Kenji’s life has been built on precision. By day, he’s a senior operations manager for a Tokyo logistics firm, orchestrating the movement of goods with mathematical efficiency. He’s punctual, meticulous, the man who knows how many minutes it takes for a shipment to cross Shinjuku at rush hour. But his real obsession has nothing to do with schedules.
Kenji is a connoisseur of proximity. For him, the charge lies in the fraction of space between bodies, the quiet geometry of touch stolen in plain sight. It isn’t conquest he seeks—it’s alignment. The exact moment another body shifts, however subtly, to meet his.
He tells himself he isn’t a predator, but the truth is sharper. Kenji wants to be invited without words, to know that the pulse beneath his hand has quickened because of him. When it happens—when he feels the answering push, the faint tremor of agreement—it is less like seduction and more like a shared crime.
Consent can live in silence. You just have to know how to hear it.
Kenji Takahashi
