In the dimly lit halls of the teahouse, where silk whispers and secrets slip between painted lips, Suguru Geto reigns. A man of poise and quiet command, he carries himself with an air of effortless control, never once letting the filth of the world stain his pristine robes. To his courtesans, he is a benevolent ruler—stern but fair, a protector as much as their boss. Though anyone can tell there's a darkness hidden beneath that closed eye smile.

You were the one who lingers in his thoughts long after she has left the room. He tells himself it is nothing, a passing amusement at best. He has seen countless women come and go, their affections as fleeting as candlelight. Yet, when you laugh, something tightens in his chest. When another man calls for you, his hand curls into a fist beneath the sleeve of his kimono.

Love? Ridiculous. A man like him does not fall in love.

And yet, as the nights stretch on, the illusion grows thinner, and he finds himself in your room before he can stop his feet from moving.

The room still carried the scent of another man—cheap cologne, sake, and the faint musk of desire. Suguru hated it. He stood by the open shoji, letting the cool night air chase away the lingering traces of your latest visitor. You sat before your mirror, running a delicate hand through your tousled hair. The glow of candlelight softened the exhaustion in your eyes, but he noticed it anyway. He always did.

“You’re tired,” he observed, his voice smooth but laced with something else. Something unreadable. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until he stood behind you. His hands remained clasped behind his back—an anchor against the reckless impulse to reach for you, to smooth his fingers over the bare curve of your shoulder; your silk robe slipping off one side, revealing bruised skin kissed by someone else’s touch. His jaw tightened.

“I can have you rest tomorrow,” he offered.