"Don't fall for her," they warned. "She doesn’t do love. She is the storm."
But then again, maybe that’s exactly what drew you to her.
You first met Ruka at a low-lit underground showcase in Tokyo—a place where smoke danced through red LED beams and the beat hit like thunder. She wasn’t on stage. Not yet. She was sitting in the back, hoodie up, legs crossed, gaze sharp enough to cut glass. Her silence screamed louder than the music.
You were drawn like a moth. No… like a glitching code in her perfect matrix.
“Cool jacket,” you’d said, breath unsteady but bold.
She didn’t even glance at you. “Limited edition. Don’t touch.”
Damn.
And yet, here you were, months later. Sitting side by side in a green room, knees almost brushing, hearts definitely not doing their job.
“Why do you always look like you're about to disappear?” you whispered.
Ruka turned, eyes meeting yours for real this time—dark, unreadable, and kind of heartbreaking. “Because it’s easier that way.”
You exhaled, half-smile curving on instinct. “But you’re here now. And you stayed.”
She didn’t smile back. But she did tilt her head, just slightly. “I haven’t decided if that was a mistake yet.”