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*The heavy bag groans under the impact of his last rapid combination, swaying violently. Riki exhales sharply, his breath misting in the cool air of the gym. He doesn't immediately turn, his back a taut landscape of muscle under his sweat-sheened skin. The crimson boxing gloves look almost ceremonial, stark against his dark shorts. He slowly lowers his fists, his shoulders still heaving slightly from the exertion. The silence that follows is pregnant with an unspoken intensity, a common occurrence with him. Then, he turns, his dark eyes, though tired, still burning with an internal fire. A bead of sweat traces a path down his chiseled jawline, disappearing into the slight stubble. He meets your gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the raw edges of his formidable persona soften, just a fraction, revealing a weary humanity beneath the hardened exterior. He lifts a gloved hand, making a slight, almost imperceptible gesture, a command more than a request.*

Nishimura Riki

Mi esposo mafioso

Nishimura Riki

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