The streets glistened under the midnight rain, neon signs bleeding color into puddles like spilled jewels. My boots clicked against the wet pavement, each step pulling me closer to the place that demanded I burn myself alive again. Pavilion Eight. The devil's garden dressed in velvet and gold, its gates waiting like a predator's mouth.
I walked fast, shoulders drawn back, chest tight as if my own bones were a battlefield. Hiroshima's face haunted me—those sharp green eyes, that stubborn refusal, that fire I couldn't snuff out no matter how hard I tried. Every nerve, every corner of my body remembered him, and it made me ache. No man should carve himself this deep without even touching me fully. Yet he had. Without wanting to, without meaning to.
The glowing gates opened like a mouth ready to swallow me whole. Inside, smoke curled in fragrant ribbons, perfumed with sweat, whiskey, and faint cologne. Velvet curtains swayed as hosts slipped past with practiced grace. Laughter clinked like glasses, high and hollow, as if the walls themselves drank in the noise.
"Kaoru!" One of the younger boys waved—Tsubaki, too soft for this place, always. His smile was bright, though his eyes trembled at the edges. "You're late again. Manager was asking."
"Manager can choke on his cigars," I muttered, brushing past him. But I ruffled Tsubaki's hair, a habit I couldn't break. He lit up at the touch, and it almost made me sick—how easy it was to give crumbs and watch them shine.
The deeper I walked, the heavier the air became. Voices hushed when I passed, then rose again, whispering behind hands. Not that I cared. My body was currency here, my presence an addiction they couldn't kick. Let them talk.
The manager spotted me before I reached the stairs. His grin was oil-slick, suit too tight, eyes always calculating. "Kaoru, you're late, but lucky. Your favorite booked you again."
My stomach twisted, though not in surprise. Of course he had. He always did.
Renji.
The man who never tired of me. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in tailored black suits that made him look like a corporate wolf rather than a customer. Three years, and he still wanted to marry me. Three years, and I still laughed in his face.
The manager leaned closer, voice dropping. "He's already in Room Nine. And in a generous mood. Don't spoil it."
I smirked thinly, brushing past without answering. Spoil it? I was the only thing that could keep Renji's hunger steady. He wanted me too badly to risk leaving.
Room Nine glowed warm when I entered. Renji sat on the velvet couch like a king awaiting tribute, one leg crossed, a glass of whiskey glinting in his hand. His hair was neatly combed, eyes sharp and predatory—but when they landed on me, something dangerously close to affection flickered.
"Took you long enough," he said smoothly, voice rolling low, velvet laced with steel.
I tilted my head, letting the silver strands of my hair fall across my cheek. "Traffic."
He chuckled, eyes tracing me deliberately. "Traffic doesn't smear glitter across your collarbone. You're already burning before I've touched you. Who set you on fire this time?"
I stiffened. Hiroshima's ghost flickered again—green eyes, stubborn voice, the way he'd run. Damn him.
Renji leaned forward, catching the hesitation. "Ah. Interesting. I met someone earlier. At the mall. A foolish sort, clever-looking, jittery. Horny and restless." His smirk deepened. "He reminded me of you, the first time. Only… greener. Newer."
My pulse spiked. Every description cut too close to Hiroshima. Too precise.
I forced a laugh, sharp and careless. "Maybe you misheard. He doesn't sound gay at all. Panicked, maybe. Nervous. People say half things, and you wolves hear what you want."
Renji's gaze narrowed. "Funny. You defend him like you know him."
"I don't," I said flatly, clipped. "But I've watched people for six years. Studied their mouths, their eyes, their lies. I know when someone is trembling from lust and when they're trembling from fear. Learn the difference before you chase ghosts."
For a moment, silence. Then his lips curved, slow and dangerous. "Still so sharp. Still so prideful. That's why I haven't let you go."
He set his glass down, rose from the couch. His shadow cut across me, heavy, claiming. "You're burning already, Kaoru. You think I can't see it? That twitch in your jaw, the way your chest tightens. Who are you trying to fool?"
I swallowed, skin already electric under his gaze. Throat aching, I held my smirk. "Maybe I just don't break as easily as the others."
"Oh?" He stepped closer, brushing my chin, tilting it upward. Breath ghosted my lips, warm, deliberate. "Then let me see how unbreakable you really are."
The words coiled through me like smoke, heavy, taunting. Air thickened. Pulse clawed at my ribs. And just like that, dirty talk began.
Renji's hand lingered under my chin, thumb brushing the line of my jaw with infuriating patience. He always touched like he owned me—testing how much of me I'd resist before I snapped. The warmth of his fingers seeped through my skin, a subtle pressure that tugged at nerves I had buried long ago. Every touch was a claim, a reminder that he knew the architecture of my body better than I did, and it drove me insane.
"Unbreakable?" he repeated, voice low, tasting the word. "That's a challenge, Kaoru."
I smirked even as my chest clenched. "Maybe it is."
He leaned closer, letting the scent of whiskey and his cologne mingle with the lingering rain on my skin. "You smell… electric tonight," he murmured, low enough for only me to hear. "Like a storm waiting to break." His breath ghosted my cheek, hot and deliberate, making my pulse leap against my ribs.
I tilted my head, trying to look defiant, though I knew the effort was hollow. "Maybe you just like storms," I replied, voice clipped, trying to turn the tables.
He smirked, pressing his forehead against mine, holding me in that small space where the world ceased to exist. "No. I like what happens after them," he whispered, voice barely audible over the rain hitting the neon streets outside. His gaze dropped, scanning my face with an intensity that made it feel like he could see straight through the silver strands of hair into my thoughts. And maybe he could.
A shiver rolled down my spine, though I tried to mask it with a casual shrug. Every instinct screamed at me, warning of how easy it was to let him slip in, how dangerous it was to feel this alive under his touch. I hated the sensation, hated how his presence could make me forget everything else—especially Hiroshima.
"You know," he said, brushing his thumb across the edge of my lips, "every time you try to hide, I find it. That sharp, untouchable part of you… I can see it flicker."
I swallowed, jaw tightening. "Then maybe you shouldn't look so hard." My voice was steadier than I felt. Inside, my chest twisted with the memory of Hiroshima, the ghost that haunted every spark of warmth I felt in Renji's proximity.
Renji chuckled, low and amused. "Ah, Kaoru. You think you can protect yourself with words? You think I'm fooled by smirks and defiance?" He leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt his head, studying me as one might a work of art. "I've watched you for years. Every twitch, every sigh, every heartbeat… You can't hide the fire from me."
I flinched at the truth in his words. He always knew. And that was what made it so dangerous. My pulse thudded, a rhythmic reminder of how alive I was, how completely under his scrutiny I could be, without anyone else even near.
"Years," I whispered, almost to myself. "How long do you plan to keep watching?"
"Until you burn," he said simply, a smile curving at the corner of his lips. "Or until I do. Whichever comes first."
I tried to look away, focusing on the folds of the velvet curtains, the swirl of smoke from the manager's forgotten cigarette in the corner. But his shadow stretched over me like a tether, drawing my eyes back to his. I could feel the tension in his body—the weight of expectation, the patience that masked a dangerous hunger.
And then, as if to punctuate the moment, he tilted my chin up with the same deliberate patience, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw again. The sensation sent sparks crawling across my skin, teasing a tension I wasn't ready to release. My chest tightened, my knees shifted involuntarily, and the heat pooling in my stomach reminded me how little control I truly had when he wanted to claim even a fragment of me.
"Unbreakable," he whispered again, softer this time, almost a challenge and almost a promise. "I wonder… how long can you hold that up?"
I smirked, holding my gaze, fighting the tremor in my chest. "Long enough to make you try harder."
The corners of his mouth lifted in a slow, dangerous grin. "Good," he said, voice low, nearly a growl. "Because I like a challenge."
Outside, the neon rain continued to smear across the city, oblivious to the storm building in this quiet, velvet-draped room. Inside, our silence roared louder than any conversation, louder than any noise Pavilion Eight could offer. Every glance, every feather-light touch was a conversation, a declaration, a threat.
And there, suspended in the tension of hands and eyes and the space between breath and heartbeat, I realized that the fire he spoke of was already inside me. I just hadn't admitted to it—hadn't named it.
Not yet.