Dim light casts amber shadows across the velvet walls of the underground den. The air is dense with smoke, curling upward in slow, serpentine coils. Jazz plays faintly in the background—low, sultry, and entirely out of place in a room where death is often discussed like weather.
Kiyoshi Arata leans back on a black leather couch, legs crossed, a half-burned cigarette dangling between his fingers. His eyes—sharp, foxlike—glint with lazy cruelty as he exhales a ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling.
He wears a burgundy silk shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the inked dragon tattoo coiling over his chest. Each movement of his wrist is languid, theatrical. A man who kills with a smile.
"Ren… that mutt is still wagging his tail for the Himura girl," he muses, voice like silk dragged across broken glass. He flicks the ash from his cigarette into the crystal tray beside him. "Loyalty's a pretty thing—but even a dog can be put down."
Laughter ripples from the men nearby. One of them, broader-shouldered, with a scar across his neck, leans forward.
"Should we strike soon?"
Kiyoshi doesn't answer right away. He swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid dance. Then, he lifts it to his lips and sips, slow and precise.
"No," he says at last, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "First, we take away what keeps him human."
He sets the glass down with a soft clink.
"Let's see how long he stays sane then."
---
Sunlight poured through the glass ceiling of the upscale mall, glinting off marble floors and polished display windows.
The weekend crowd hums with movement—teenagers laughing, parents wrangling children, couples strolling hand in hand. Everything is normal. Safe. Or so it seems.
Aiko walks ahead, her steps graceful, casual elegance in every motion. She's dressed in a soft cream blouse tucked into a navy skirt that sways gently with her movements. Her black hair is pinned into a loose half-up style, a few strands brushing her cheeks as she turns to glance back.
Ren follows her silently, a few paces behind, his posture straight, his hands occupied with paper bags filled with clothes she may or may not buy. His dark shirt is buttoned high, collar neat, sleeves rolled back just enough to expose the veins on his forearms.
He's her shadow. Her knight. Or her ghost.
"Ren, wait here. I want to try this one!"
She flashes a quick smile, holding up a hanger with something blush pink and lacy. Without waiting for a reply, she slips into the women's section, disappearing behind a wall of pastel dresses.
Ren nods—mostly to himself—and shifts his weight, eyes sweeping the crowd instinctively.
At first, he's calm. Composed.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then fifteen.
The bags in his hand suddenly feel heavier.
His jaw tightens. The backs of his teeth grind in silence. His fingers twitch slightly.
Something's wrong.
He doesn't think—he moves. Quiet, swift. His body slides between racks like a blade through silk.
He pushes past a pair of chatting teenagers, ignoring the staff's curious glance as he steps into the hallway near the changing rooms.
Inside, it's too quiet. He sees her slippers beneath one of the doors—neatly placed, untouched.
But no sound. No voice. No movement.
A dark fog coils in his gut.
Without hesitation, Ren yanks the curtain aside.
Aiko gasps—but not in fear.
She stands frozen beneath the dim yellow lighting, her blouse discarded and only a delicate lace bra covering her chest. Her cheeks flare crimson as she locks eyes with him.
"R-Ren…!"
But he doesn't move. Doesn't leave. Doesn't apologize.
He steps forward.
His movements are slow, deliberate. Like something ancient being pulled from deep water.
He reaches her. Gently, he lowers his head and rests his forehead against her shoulder, closing his eyes as he breathes in—like she's the only thing keeping him anchored.
His voice comes out low, rough around the edges.
"Here I was wondering what's taking you so long…"
His breath is cool against her skin. His hands are clenched at his sides, trying hard—so hard—not to touch. Not to ruin what little purity he hasn't already shattered.
Aiko's heart hammers in her chest. Her arms rise slowly, looping around his neck, delicate fingers brushing the nape where his hair begins.
She holds him—not like a lover, not like a child. But like someone desperately trying to mend a wound they can't see.
"Sorry," she whispers into his hair. "I didn't mean to make you anxious."
The silence that follows is thick. Their breathing falls into rhythm. Her skin is warm against his cheek.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just holds on.
Because in this moment, she's not a girl he raised. Not the daughter of the man he betrayed.
She's just Aiko.
And he's just… a man who doesn't know how to let go.
Knock knock.
"Excuse me, miss? Are you done yet?" a staff member calls out politely from outside.