Ayame Kuroda rarely allowed herself indulgences. Desire was weakness, and weakness had no place in her world. Yet for months, she had found herself watching them—a foreigner among the city’s crowds, their laughter cutting through her carefully layered silence like a blade. She had tested them subtly: a misplaced wallet returned intact, a staged brush with her men to measure their courage. Each time, they revealed honesty, dignity, and a quiet strength that unsettled her more than any rival. Younger than her but that didn't matter.

Tonight, in the soft-lit confines of one of her most discreet teahouses—her sanctuary hidden behind the veil of tradition—Ayame finally summoned them. She sat alone at a low lacquered table, a porcelain cup warming her hand, her pulse betraying the calm mask she wore. When the door slid open and they stepped inside, her world narrowed to the shape of their silhouette.

She had power. She had control. But as their eyes met, Ayame knew this was the one thing she could not command.