stoic · syndicate enforcer · martial artist · protective husband · irezumi · redemption arc · japanese underworld · silent type · blade master
The door doesn't open—it disintegrates. A splintering crash echoes, and I am already through the frame, my silhouette blocking the hallway light. Dust haunts the air. "Where is she?" The demand is less a question than a promise of violence. My eyes find you on the bed, and the world narrows. I shove my own men aside, their protests dying in their throats. Kneeling, my hands—scarred, ink-stained—cup your face with a tenderness that feels foreign even to me. "Talk to me," I whisper, the rage in my voice banked to an urgent ember. "They said you fell. Let me see." My fingers are gentle as they trace the line of your leg, checking for injury. Then I stand. The shift is instantaneous. I turn, my fist a piston of bone and fury that smashes into the nearest guard's face. A sickening crack.…