The Takeda Estate stood under a moonlit sky, its sprawl drenched in silence. Cold winds whispered through the cherry blossom trees scattered across its sacred grounds. Paper lanterns swayed gently with the breeze, their warm light dancing across the polished stone paths.
Akihiro Takeda walked alone.
His wooden sandals echoed faintly with each step toward his private chamber, hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted toward the stars. The same stars he'd stared at a thousand nights before, wondering what it was like to be born someone else. Somewhere else.
To the rest of the clan, Akihiro was an outlier. A disgrace. Born from nobility, yes—but too playful, too indifferent, too… free.
He never walked like a Takeda. He swaggered.
He never spoke like one either. He joked, teased, laughed too loud. His aloofness was mistaken for disrespect. And within a clan that worshipped discipline, silence, and supremacy—he didn't belong.
Not that he gave a damn.
But some nights…
Some nights the cold cut deeper than usual.
Akihiro exhaled slowly as he passed the old stone lantern near the outer walkway. The light inside had long since gone out, but the faint warmth of the marble against the rain-chilled air brought an odd sense of nostalgia. The stone was cracked, moss crawling up its edges, forgotten like most things around this part of the compound. He didn't linger.
The air grew heavier near his chambers, carrying the scent of rain-slicked wood and pine. A quiet stillness clung to the corridor—quiet, familiar.
He reached for the door to his wing, fingers curling around the edge of the lacquered wood when a voice—soft, barely above a whisper—slipped behind him.
"…Akihiro-dono."
He stilled.
That voice.
That tone.
He turned, slow and casual, raising a brow with the faintest curl of a grin.
"Mikasa?"
From the shadows of a narrow alcove under the raised walkway, she emerged. A bundle of linens pressed tightly against her chest like a shield. Her robe was plain, white, the fabric threadbare in places and dust-smudged at the hem. A few errant strands of black hair clung to her cheek from the damp air, but she didn't tuck them away. She stood still, gaze locked on his—unflinching, though her posture was small.
Even like this—dirt smudged on her sleeves, skin pale from too many cold mornings—she was beautiful. Not the loud, painted beauty of the city women, but something gentler. Her features were delicate, almost doll-like, with a softness that didn't match the grime on her hands or the exhaustion in her shoulders. Most people overlooked it—brushed her aside like the background noise she'd always been forced to be.
But not Akihiro.
He noticed the way her lower lip always trembled when she was nervous. The way her lashes curled up ever so slightly at the corners. And the faint floral scent she wore now—sweet and clean—like honey and bergamot.
His scent.
She wore his roll-on.
He'd given it to her weeks ago after he caught one of the other servants gossiping about the "dust girl" who smelled like sweat and laundry starch. She never asked him for anything, but he handed it to her without a word.
Now she wore it like armor.
"You're back late," she said quietly.
He leaned his shoulder against a wooden pillar, stretching slightly as he exhaled.
"What gave me away? The clothes? Or the fact I haven't slept in two days?"
She gave a small laugh, eyes flickering down and away. "Neither. You walk heavier when you're tired."
Akihiro blinked. Then chuckled. "You keep track of how I walk? That's creepy as hell."
She blushed, flustered. "Not like that…"
He grinned, brushing his messy bangs out of his eyes. "Relax. I'm flattered. Kinda."
The breeze stirred again, cool and sharp against the warmth of their voices. Mikasa didn't move. She just stood there, clutching the linens tighter. Her sleeves were a little too long, hiding her hands completely.
"You shouldn't be talking to me out here," she whispered after a moment. "If someone sees—"
"Then I'll tell them you tried to seduce me," Akihiro said flatly. "Instant beheading. Super tragic. Clan scandal. Heads will roll. Mine included."
Her eyes widened in horror.
He smirked. "Joking."
"…Mostly. Besides your the one who called me, if your so scared of getting caught then you shouldn't have done it."
She let out another laugh, though it came out strained. She always did that—laughed to fill space when she wasn't sure what to say. He'd learned the rhythm of it. It wasn't fake. Just guarded.
"Did you…" she hesitated, eyes flicking to an injury, "did you get hurt?"
Akihiro looked down, spotting an injury he hadn't bothered to treat, he had gotten it from their latest mission. The skin beneath was already healing—just another slash among many.
"Oh. That?" he shrugged. "Not a big deal. I get sliced up all the time. Doesn't even count anymore."
She didn't smile this time. Her eyes stayed on the wound.
"I'm fine," he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck. "Takes more than that to kill me."
"I know," she murmured.
Their eyes met for a second. Just a second.
It was long enough.
Her eyes were soft. Unjudging. They didn't carry the weight of his name, or his family's expectations, or the whispered failures of being Kaito Takeda's son. They just saw him—not the assassin, not the strategist, not the disappointment. Just… him.
That scared him more than he'd ever admit.
He looked away first.
"Anyway," he said quickly, clearing his throat, "I should crash. Got plans tomorrow. See ya."
She nodded, stepping back slowly. "I'll bring tea to your chamber."
"Make it sweet this time," he called over his shoulder. "Last week's tasted like ass. And pack your stuff up, too."
She paused. "My stuff?"
"Yeah. Your clothes. Your comb. That ugly cup you like. Get your crap outta my room. I tripped on your sandal last night and almost died."
"…You didn't die."
"Not yet. But you're pushing your luck."
She smiled, her voice softer now. "You could've just told me to leave."
He shrugged. "If I wanted you to leave, I wouldn't have given you my tea."
He didn't look back as he slid open the door to his chambers and disappeared inside.
And behind him, in the quiet hallway, Mikasa stood a little straighter. The scent of bergamot still clinging to her sleeve.
Elsewhere.
Deep beneath the syndicate, the ground opened.
A silent elevator lowered through layers of concrete and metal, descending far beyond what any normal blueprint of the syndicate grounds would allow.
Elder Daizen stood inside the metal chamber, arms folded behind his back. He was quiet, unreadable. Beside him stood Elder Masaru—silent, towering, built like a living weapon.
The walls of the elevator glowed faintly, blue light pulsing softly like veins. The deeper they went, the colder the air became—not physically, but sterile, clinical. Unnatural.
Then the doors slid open.
And what lay beyond was not of this time.
Corridors of reinforced alloy. Retina and DNA-based scanning systems. Surveillance drones hovering silently along the walls. Rows of guards in matte black armor with rifles strapped across their backs.
At the end of the hall was a door unlike any other—a ten-layer reinforced vault surrounded by over a dozen containment generators, each humming with energy that seemed barely within the realm of comprehension.
A seal across the floor read:
"AUTHORIZED GENETIC ACCESS ONLY — CODE: TE-0."
Masaru placed his palm on the console. It scanned him. Accepted.
The vault hissed open.
Daizen stepped through.
The room beyond was dimly lit, with temperature and gravity regulation units pulsing along the walls. The air vibrated faintly with static. And in the center of the room… chains.
Dozens of them.
Some biological, others mechanical—designed to restrain even the impossible.
They were all fastened to a single figure.
But the man couldn't be seen.
He was shrouded in shadow, his limbs restrained in multiple planes, suspended between a cradle of anti-kinetic pressure fields and biochemical inhibitors. His presence was a void—a black hole in the shape of a man.
Elder Daizen stood at the threshold, watching the motionless silhouette. Then, after a long silence, he spoke.
"Tetsuma."
The name echoed through the room like a curse.
"We need to talk."