His Straight Pet
Every inch of her gleamed with polish, but her eyes — sharp, cold, amused — marked me the way a vulture marks carrion.
Akira Sōma stood in shadows, though none had been cast upon her. She wore silver-threaded robes, loose enough to hide weapons, and her black hair hung in a curtain across one eye. Even still, I felt her watching — patient, observant, as though she studied each heartbeat, each twitch of muscle, waiting to strike when it mattered most.
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