"Hey kid! We're here!" Akihito jumped awake. "We're here," the cabbie repeated.

"Oh, thanks," the young photographer slurred as he took in his surroundings. He dragged himself out of the taxi, into the building, and onto the elevator. He was at the end of his second week of five taking photos for a large travel agency, and he was half dead. Why was he bothering to drag his exhausted butt back to Tokyo in the middle of a job? To solve a murder, of course. Actually, he assumed Asami would do the solving, but if it got him a free trip to Seoul . . . .

The elevator dinged, signaling it was time for his aching feet to lug his body, weighed down with camera equipment and dirty laundry, out into the hallway. He shuffled painfully toward the penthouse, unlocked the door, and stumbled inside. The first thing he saw after dropping his bags by the doorway was Kirishima, Suoh, Takato, Kou and poker chips and cards and beer. There was also lots of noise.

"What's wrong, Aki? You look like you've seen a ghost!" Kou called teasingly from the table.

"This isn't happening," Akihito muttered faintly to himself. He quickly turned on his heel, stumbled out into the hall, and slammed the door shut. He weakly braced himself against the door as if he could trap the four men inside. His weary mind tried to figure out why his two best friends were presumably playing poker with Asami's evil bodyguards—er—assistants, but couldn't. He had finally gone crazy from the stress, hadn't he? Maybe he was just dreaming.

The elevator dinged again. Speaking of dreams . . . who should step out but Asami Ryuichi, his dastardly lover? The handsome bastard stopped short when he saw him, then smiled a delighted, predatory smile and prowled his way over. Akihito realized he was grinning like an idiot in response.

"It's not my fault," he muttered to himself. He was tired and it was making him loopy and unnecessarily affected by the man leering down at him.

"What's not your fault, my cute Akihito?" The golden eyes glinted mischievously as Asami pinned him to the door. "Did you forget your key?"

"No, I—mmph!" Akihito enjoyed a slow, sensual welcome home kiss against the door for a few moments. Then Asami pulled away. Akihito, even though he was already aching, body and soul, for the man in front of him, managed to stay upright.

"We'd better take this inside," Asami murmured before licking the shell of his ear. Akihito groaned, entranced as usual by the promise in his tone. As Asami put his key in the lock, Akihito snapped out of it.

"No! Don't!" He grabbed the yakuza's arm desperately. "You don't want to go in there right now."

"Why?"

"Bad things," Akihito said emphatically, "bad things are happening."

Asami's eyes suddenly widened in comprehension. "Did Kou challenge Kirishima to arm-wresting again?"

"You know?" Akihito gasped, scandalized.

"Do you seriously think they'd be there without my permission?"

"I don't know? Are you sick? Have you hit your head lately?"

"There's a simple explanation, want to hear it or would you prefer to hyperventilate first?"

"Tell me," Akihito grasped the lapels of Asami's expensive suit. "I-I can handle it."

"It's poker night." Asami opened the door and pulled Takaba inside after him.