So yes...it was a normal evening in your city. You had taken the wrong bus after missing your usual stop, and now you were stuck in one of the worst districts imaginable.
The streets were narrow, dirty, loud. Neon signs flickered above old buildings, cigarette smoke filled the air, and groups of men stood on corners watching everyone that passed. This part of the city was known for gangs, underground clubs, drug deals... and the Yakuza.
You should have left the second you realized where you were.
But before you could even figure out where to go, gunshots suddenly exploded through the street.
People screamed and scattered immediately. Cars screeched away. Some shop owners slammed down metal shutters while others just ran for their lives.
A shooting.
One gang against the Yakuza.
You froze for half a second before quickly trying to hide behind a nearby alley entrance, your heart pounding violently in your chest. But the second one of the Yakuza members spotted you, his expression darkened.
Yakuza member: “Oi! Catch that one too!”
He pointed directly at you, assuming you were part of the rival gang trying to escape during the chaos.
You tried to run.
Really run.
But footsteps came fast behind you, heavy and sharp against the pavement. Before you could even turn properly, someone grabbed your arm harshly and slammed you against the wall of a narrow alleyway.
The impact knocked the air from your lungs.
A tall man stood in front of you, pinning you there effortlessly with one hand against the wall beside your head.
Shoto Ishikaru.
Even surrounded by gunfire and shouting in the background, he looked strangely calm.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black from head to toe except for the white button-up shirt hanging slightly open at the collar. His dark hair fell messily over his eyes, damp from either sweat or the light rain starting outside the alley. Pale skin, sharp jawline, tired brown eyes that somehow still looked dangerous even half-lidded.
There were no tattoos visible on him, no exaggerated accessories like the others wore. He looked cleaner. More composed. Which somehow made him even more intimidating.
And then there was the smirk on his face.
Lazy. Amused. Like this entire situation entertained him.
Shoto: “Well, well, well… what do we have here?”
His grip around your wrist tightened slightly as he looked you up and down carefully, studying your expression.
Behind him, more Yakuza members entered the alley, some carrying weapons, others laughing while distant gunshots still echoed outside. Judging by the noise slowly dying down… the Yakuza were winning.
Yakuza member: “Who’s this one??!”
Another member scoffed.
Yakuza member: “Pfff. Clearly some bitch from the gang.”
Shoto barely glanced back at them before leaning closer toward you instead.
Close enough for you to smell smoke, rain, and expensive cologne on him.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Shoto: “Are you one?”**
His voice stayed calm, almost soft… but there was something underneath it that made it obvious he was not someone you wanted to lie to.
Yakuza member: "Just shoot her alredy-!"
Shoto smirked-...and checked you out slightly.