Chapter 3 COLLISION

Reiji hadn't slept well since the night at the streetlight.

He told himself it was just a strange moment-a flicker of curiosity, nothing more. But the stranger's face, that wild confidence and cigarette glow, haunted him in flashes behind his eyes.

Eventually, he asked Kaori-his discreet, unshakable assistant-to investigate an artist he'd seen at last year's Mori Gallery pop-up. The installation was unsigned, raw, chaotic... and it felt the same.

Kaori sent him a name: Akira Tsukino. Underground artist. Known for volatile work and refusing commissions from anyone in a suit.

Now Reiji stood in front of a chipped red door behind a ramen shop in Aoyama, wondering if chasing ghosts made him foolish-or finally human.

He knocked once. Twice.

No answer.

He tried the handle. It opened.

It had been three days since the streetlight.

Three days since Reiji Takamura saw the stranger with paint-smeared boots and eyes like a dare. Three days since he'd woken up with the silhouette of that moment burned into the inside of his eyelids.

He hadn't told anyone. Not Reika. Not even his personal assistant. But today, against every rational instinct, he ordered the car to a district he hadn't stepped foot in since university: Aoyama. Home to underground art studios, hole-in-the-wall galleries, and exactly the kind of reckless soul he'd been raised to avoid.

The studio was tucked behind a ramen shop. The entrance was nothing but a chipped red door with smears of paint on the handle. No name. Just raw, unapologetic mess.

He knocked once. Twice.

No answer.

He tried the handle. It opened.

Akira Tsukino was shirtless, music blasting through old speakers, brush in hand. He didn't notice Reiji at first-too lost in the rhythm of bold strokes on canvas.

Reiji froze at the entrance.

The studio was chaos: canvases leaning against walls, some finished, some halfway there, all emotionally violent. Splashes of crimson, gold, and black screamed off the surfaces. The air smelled like turpentine and cigarettes. And Akira... Akira was alive in the space like lightning made human.

Then their eyes met.

"You lost, suit?" Akira asked.

Reiji blinked, caught. "I'm here about a commission."

Akira tilted his head. "You don't look like the type who hangs original art in his hallway. Let me guess. Corporate office? Some polished boardroom in Marunouchi?"

"I didn't come here to be judged," Reiji said coolly.

"Too late," Akira replied, turning down the music. "You walked into an artist's space. Judgment's half the welcome."

Reiji stepped inside, slowly. "I saw your installation at the Mori pop-up last fall."

Akira raised a brow. "That was supposed to be anonymous."

"It wasn't."

"Still didn't answer my question. Why are you here?"

Reiji hesitated. "You interest me."

Akira snorted. "That sounds like the start of a bad pickup line."

"I'm not trying to pick you up."

"Good. I don't date men who look like they're one phone call away from ruining my life."

Reiji looked him over, calm despite the insult. "If I wanted to ruin you, I wouldn't be standing here."

Akira's eyes narrowed. "So what then? You saw me across a streetlight and couldn't sleep since?"

Reiji didn't answer.

Akira's smirk vanished.

"You're serious."

"I want you to paint me," Reiji said.

Akira blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Akira stepped closer, paint-stained hands crossed over his chest. "Why?"

Reiji's voice was steady. "Because I don't remember the last time someone saw me. And I think you might be reckless enough to try."

Silence.

Then Akira grabbed a charcoal stick and tossed it to Reiji. "Strip."

"What?"

"You want me to sketch you, I need the bones. The truth. Drop the political prince act and sit your ass on that stool."

Reiji stared at him.

Then, slowly, he removed his blazer.

Tie. Shirt.

Akira watched him with surprising stillness, no smirk this time. Just... curiosity. Maybe even admiration.

"You really did it," he muttered.

Reiji sat, spine straight, expression unreadable.

Akira picked up the charcoal. "Don't move."

He began to sketch. Fast. Furious. Glancing between the man and the paper like every second mattered.

"You're tense," Akira muttered.

"I'm sitting half-naked in a stranger's studio."

"Not tense about that. Tense in the soul. You carry yourself like a man with handcuffs under his suit."

Reiji's gaze flicked to him. "That's very poetic."

"It's very true."

The sketch began to take form. Shadows around the jaw. Depth in the eyes.

"Tell me something real," Akira said without looking up.

"What do you want to know?"

"Something no one else knows."

Reiji's voice was soft. "I haven't drawn anything since I was fifteen."

Akira paused. "Why?"

"My father burned it."

Silence. The charcoal stopped moving.

Akira looked up. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity. It's anger. On your behalf."

Reiji said nothing. Akira kept drawing.

Finally, Akira turned the sketchbook and held it up.

Reiji stared.

It wasn't polished. It wasn't perfect. But it was honest. A little brutal. And entirely him.

Reiji reached for it.

Akira pulled it back. "Nope. You don't get to keep it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's mine. And you don't get to own everything that fascinates you."

Reiji smirked. "You really don't care who I am, do you?"

"I care enough to sketch you. That's all you get today."

Reiji stood, buttoning his shirt slowly. "I'll be back."

"That a promise or a threat?"

He gave a glance over his shoulder. "You tell me."

The door shut behind him.

Akira looked at the sketch again.

Then tore it out, folded it, and tucked it into his jacket.

He didn't know why.

But he knew the collision had already begun.