front of the door.
"I'm not coming in, Mizushima. I'm not going to touch you. But if I smell that scent of desperation seeping out from under your door again, I'll have to file a complaint with management for a 'noisy neighbor,'" Kaito said with a trace of dry humor that Haru didn't know how to interpret. "Eat. Paint. And stop apologizing for existing."
Kaito turned and walked back to his apartment without waiting for a response. Haru stood staring at the objects in the hallway. For the first time in three years, an alpha had given him something without demanding that he kneel or submit in return.
Slowly, Haru opened the door and brought everything inside. When he opened the food bag, he found a note written in impeccable, authoritative handwriting: "Dogs that bark the loudest are usually the biggest cowards. Ren Ichijo barks a lot. You don't have to listen anymore."
Haru dropped the note, his heart pounding with a mix of terror and a strange — very strange — spark of curiosity. How did this man know his ex-husband's name? Who was Kaito Kuroda, really?
That afternoon, for the first time, Haru didn't paint shadows. He painted a splotch of amber, the same color as the eyes of the man who lived on the other side of the wall.
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