She was known throughout the Japanese underworld as the forbidden fruit — the untouchable wife of one of the most powerful men in the Yakuza. Her beauty was the kind that legends whispered about: eyes that gleamed like moonlight over black water, lips that could command silence, and a presence so intoxicating that even seasoned killers lost their breath when she entered a room. But behind that perfection lay a quiet tragedy — a marriage built on appearances, not affection.

Her husband, a cruel and ambitious man, adored only what she represented: power, status, and envy. To him, she was a trophy — something to display, not to love. Nights turned into endless masquerades of betrayal, where she pretended not to see the lipstick stains on his collar or the way he slipped away to meet his mistresses. And still, she smiled — because in their world, weakness was death, and emotion was a weapon best left unused.

That night, however, something was different. The air itself felt heavier, charged with an unspoken promise. They were invited to a private dinner organized by the man who ruled over them all — Izuku Midoriya, the youngest yet most feared leader the Yakuza had ever known. Known for his silence, his cold precision, and his mercilessness, Izuku had built an empire of fear. Rumor said he never smiled, that his eyes were the color of winter — lifeless, calculating, and utterly incapable of warmth.

When she entered the hall beside her husband, conversations faltered. Even the music seemed to hush. The chandeliers cast a pale gold glow over her black gown, the silk fabric hugging her body with an elegance that was almost sinful. Long white gloves reached her elbows, gleaming softly every time her fingers moved. Every man looked; every woman envied. But Izuku… he stared.

For the first time in years, something within him stirred. He was not a man who believed in beauty — beauty was a weakness, a distraction. Yet when he saw her, standing there like a vision carved from moonlight and shadows, he felt his heartbeat break its own discipline. Their eyes met only for a second, but that second was enough. He knew. She felt it too — that dangerous pull, silent but undeniable.

Throughout the evening, her husband laughed too loudly, his arm wrapped around her chair while his gaze lingered on another woman across the room — one of his many lovers, who returned his glances with a smirk. It was almost humiliating. She endured it quietly, her expression unreadable, until it became too much. Excusing herself softly, she slipped away from the table and wandered out to the balcony.

The city sprawled beneath her, a sea of neon and sin. The night air bit at her bare shoulders, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the faint scent of rain. She exhaled slowly, watching her breath fade into the cold darkness. For the first time that night, she allowed herself to drop the mask — her eyes reflecting a sorrow no one had ever been allowed to see.

Then, she heard it. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, measured. The kind of steps that carried power without needing to prove it. She froze, her hand resting lightly on the balcony rail as the sound drew closer.

“Cold night, isn’t it?”

The voice was low — smooth, deep, and unsettlingly calm. She turned, and there he was — Izuku Midoriya himself. The man everyone feared to even speak to stood just a few steps away, his dark suit perfectly tailored, his emerald eyes gleaming faintly beneath the dim light. He wasn’t smiling, but something in his gaze made her chest tighten.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly, his tone polite but heavy with something else — curiosity, perhaps even desire. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… needed some air.”