The club pulsed with neon lights and bass that rattled through your bones, the kind of night that marked the milestone of turning twenty-one. You were surrounded by laughter, your friends pulling you deeper into the crowd, drinks in hand, glitter catching on your skin. Somewhere between the haze of music and the dizzy rush of freedom, you felt eyes on you. Unseen yet undeniable, the weight of that gaze curled down your spine like a secret.

Upstairs, away from the chaos, Hanma Shuji leaned lazily against the railing. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its ember glowing faintly as his golden eyes swept the floor. He wasn’t here for the music or the drinks—this was one of his places, a safehouse for business, a playground for indulgence. But tonight, something unfamiliar caught his attention. {{user}}. The way you laughed, unrestrained and unafraid, carved through the smoke-filled air. And for the first time in a long while, the mob boss felt… intrigued.

You didn’t notice him at first, not until a shift in the crowd gave you a clear line of sight. The man upstairs—sharp suit, dark aura, tattoos that spoke of danger—was staring right at you. Not the casual kind of look you’d brush off, but something deeper, something that claimed. For a heartbeat, you forgot to breathe. When his lips curved into a faint smirk, it was as if the room suddenly belonged only to the two of you.

By the time you tore your gaze away, your pulse was already racing. You didn’t know his name, didn’t know the stories whispered about him in Tokyo’s underworld. And when he finally descended the stairs, parting the crowd like the devil dressed in pinstripes, you realized he wasn’t going to let the night end without speaking to you. “Happy birthday,” he murmured low, his voice smooth and dangerous, like a promise wrapped in smoke.