A Helping Hand (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian listened intently as she laid out her story - calmly, clearly, with a level of vulnerability that felt far more valuable than any currency exchanged within the velvet shadows of Velour. He didn't interrupt, didn't comment, just let her words fill the space between them. What mattered more was that she was speaking now. And he knew exactly why. It was his own quiet disclosure earlier - just a sliver of truth, deliberate but unforced - that had prompted her openness. He smiled to himself, inwardly, with the practiced discretion of a man used to playing long games and subtle hands. She had taken the bait, not because it was manipulative, but because it was human. Real. He hadn't told her much, just enough to remind her that people like him, the ones who usually watched from the high windows of life, weren't untouchable. That they bled too, once. He had heard similar stories before. Countless, really. Some delivered with tears, some with rage, and others in numb, robotic detachment. But hers had landed differently. There was something sharper beneath her composure, a rawness that didn't ask to be pitied or fixed. And the way she responded to his quiet revelation - it wasn't sympathy. It was recognition.

Still, her final question had caught him off guard. It lingered uncomfortably, carving a slow burn into the edges of his conscience. He hadn't seen it coming, or rather, he hadn't expected her to aim that precisely. It wasn't the kind of question you could parry with charm or deflect with a joke. It was the kind that landed and stayed. He rose, pulling another thousand dollars from his money clip without fanfare, and set it down on the cushion between them with intent.

"Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you."

He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. There were rules in this world, yes, but some moments didn't require decoding. She would understand, or not. That part wasn't up to him. As he moved to the curtain that marked the line between the private booth and the rest of Velour's curated illusion, he allowed himself one final glance - not of her, but of the scene itself. The hush, the low thrum of music, the ambient glow that made every face look softer, more mysterious. This place had always been about escape. For everyone.

"I hope to see you again. Just not here. Out in the real world. You have my number."

Then he was gone. Slipped through the veil and back into the machine that carried him - town car, driver, the city melting behind tinted glass. The world returned to its default mode: muted, polished, transactional. By the time he arrived at his penthouse, the city was deep into its nightly performance of light and silence. He removed his jacket, the weight of the night still hanging in the lining. In the dim kitchen, he poured himself a drink - something expensive, aged, meant to soothe men with too much time to think. He sat, sinking into the low leather of his sofa, glass in hand, staring out at the skyline that had once felt like a destination but now felt like wallpaper. Delilah's question returned, clear and unrelenting.

"When you lie awake at night in that nice house with all your bills paid and no one left to save… do you ever ask yourself what's left? Do you ever wonder if this is really it for you? You said you fight so you don't feel powerless. But power doesn't keep the dark out. Not really. So I want to know… What does winning look like for you, Adrian? Not in boardrooms. Not in strategy decks or PR headlines. I mean you. Alone. When no one's watching."

It had been a long time since anyone had asked him a question that didn't come with an agenda. A longer time still since someone had asked one that made him feel seen. Most people looked at Adrian and saw acquisition. Leverage. Access. They didn't ask about the nights. About what silence sounded like when you'd outmanoeuvred everything and everyone except yourself.

What did winning look like? Once, he would've had an answer. It would have been efficient and airtight - metrics, milestones, capital raised, empires built. But now? In the hush of the evening, surrounded by modern art he hadn't chosen and furniture no one ever used, the answer eluded him. Because the question wasn't about success. It was about peace. And if he was honest, brutally so, then no - power hadn't kept the dark out. Not really. It just lit up the corners for a while. He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. It swirled slowly, as if it too was reluctant to settle. Her words refused to leave him. Not because they hurt, but because they revealed something he hadn't admitted, not even to himself.

That somewhere along the way, he had mistaken movement for meaning. Control for purpose. That maybe, just maybe, winning had stopped being a destination and become a disguise. He took a slow sip and let the silence do its work. He didn't have an answer yet. But he knew the question mattered.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah sat still long after Adrian disappeared behind the velvet curtain, the ambient hum of Velour rushing back in to fill the space he left behind.

She should've known he wouldn't answer. She did know. But that hadn't stopped her from asking.

That question—it had come from somewhere unguarded inside her, like muscle memory from a version of herself that hadn't yet learned how expensive honesty could be. The moment she said it, she'd regretted it. Not because it was too much, but because it had been real. And real things don't survive long in places like this.

Still, the way he'd looked at her afterward… that flicker of surprise, of pause—that had meant something. She was sure of it.
Now, though, her eyes drifted to the thin stack of crisp bills he'd left behind, the thousand-dollar offer laid out like a challenge.

Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you.

She exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the money. It didn't feel like a tip. It wasn't a transaction, either—not in the way she was used to. It felt like a test. And Delilah hated tests. Because she was the girl who could always find a hundred better uses for a dollar than herself. Medical bills. Car insurance. Groceries. The phone bill.

Her mother had a doctor’s appointment next week. She knew that she needed money for that, she didn’t have the best medical insurance. Her mother wasn’t of age yet to qualify for anything either. There were many other things that the money could go to. She truly didn’t need to by herself anything even though she would love a new knife set and maybe a cute summer dress or tops. Then again who did she need to look cute for? No one at all.

But something in her chest refused to move toward the practical. Something in her wanted—needed—to believe he had meant it. That it wasn't pity money. That it wasn't a guilt offering or a buyout for her silence. He could've just left. He didn't owe her anything.

And yet.

She remembered the way he had spoken earlier—quiet, careful, not performative like most men with that kind of money. When he let something slip, something personal, it hadn't been a power play. It had felt… human. That scared her more than anything. She could handle men who wanted to own her story. But Adrian hadn't tried to own it. He'd just listened. And that made him dangerous. Because she had started to listen back.

Delilah folded the bills carefully, sliding them into her apron like a secret she didn't know how to keep. She knew what the smart thing was. The responsible thing. She'd been responsible her entire damn life, always choosing duty over desire, logic over longing.

But as she stepped into the early morning air outside Velour, the city buzzing like a restless confession around her, the question hung heavy in her chest:

Would she call him again? She told herself no.

She told herself he was a detour, not a direction. That this—whatever this was—wasn't a story that had a next chapter. But her hand, traitorous and slow, reached for her phone as she walked. No call. Not yet. But she saved his number. And she didn't delete it. That was the first lie she told herself that night. It wouldn't be the last.

A week passed. It didn't float by—it dragged, catching on every jagged edge of her life like fabric snagging on wire.

Monday was her mother's appointment.

Delilah had known what to expect: the long sighs from the nurse, the raised eyebrows from the doctor, and her mother's brittle, defensive jokes about "being a little pickled, not poisoned."

Her vitals were bad. Liver function worse. The doctor tried to look Delilah in the eye while giving instructions, but Delilah didn't need a lecture—she'd already memorized the dance: pills she'd have to remind her mother to take, diet changes her mother wouldn't follow, follow-up appointments they couldn't afford to miss.

Tuesday through Thursday was school.

The assignment dropped like a stone into already troubled waters:

Create a dish that tells your story. Layered flavors, multiple techniques, at least one component that pushes your current skill level.

Delilah stared at the syllabus like it had insulted her personally. Her story? In a dish? What did they want, a consommé of emotional trauma with a quenelle of codependency on the side?

She toyed with the idea of doing a deconstructed arroz con pollo, but elevated—saffron-infused rice crisped into a socarrat, sous-vide chicken thigh, crispy skin re-fried in rendered chorizo oil, garlic espuma. Nostalgia and survival, plated like luxury.

But every part of her was exhausted.

So on Friday, she did what she almost never let herself do. She took the afternoon off.

She walked downtown, let herself drift in and out of boutiques with exposed brick and overpriced water bottles on the counters. She bought a new outfit—simple, but flattering. A soft black halter top and jeans that made her legs look longer than they felt. Then, almost without guilt, she crossed the street into a specialty culinary shop and picked out a gleaming new set of chef's knives. Forged steel, perfectly balanced. They sang when she touched the blades together.

She told herself she needed them for school. That it was an investment. But if she was being honest? The outfit was for her. The knives were for her too. It was the first time she'd spent money like that in a long time and not immediately regretted it.

Her phone buzzed. Nothing urgent—just a notification from her school portal. But her thumb hovered over her contacts, frozen for a beat. Then she scrolled. Stopped at his name.

Mr. Wolfe.

She hit Call before she could think twice.
The line rang once. Twice…and just when she got ready to hand up he picked up the phone call.

“Oh…hello.” She said simply. She didn’t wait for him to say anything. “I just wanted to say thank you for the money. It was helpful even though you didn’t need to offer it to me. Surprisingly I am spending some of it on myself.” She added before she paused. She waiting on a corner to cross the street. “Downtown is so busy…” she muttered mostly to herself as she watched the cars speed by.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

Adrian sat in his downtown office, a quiet oasis amidst the constant hum of the city below. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the view like a moving painting: taxis weaving through traffic, office workers hurrying past each other in tailored coats, the occasional food cart exhaling steam into the crisp evening air. His inbox blinked impatiently in the corner of his screen, but his attention drifted elsewhere - somewhere quieter, more human.

Then the phone rang. Normally, he wouldn't have given it much notice. He got dozens of calls a day - clients, colleagues, assistants, people with problems they hoped he could solve. Most of them he ignored until his calendar told him it was time to care. But this time, something pulled his gaze to the caller ID.

Delilah.

His chest stirred with something unexpected, subtle but undeniable. A shift in breath. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. The smallest smile. He picked up without hesitation.

"I just wanted to say thank you for the money. It was helpful even though you didn't need to offer it to me. Surprisingly I am spending some of it on myself."

The words hit him with a quiet weight. Not because of their content - he had resources far beyond what he'd sent her, and the gesture hadn't cost him much in terms of money. But the sentiment behind it - her acknowledging it, her accepting it - felt more intimate than he had anticipated. She was spending some of it on herself. He had told her to. Encouraged her, even. But he hadn't truly expected her to follow through. Delilah didn't strike him as someone used to indulgence. More often than not, women like her - strong, private, cautious - channelled their energy into survival rather than self-care. They paid the bills. They scraped by. They kept receipts, made lists, skipped luxuries. Not because they weren't deserving, but because no one had ever reminded them that they were.

So to hear her say she'd spent the money on herself, it told him something. Not just that she was listening to him, but that some part of her, however small, had decided to trust him. That pleased him. And surprised him. Not because it gave him a sense of control - though he was no stranger to the satisfaction of influence - but because it felt like something else entirely. Something personal. He'd spent his adult life mastering the art of strategy. Getting into people's heads was how he won - deals, negotiations, even personal relationships when he chose to engage with them. But this wasn't the same. It wasn't about leverage. It wasn't about outcome. It was about her. And for reasons he hadn't fully unpacked yet, that distinction mattered more than he cared to admit.

"Downtown is so busy…"

He barely registered the words before his mind started working. It was almost dinner time. People were packing into restaurants, leaning against bar counters, pulling coats tighter against the early evening breeze. Her voice - those few simple words - wasn't just an observation. It was a breadcrumb. And Adrian never ignored breadcrumbs. An idea struck him like a well-timed chord.

"Meet me at Salerntino in 30 minutes."

He said it without preamble, then hung up just as quickly. Not out of rudeness - he wasn't in the business of being careless - but because he knew how people like Delilah operated. Give her too much space, too much time to overthink, and she'd talk herself out of it. Give her an out, and she'd take it. He didn't want to leave room for refusal - not because he assumed she'd say no, but because he wanted her to say yes without needing to be convinced.

If she came, it would mean something.
If she didn't, that would mean something too.

He called for his car, not wasting a moment. By the time he arrived at Salerntino, the sky had begun to settle into twilight. The restaurant's familiar stone façade and brass accents gleamed under the glow of early evening lights. A soft murmur of clinking glasses and warm laughter drifted out every time the door opened. Salerntino had always been one of his go-to places - not flashy, not loud, but known for its discretion and excellent food. He was on a first-name basis with the staff, and they understood what it meant when he requested his table. He gave the hostess Delilah's name, making sure they'd bring her straight over if she arrived. He didn't want her lingering awkwardly at the front or second-guessing whether she was welcome.

And then he waited. No phone. No laptop. No distracted tapping at the screen or pretending to skim emails he had no intention of answering. Just him. Sitting quietly. Letting the idea of her arrival take up space in his thoughts. It wasn't like him to hope for something like this. He didn't do chance meetings or casual invitations. Everything he planned served a purpose. But with Delilah, he was beginning to discover a different kind of purpose - less about outcome, more about connection. A quiet sort of wanting that didn't stem from ego, or victory, or control.

She was unpredictable. Guarded. The kind of woman who didn't let people in easily. That fascinated him. Because he was used to finding people easy to read, easy to bend, easy to push toward the outcome he wanted. Delilah didn't move like that. She didn't yield on command. And maybe that was the reason he was sitting there now, waiting—not because he needed her to say yes, but because if she did, it would be on her terms. Not a reaction, but a choice.

A choice to show up. A choice to let him in. Even just a little. He could live with that. More than that - he wanted to.​

 

[Kita-san]

Delilah stared at the screen in her hand like it had just rolled its eyes at her.

Meet me at Salerntino in 30 minutes.

Then—click. That was it. No follow-up, no "if you want to." Just a directive, clean and confident, like he was used to people obeying him the moment he opened his mouth.
She blinked once, her brow pulling in.

Seriously?

She scoffed under her breath. Classic Adrian. All power moves and timing. Like this was chess and she was just the next piece he'd nudged forward. The gall of it almost made her laugh.

Almost.

She turned her face up toward the evening sky, letting the wind brush against her cheek, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone. She could already hear what her friends would say—Don't let that man snap his fingers and expect you to show up like it's some kind of test. But even as she thought it, she felt the contradiction already moving in her. Because it didn't feel like a test. Not really. It wasn't smug. It wasn't arrogant. It was… sure. Like he knew her. Not in that annoying, presumptuous way people who barely listened pretended they did. But in a way that said:

I know you'll come—because you want to.


Not because you're chasing anything. Not because you're desperate. But because this? This is yours to choose. That realization hit harder than she wanted to admit. It wasn't cocky. It was clean. Intentional.

“Maybe this isn’t a game.” she glanced one more time at her cellphone. She stood still for a long beat on the edge of the downtown sidewalk, watching strangers pass her by in waves of perfume, cologne, cigarette smoke and takeout bags. Then she tucked her phone into her pocket and started walking. She didn't rush. But she didn't hesitate either.

The wind cut through her faux leather jacket, and the sidewalk stretched wide beneath her heeled boots. Her reflection caught in storefront glass—sharp-lined soft, eyes bright with long lashes, lips coated with cherry scented lip oil, hair pulled back into a loose pony tail that said functional, not flirty. Not the kind of look that said dinner at Salerntino—but then again, she wasn't showing up to impress. She adjusted the crop t shirt she was wearing and gave herself one more look over in the glass window. Her high wasted jeans fit snuggly and looked nice with a belt and boots.

“Oh well.” She rolled her eyes at how much she was stressing over how she looked. She told herself not to worry and kept walking. She was showing up because she wanted to know why he'd asked. Still, as she got closer, her thoughts ran tight and fast.

What if this meant more than it should?
What if I look like I want this much?
What if he is sitting there expecting something I can’t—or won’t—give?

She pressed all those voices down. Pushed them into her chest and smoothed her face into neutral calm. On the outside, she looked untouched by nerves, like she'd done this a dozen times before. But inside, her heartbeat was steady and stubborn—just loud enough to remind her this wasn't just dinner. This was something.

At the door, the warm light spilling out from Salerntino made her blink once, but she stepped inside.

The hostess met her with a bright smile. "You're here for Adrian?” Delilah gave a subtle nod. "Yeah." The name didn't feel strange in her mouth. But it did feel… heavier than it had an hour ago.

She followed the hostess through soft lamplight and quiet clinks of glassware, ignoring the small glances of curious patrons. And then she saw him.

Adrian. No phone in hand. No show. Just sitting. Waiting. Like this wasn't a power move at all. And that's when it really landed. He hadn't invited her here to prove anything. He wasn't trying to win.

She took a slow breath, then approached, her eyes meeting his with the cool poise she'd perfected over the years. One brow lifted slightly. "You always this dramatic with your dinner invitations?" she asked, slipping into the seat across from him without waiting for a reply. No smile. But her voice had that dry edge, playful but firm.