The only thing that shows he slips is the breath Vegeta lets out when she meets him at the bottom of the spiral staircase. Then he looks the other way, like everything is judged lacking, including her, and nothing in this foyer is worth his attention.

She can't take her eyes off of him as they advance across the foyer, but she tries. Ogling is not befitting a secretary. She pushes her glasses up her nose and tries to look anywhere else but him. Bulma worries her bottom lip, because this is going to be the biggest lie she's ever told. And if it's not convincing enough, they're dead meat. Not even in an alternate universe could she pretend to be his submissive. But tonight, it doesn't matter what she thinks.

He rules tonight, as if the full moon had drawn him out of his skin, howling him into his truest, most animal self. But this isn't an impulsive beast acting on its instincts—there is a top of the food chain predator looking out from behind his eyes. He'd been heart-stoppingly handsome but approachable in tweed the evening they went to the Moonlight. He'd been beautifully stripped down to all that was male virility when he'd parted the ropes of the boxing ring. This is a totally different man. She can tell from a mile away that this suit costs as much as her mortgage, deepest black and starkest white. If the fighter in him had a scarier version, a leveled up version, this was it. The bones of his face are primitive, black eyes cutting, knowing every part of her without having the courtesy to ask. It's a mask of humanity slipped over something that, tonight, clearly isn't. She remembers when she first saw him outside his front door in just a tee and sweatpants, how intimidating he seemed. That Vegeta is kindergarten next to this one, who looks like he'd end a man just for looking at him. This is a man perfectly in control, who, in Bulma's wildest imagination—running rampant at the moment—reinforces that control by selectively dispensing violence through a force of devoted fighters. He is the star of the coolest, most gruesome revenge movie. She would toss popcorn into her mouth and watch him issue orders on screen. She has so many questions, but the details of his past are irrelevant now, because what he was—what he is—is on full display. There's no longer any denying it. This is no rule-honoring athlete, no petty criminal, no grumpy neighbor. He was—is—the king of a savage kingdom.

Just what did Vegeta used to do?

He doesn't offer her his arm or even acknowledge that she's there. But their stride matches effortlessly, ensuring that she is just behind his shoulder as they press towards the casino entrance. He is straight backed as ever, but there's something wounding about his strut, a swagger that isn't quite a movement but a way of being. It's more loose and more arrogant than she's used to. He projects power without even trying. People get out of his way.

With mussy hair, smoked out eyes, and a slinky pewter dress—and with her big, ugly glasses and a notebook clutched to her chest, just as she'd been in the elevator—Bulma feels like a different person, too. She is still not sure what's happening, only that it is and she has to keep up. She doesn't even have her neighbor to lend her support in this. Despite Vegeta walking right next to her, she's alone. She doesn't recognize them as they pass by a bank of mirrored windows.

Vegeta glides into the casino like he owns the place, pausing at the entrance. Drawing eyes, before flowing forward with that arrogant cadence.

The two men from the elevator, now dressed up in suits, sit at a table in the center of the cavernous room, talking low, coming into focus from across the room.

True to form, Bulma stays absolutely silent and allows Vegeta to lead. She is like the passenger in a car, a guest at a movie theater. She has no agency as she watches the story unfold.

Vegeta slides into the tufted loveseat at the game table, leans back, and smirks. She keeps her eyes away from following the long line his broad neck makes and pins her eyes to the wall. She doesn't dare sit down without his permission. He doesn't ask her to. No one even acts like she's there.

Bulma doesn't know this Vegeta. She doesn't trust him, doesn't understand him. She has no leverage anymore, no advantages of a woman who's a little bit Something More. She wonders, not for the first or last time, if this was a good idea. If it was ever a good idea to loop him into this.

Her neighbor smiles shark-toothed at the men, and the whole world shrinks to the three of them. They smile unkindly right back.

"It's been a long time, Vegeta," the big one says. An unassuming waiter with eyes trained on the ground appears at Vegeta's side, but the big one cuts in. "He'll have what we're having."

And then it happens, faster than she'd anticipated. Her fears manifest, slamming into her at full force.

She's targeted.

"Who is this, Vegeta?" The slender one—Zarbon—asks. His voice is a soft, stately chime. He is modelesque, androgynously beautiful, with long, flowing hair and a pinched nose. The thick, muscled one's every action is aggressive, his voice harsh and sarcastic, but this one lacks any emotion at all, like a bored aristocrat.

Vegeta is totally apathetic. "My personal assistant." As if the mention of her is just a message he crumples up and throws into the trash.

The men don't say anything, waiting. They want more information before they give any themselves. They don't think she's safe. Bulma sweats behind Vegeta's shoulder. She keeps her eyes on the wall.

"A level of secrecy comes with the position," Vegeta only says, cruelly chuckling under his breath at their worry. He won't say anymore. She's not worth explaining, and he won't explain himself to anyone.

"You keep a pretty assistant." Pretty isn't a compliment, it's an insult. It's flowery, shallow, insignificant. Ginyu rakes her up and down. She is on display, representing Vegeta like a display sign: '2 cantaloupes for the price of one.' Soon he'll check her teeth, draw some conclusion about Vegeta afterward. "Must be a new era for you, to let a woman so close."

"Business has grown," Vegeta answers smoothly, crossing his ankles, "and I won't be bothered with the minor details. I let the help deal with small concerns." He sips his sake, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. The mocking hook at the corner of his mouth hasn't released its claws from his lips. On first glance, she wouldn't like this man.

Bulma is staring at the ground, silent and docile, but she's hanging on to every word. She is on the hunt for any clues, any hidden meanings. She has it easy, honestly. If she doesn't have to talk, she can focus on listening.

Everything the men say is designed to cut. She is a minor detail. She's pretty. She's just a woman. It's nothing she hasn't heard before. But everything Vegeta is laying down is so subtle that no one else recognizes he is sowing seeds of rot. "Business has grown" is so mundane that they just accept it, and suddenly he's a tycoon. Well, what did she know? Maybe he was, and it was just one of his many secrets. She is reminded how dangerous the deal she made with him last night is. Who was Vegeta, really?

A knowing grin melts across Ginyu's face. It's clear, he enjoys needling Vegeta. "You fucking her? Or is she for sale?"

It's like she's tripped over a curb and landed face first on the concrete. Bulma is shocked stupid before that bruised feeling of being scandalized crashes over her. She feels the blood leave her face, but Ginyu isn't watching her. He's watching Vegeta.

He's probing.

If Vegeta reacts emotionally, he'll know that Bulma is special somehow. If they were lovers, Vegeta might take offense. Even if she were an appreciated employee, Vegeta might step up to defend her.

It'd be suicide. It would make Bulma vulnerable to any machinations or as leverage to use against Vegeta. Bulma also understands the implications—no one would ever voluntarily be with Vegeta. It's a stab at his value. A dig at his ego.

Instead, Vegeta sinks back into his chair and lights a cigar from between his teeth with a match. He blows smoke, and then looks up from under thick, fiercely angled brows at the two men with utter impudence. "Neither. She's here in case something comes up that's beneath me."

Bulma Briefs is insignificant. She is no one. She is a smudge on a photo taken of these three intimidating men glaring at each other. And just like that, she watches as they accept it. They've trust he thoroughly screens and selects his crew. To some degree, Bulma realizes, they respect him, even for all their jabs. And just like that, she's safe.

She's in.

One by one the dealer throws the cards neatly in front of each man until there are seven, and then moves a pile of chips into the middle of the table. He then takes several steps back, leaving her alone with the sharks.

"So," Ginyu prompts, "it's been three years. Naturally, we're real curious. No one's heard anything. You an accountant? Started a family?" He laughs. "No one knows what happened, except him." There's a kind of wary recognizance when he says 'him,' a shiver than runs through the group. "And he keeps his own counsel."

"If he's not telling us," Zarbon slides a card face-up onto the table, "then he doesn't want us to know."

Vegeta takes a sip of his sake. "I wouldn't want to give it away, then." And Vegeta smiles.

"We know you're still in the game," Ginyu accuses, looking straight at him. "The Starboard docks have your name all over them."

"And we can't go to O'Harrah's without seeing your underlings," Zarbon adds, a complaint.

"Nappa and Raditz always made good dogs," Ginyu grins. "But your crew stays small. We haven't heard a peep about whatever it is you're up to." He looks at Bulma, and her mouth dries. "Wish there was someone we could ask."

Vegeta shuffles through his cards. "Touch one of my people and I'll kill you."

He says it so calmly that it takes a moment for her to process. Then the air leaves her lungs.

Vegeta says it like he's done it a million times. Like it's as easy as washing dishes, folding laundry. Like he's not joking.

And the other guys, these men who knew Vegeta better than she does, they buy it. Briefly, they're humbled. They don't say anything, don't meet his eyes.

They believe him.

Ginyu breaks the tense silence with palpable aggravation. "It has to be enriching the boss's pocketbook, whatever it is you're doing. He'd never allow it, otherwise." Ginyu is like a dog with a bone, shaking and shaking it.

"I'm just doing my part to make sure money is flowing," Vegeta says, placing a card between them. It's only a four, adjacent to Ginyu's jack and Zarbon's nine. Ginyu's eyes flash with humor when he sees it.

"I could see that at Starboard, when we found what you left." The three men still and look at each other. They won't say it, but it's something terrible, she knows it. The thick silence stretches painfully; Vegeta looks like he thrives in it, like he couldn't be more comfortable in this suspenseful, shitty situation. Then Ginyu grins. "Your fucking signature written all over it. Blood and rubble everywhere. Like old times!" And a laugh whoops out of him.

Some chips move back and forth. Vegeta places down another card, and so do the other men.

"What I can't understand...is the fights." Zarbon's cool exterior cracks, puzzled. "We both know you're capable of so much more." 'More' is suggestive. Yearning. "Why lower yourself to that level?" Zarbon's hooded eyes are deep, jeweled green in the light, latching onto Vegeta. "Unless it's not by choice? It certainly couldn't be for money? The money's not as good as the underground fights..."

"You have too much pride," Ginyu says harshly. "So the question is...who's got you over their knee?"

She can tell this throws Vegeta off his game a little. He tenses beside her. Oh no, he doesn't get upset when the guy calls Bulma a whore, but now his damned pride is wounded because someone suggested he might be on the B team and not the A team. She watches his jaw tick.

"Sometimes it's not a matter of who has you under their thumb," Vegeta looks up from under even brows. "But who is betting they have you under their thumb, and wrong."

Hanging on to every word, they can't look away from him as they lay their cards down.

Vegeta leans back, holding their gaze. "But you're not completely wrong."

Bulma does her best not to show surprise at Vegeta's admission. Her face is a mask. She stands still as marble. A statue, a prop.

"There's something I want," Vegeta says.

"You never could say no to something you wanted," Ginyu tsks.

"And to get it," Vegeta continues, as if Ginyu'd never spoken, "it's in my best interest to appear harmless."

"It's hard to see you of all people as harmless." Ginyu balks.

Vegeta's teeth gleam as he grins sharply. She understands why he doesn't smile very often. Vegeta's smiles don't exactly put anyone at ease. "Sometimes the greater satisfaction is in the surprise before the display of power."

"Now that sounds like Vegeta," Zarbon complains, fitting his cheek against his fisted knuckles, elbow propped on the table.

"I can be a nice guy." Vegeta's grin grows bigger. "Sit," her orders her, and she takes the seat on the tufted loveseat beside him automatically, mostly out of shock. "But it always serves to remind them who's in charge."

His eyes never leave Ginyu's as he drains the sake from the tumbler.

Chips move, a new set of cards are placed down. The other two scan the game in front of them with confidence. They're winning.

"What's important enough for you to lower yourself for, I wonder?" Ginyu refuses to let this go. "I mean, how humiliating..."

She gets it. They're hoping to chip away at Vegeta's pride. It's his hubris, his Achilles heel. It's why she gets under his skin. She treats him like a normal person, and it's like he's never gotten used to it.

"There is something I'm keeping my eye on," Vegeta only says neutrally, tacking a card down.

"Oh?"

Vegeta shapes the lit end of his cigar in the ashtray before resting it on the edge and leans in, clasping his hands on the table. His voice lowers. "I want this city."

"South City wasn't enough for you?" Ginyu laughs. "Shit, you grew up there. And he's there." Ginyu's eyes gleam. "I figured if there's any city you'd want, it'd be that one."

Bulma's eyes widen.

"There's something making its way around this city that might affect the result of that."

"There's a lot of interest in the underground market right now," Zarbon says carefully. "A lot of different players, sifting for information about the same object." Those green eyes glint, hard as jade.

This is it. They know something about her project.

Bulma's heart hammers a staccato beat.

"Let them sift." Vegeta leans back, laying down a card coolly. "I have a source that knows how to use it."

Her stomach drops.

"No one cares about that yet," Ginyu argues. "Right now, it's the hunt that matters. The capture."

"They're fleas on the backs of wolves. They can't look past their own noses." Vegeta leans his elbow on the armrest. "Whoever wins it will be hamstrung. They'll sit there, clutching it in their hands, incapable of using it. Unless they know someone. Like I do." A wisp of a smile curls the corner of his lips. She hates it on principle.

"Do you remember," Ginyu interjects, "East Hills?"

Vegeta stiffens beside her.

"The mobster families who ruled there, they thought they were invincible. You remember? Self-made, they'd climbed the ladder the hard way, bloody knuckles and everyone a stepping stone, and thought they'd finally come out on top. Two families vying for control, they milked that city dry when they weren't leaving gun casings and bullet holes everywhere. Thought they deserved our city next. He wanted to test you. He thought you'd go in there, fists flying, and get knocked on your ass. We couldn't wait for the good laugh we'd get out of the example the rookie made."

Ginyu's voice lowers, with a rare solemnity that chills her. "Imagine our surprise when we heard the next day, that in the thick of night, both mobster families were gone. Blown out like candles. Every lynch pin, every soldier, every heir. Not even any grieving widows were left. The neighborhood had been purged. You could put a for sale sign on every other house." Ginyu observes Vegeta with rare consideration. "You didn't want that town, which surprised him. No. You came back to report, complaining that there hadn't been anyone worth fighting. 'Send me somewhere worth my time next time, or don't send me at all,' you told him."

The following silence is so thick she can't draw air into her lungs. She hears herself make a sound in her throat, choking. He tenses beside her.

Ginyu finally continues. "The kind of life we lead, it's blood in and blood out. We formed a different opinion of you that day. But I can't help but think, what does Vegeta know, besides blood and broken bones? Why would he try to be something he's not?"

"There are other ways to win cities," Vegeta only says.

"Not if you play the way you're playing this game," Ginyu snorts, shattering the tension.

"How can we trust that you have our best interests in mind?" Zarbon interjects, staring. "Loyalty was never your specialty. No one could trust you as far as they could throw you."

Vegeta only smiles deeper. "I have his best interests in mind," Vegeta distinguishes. "That's all that matters."

"We'll see if Vegeta does the right thing," Ginyu sighs, suddenly done with arguing about it, placing another card down.

"He's never had any concept of the right thing," Zarbon argues.

"I'm wounded," Vegeta says insincerely, sharp teeth gleaming. "You'll find out very soon whether or not I'm a man of my word."

And then Vegeta places four cards down.

All four of them stare down at the table.

Every single card is a king.

The other men blink, and then Ginyu is cursing, shifting in his chair, and Zarbon finally cracks, a tic throbbing at his temple.

The dealer scoops the chips and clears the table as Vegeta flows to his feet. She's jumping to her feet beside him, notepad and pen against her chest, but he's already turning away from the table.

"Hopefully we'll have a fight worth watching soon," Ginyu calls after them. "It's been a long time since I've seen you brought low." He clucks his tongue. "I'd love to see you up against that Saiyan again. Watch him wipe the floor with you, just like last time."

Vegeta is stiff beside her. "Change is coming," he cautions over his shoulder, and then darkens the tables, the bar, the glittering couples they pass in the dimly lit game room. At the staircase, he doesn't slow, he just orders her to their room without even glancing in her direction, and strides across the hall, like he owns it, her, and everyone in it.

…

When the door finally opens, she's perched on the trunk at the end of the bed, but stands as he closes the door behind him. Her voice is tight. "Everything okay?"

Vegeta just stands there for a moment.

Her eyes are bright blue behind the smoky black eye makeup, her hair falling in waves over her shoulder, but her heels have already been toed off, her glasses folded on the night stand. She's been fidgeting at the edge of the bed for way too long. She hates that he just left her there to stew in a melting pot of worry and confusion, but tonight, she practices patience. They are a team, forged in the fires.

Tonight, they'd both extended trust. Strength.

Loyalty.

He's looking at her like she's the only person who's ever cared about him in the whole world, with a kind of awed humility that is so far removed from the man that he was an hour ago that it's whiplash. Everything she's going to ask him flies out the window under that regard.

It's like someone has pulled the line of a bow taut and released him. He's across the room in only a few steps, and as soon as he's close he reaches out, sinking his hands into her hair and cradling her head.

Vegeta doesn't touch anyone like this, not even her, who he keeps an arm's length away. Being touched with affection by Vegeta is like the biggest, baddest lion in the jungle has curled up around you, purring. Being touched with affection by Vegeta makes her feel like the most special woman in the whole world.

"I should be the one asking you that," he rebuffs. There's strain in his voice, a species of anxiety she's never heard from him before: concern for someone else.

He rests his forehead against hers as his thumb traces the arc of her cheekbone. And then they're both angling forward, led by a single idea.

His mouth presses her parted lips first, and then she's opening, kissing that haughty upper lip, and then the lower one, slowly, graciously. One of his hands finds its place at the small of her back and he holds her together, because being close right now is the only thing making any sense.

"I know you have a thousand questions. But this is the truth of it," he growls. "I'm right here, when I could be anywhere else."

She doesn't argue. It's all she'd ever need in the world, tasting him, breathing him. Her questions melt into the background. She could do this all night. This back and forth, this cycle of need and give and test and analyze the results and do it again.

She wraps both arms around his neck, every molecule of her firing with lambent need, and he seems to feel it, too. They don't know whether it's destroying them or incinerating all the bullshit to make them purer and stronger, smelting them together.

Her hand drifts down his sides under his jacket, and his breath hitches a little. Vegeta angles her mouth, his fingers pull in her hair, and he kisses her even deeper, more demanding. It relaxes her, to be needed by Vegeta, to be wanted.

He's being careful with her, she can feel it, even as he makes his demands. None of that tidal wave of fury that went stalking towards the beach, but restraint. Discipline. Purpose. Hints of the man he was in the casino. All that focus of both men. Except she is the goal this time.

But where's the fun when Vegeta is contained? Wild, uninhibited, fearless—that's the man she knows is under the cover, past the curtain of secrets and spartan realism. If he feels at all as needy and wild as she does, then she's going to yank the leash. Bulma wants him to break it and barrel for her.

Just as the tether is about to snap, someone busts down the door.

...

Two men rush Vegeta, precise as arrows from the door, which slams up against the wall in surprise. Vegeta pivots and places himself in front of her with little time to spare. He locks the first one, but they have the advantage of surprise. He is still trying to figure out the best means of attack while keeping an eye on her. She stands behind the chair helplessly, but she can't stand to watch him divide his interests. He's on the defensive, not the offensive, and it doesn't seem to come naturally to him.

Bulma hates feeling helpless. So she does what she can for her team. She picks up the nearest lamp and smashes it over the first guys head. He goes down. It's a shame because it's a really beautiful lamp.

Vegeta takes just a second to stare at her in disbelief before he's exchanging blows with the second guy. This guy seems the smarter of the two, and keeps his eye on both of them. Vegeta is just as good at wrestling as he is fist fighting, because they exchange blows, and then lock arms, and then exchange blows, and fall to the floor and lock limbs again. The guy is surprisingly good, and that's the only reason he's able to put up a fight, because Vegeta is lightning reflexes and precise power.

It ends when Bulma strides over with another lamp. The intruder pulls a gun out and aims it at her. "Drop it," he says.

Vegeta and Bulma both freeze.

The lamp shatters, spraying across the hardwood floor once it slips from her hands. The intruder stares flatly, gives her a look like, "Really?"

"You told me to drop it," she reminds him.

He leads them down the hall with a gun in Vegeta's back, dragging his unconscious cohort behind them.

…

"Why are you here sneaking around my casino," thunders a voice.

Bulma turns furious eyes on the tall, shaved headed asshole that had them dragged from their room as they're shoved inside an office.

Vegeta doesn't even hide it. "I needed in your gardens to know if you were hiding something."

The guy doesn't even miss a beat. Not so much as a flicker of surprise skips across his features. His stare is intensely intimidating, sharp as a tack. Sitting behind an oversized teak desk in a room top to bottom with glass windows and monitors which display dozens of black and white surveillance videos, the man sits upright in his chair like a king. Piccolo, the name plate says at the corner of his desk. This must be the eponymous devil of the Devil's Heaven.

"Why?"

Vegeta slouches in his chair and stares at the wall. "Because I'm searching for a magic ball."

"Vegeta!" She hisses, and then lowers her forehead into her palm. She can't believe him. Why would he just admit that to this asshole whose lackeys just tried to cream them?

The man's eyes flick to her and back to Vegeta again. Thankfully she's had lots of experience receiving Vegeta's glares, and so she scowls right back at him.

"The register says you're here on your honeymoon."

"The honeymoon suites offer the best position defensively. Best floor. Furthest from entrances and exits."

"And here I just thought you were a romantic," Bulma grumbles beside him.

Vegeta gives her a look like "Shut. Up." that she tries to shred with her own look.

"You don't look like much of a double agent," Piccolo cuts to her, "nor a very obedient wife."

"I'm an excellent wife," she snaps.

The Devil smirks, and it's scary. It's not like Vegeta's. It's not willing to indulge her. His voice deepens with deadly seriousness. "Why don't you tell me what you two are doing here?"

"Why don't you tell me how you and Vegeta know each other?" She counters.

The men just look at each other.

"Demanding, isn't she," Piccolo finally says.

"It's why she's previously divorced," Vegeta grumps, looking away.

Bulma cuts him a look that he pretends he doesn't see.

Piccolo gets serious again. "Why are you going all this way to help her?"

The men stare at each other. Vegeta doesn't answer.

Piccolo seems to accept this. "Why didn't you scramble the cameras?"

Bulma gapes. "What?"

"Because I wanted to see how you'd respond to find someone in the gardens. If there was a reaction, you were hiding something. I'd find out what."

"Why did you break into my office to watch tapes of the front drive?"

The corner of Vegeta's lip snicks up. "I just love watching cars driving back and forth. Don't you?"

The two men glare at each other. Then Vegeta's face goes blank with indifference, like the high school slacker that can't be bothered to answer the teacher's questions. "Someone left with something I wanted."

"The car you nearly ripped the door off of last night."

Bulma is about at her wit's end with today. Why was Vegeta just giving everything away? Was he scared? Vegeta didn't look scared at all. And Piccolo was...intimidating...but he didn't look mad. She was getting madder by the second. Every time they embarked on a new undertaking in Operation Get Her Project Back, she had no idea what Vegeta was up to. He never looped her in. She wasn't worth telling, evidently. Her simmer becomes a furious stew.

"We've been watching you since you arrived. The surveillance has been very interesting." Piccolo looks at her, then Vegeta. Allows that to sink in.

Vegeta grinds his teeth.

"Have you swept everyone else's domains?"

"Yes."

"And I take it this was one of your last resorts?"

Vegeta doesn't answer, but she sees his lips hook down slightly. He's unhappy to be called out like that. Finally, an emotion, and it's about his pride! The trouble with liking this man was that she both admired his confidence but also wanted to jumped all over it until she'd stomped it flat and tossed it into a fiery inferno.

"Why did you meet Zarbon and Ginyu?"

Every question this guy asks is a statement. Bulma shifts in her seat with aggravation. She feels like giving him a hard lesson on declaratives.

"I ran into them in the elevator. They invited me to a game of House. Didn't feel like I had much of a choice."

"There's always a choice. Which one did you make?"

"The one that involved getting them to talk."

"Homesick?" It's the first thing Piccolo says that seems designed to hurt. Bulma gets it, even if she doesn't understand Vegeta's old life or the quantum entanglement of inside references between these two. He's asking Vegeta if he is plotting to have his old life back again.

Vegeta's frown deepens with the insult. "Collecting information."

"Convenient, if an in is what you're after."

"Highly inconvenient," Vegeta argues, fuming.

"You're really digging yourself into a hole here," Piccolo finally snaps, and turns that accusing glare upon Bulma. A flash of anger has her nearly jumping up out of her seat to yank him over the desk by his lapels. They glower at each other.

"I do what I have to do," Vegeta snipes back, rubbing his temples like he's fighting a headache.

"Well. Seeing as you're here on business, and not pleasure—" he flicks a glance at Bulma, and just like he'd planned, she's offended—"let me make you a business proposition." A smirk pulls at Piccolo's long face. "Don't you feel like it's time you've moved up in the world?"

Vegeta is suddenly furious. "You know I can't."

"Can't? That's a frightful word to hear coming out of your mouth. It'll be a new year, new season. Naturally, you've ascended. Then..."

"I'm not fighting Kakarot for you." Vegeta's blunt and harsh. "I don't owe you that."

"You both profit. ChiChi supports it."

"Because she thinks he'll win!"

"But we know better." Piccolo smiles.

"Are we done here?"

The men stare at each other, the tension thick and taut.

"Hercule is having a thing in the conference hall at noon. You might go down to see him."

Vegeta snorts in absolute disdain.

"He may have your last lead."

Vegeta's eyes narrow.

As if both men suddenly decide things are done, they turn from each other, and the tension dissolves. Vegeta stalks out of the room, expecting her to follow.

Outside the door, so fast she doesn't see it happen, the guy who'd burst into their room crumples to his knees limply, Vegeta's arm an iron band across his throat, squeezing.

"Don't you ever point a gun at her again," she overhears him say. Vegeta doesn't have to explain why. The goon is nodding before Vegeta is done with the sentence. Piccolo doesn't intervene.

"Congratulations, you two," Piccolo's flat voice comes from behind them.