Page 17 of Bearly Out Loud

Nari: Thirteen-gate mythology. Void Gate guardian. Female ronin who chose exile over obedience. They renamed everything and changed nothing.

Takumi: Shit.

Nari: Eloquent.

Takumi: I’m processing. Give me a sec.

Takumi: Ok processed. How’s the CEO?

Nari: What does that have to do with anything?

Takumi: You texted me about stolen IP and didn’t mention leaving. You’re still there. Something’s keeping you. Is it the evidence or the executive?

She stared at her phone. Hated that he was perceptive. Hated more that she didn’t have an answer.

Nari:He quoted Episode 22.

Takumi:Nobody quotes Episode 22.

Nari:That’s what I said.

Takumi:Deep cut. Either he’s a genuine fan or his assistant prepped a very thorough dossier.

Nari:Which is worse?

Takumi:Depends on how good-looking he is.

Nari:I’m not answering that.

Takumi:You answered it.

She pocketed her phone. Went back to the booth. Delivered three more scenes with the precision of a woman who had decided to be extraordinary and furious at the same time.

In the break between scenes, the production team assembled in the control room for notes. Nari stood near the doorway, still running hot, when Dojin appeared beside her. Not crowding—he left a respectful gap—but close enough that she caught his scent for the first time. Cedar and honey and warm skin. Her brain did a hard restart.

He smells like a high-end candle someone would name “December Cabin.” Stop smelling the client.

“The Yua performance.” His voice was low. Private. Not a CEO voice—a voice for a conversation between two people in a room full of others. “You brought a specificity to the mythology that wasn’t in the script. The way you shaped the gate incantation—that rhythm isn’t written anywhere in our materials.”

Nari’s pulse spiked. He’d noticed. Of course, he’d noticed—the rhythm she’d used was Grandpa’s. The way Hideo had read the original Celestial Ronin scripts aloud, the music he’d put into the words that she’d absorbed at twelve years old, without knowing she was learning it. She’d performed it on instinct, and this man had caught it in real time.

“I have a background in the franchise.” Careful. Truthful. Revealing nothing. “As Kaito once said to the fourth gate guardian—‘the path remembers even when the walker forgets.’”

Across the room, a chair creaked. Nari glanced over. The man Priya had introduced as head of security—Reo, built like a cage fighter, face like a closed fist—had gone rigid. His jaw tightened. One hand gripped the armrest hard enough that the leather dimpled.

Dojin looked at his security chief. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” The word came out clipped. Controlled. The voice of a man exerting visible effort over invisible forces.

“You’re gripping the chair.”

“Strong hands.” Reo released the armrest. Flexed his fingers. “Bear thing.”

Nari filed that under “interesting, investigate later.” The security operative with the cage-fighter face had reacted to a Celestial Ronin quote like she’d pulled a pin on a grenade. She didn’t know what a “bear thing” was, but she knew a tell when she saw one, and that man was holding a very good hand very badly.

TEN

DOJIN