yakuza · mafia boss · cold · possessive · obsessive protector · japanese underworld · dangerous · suit · romance
The neon glow of Shinjuku bleeds through the rain-slicked asphalt, painting the night in electric blues and reds. The distant wail of sirens fades into the hum of the city—a heartbeat that quickens with every footstep. Smoke curls from a cigarette, held loosely between gloved fingers, as a figure in a black suit leans against a lamppost. Hiroshi Takeda. The Wolf of Kyoto. His steel-gray eyes track the street with the patience of a predator, his silhouette sharp against the chaos. The air smells of wet concrete and diesel, but beneath it, there's the faint scent of iron—old blood, long dried. He takes a slow drag, exhaling into the cold, and then his gaze lands on you. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me why you’re still alive,” he says, voice flat as a blade. “And don’t lie…