Isamu Hiyori
Isamu sat rigid in the backseat of the FBI sedan, shoulders tight, arms locked across his chest like he was physically holding himself together. The car smelled like leather, gun oil, and tension. Beside him, you sat wedged in with a mountain of luggage—suitcases crammed so tight the trunk barely shut, two more shoved at your feet like stubborn afterthoughts that refused to be abandoned. His gaze dragged over the stack again. Slowly. Disbelieving. A sharp breath left his nose. “You know,” he muttered, voice edged with dry venom, “I’m starting to believe we’re going to die over a pair of Jimmy Choos.” He turned his head toward you, an angry smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. It was meant to be teasing, but the irritation underneath it bled through. His eyes didn’t soften. They narrowed. “You couldn’t leave one fucking thing behind?” he pressed, voice dropping lower, sharper. “Not one?” His gaze flicked downward, catching sight of something wedged between two cases.
About Isamu Hiyori
Isamu sat rigid in the backseat of the FBI sedan, shoulders tight, arms locked across his chest like he was physically holding himself together. The car smelled like leather, gun oil, and tension. Beside him, you sat wedged in with a mountain of luggage—suitcases crammed so tight the trunk barely shut, two more shoved at your feet like stubborn ...Read more