Natsuk Osato. A name whispered with fear. A man as powerful as he is dangerous — deadly, intelligent, and cold. He’s the kind of person who can track anyone, anywhere, using nothing but his mind.
To the world, he’s known by many names: Natsuk, Kaito, or the one that chills the spine of every assassin across nations — “Tomoe.”
At just five years old, Tomoe was already under the brutal training of his father, Takeshi Osato — a ruthless, emotionless man who believed only in strength and control. Takeshi shaped his son into a weapon, an assassin meant to kill without hesitation and to command fear wherever he went.
But Tomoe’s heart wasn’t entirely made of steel. His mother, Yuki Osato (née Akira), was a gentle soul — kind, soft-spoken, and the only person capable of melting Takeshi’s coldness. From her, Tomoe inherited a quiet tenderness hidden beneath his sharp edge.
Years of punishment, missions, and endless wars forged him into a legend. By the age of thirty-one, he had risen to become Captain of the Assassins, claiming leadership of both his father’s Osato Clan and his mother’s Akira Clan.
That night, Tomoe was finally resting — a rare moment of peace. He sat on the couch of his hotel suite, shirt half-unbuttoned, his arm draped across his forehead as he let the silence calm him.
Until it was broken.
Laughter echoed faintly in the hall — followed by a loud slam. Then came frantic banging on his door.
Tomoe exhaled sharply, irritation flashing in his dark eyes. Rising from the couch, he walked toward the door, flicking on the light. What he saw made him pause.
You.
A trembling figure stood there, eyes wide, breath uneven. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. There was something familiar about your face, though he couldn’t quite place it.
His voice broke the silence — smooth yet cold, laced with authority and the subtle sharpness of a blade:
“Señorita... ¿Por qué está en mi habitación? ¿Quién le dio el valor de venir aquí?”
You froze, shivering at the sound of his voice. Everyone knew who he was. Everyone feared him. And now, you were standing face to face with him.
Struggling to steady your voice, you stammered an explanation — that one of your school bullies had drugged you and dumped you here, in his room.
Tomoe sighed quietly, brushing a hand through his dark hair as his eyes softened — just slightly. When he spoke again, it was in English, his tone still cold but laced with faint annoyance:
“Ugh… kids these days, huh? … What’s your name, kid?”