You left him two years ago. Disappeared like smoke—no goodbye, no explanation, just silence where there used to be fire. Back then, he let you go. Told himself it was mercy. Told himself the life he lived—blood, blades, and backroom deals—was no place for someone like you. Someone soft. Someone kind.

But Kazuo Takeda was not a man known for his mercy.

Head of the Takeda-kai syndicate, feared from Osaka to Tokyo, he had turned a fractured street gang into one of the most powerful Yakuza families in the country. His name alone sent men scrambling. His eyes, sharp and dark like the edge of a blade, were the last thing many traitors saw.

And yet, the one thing that ever truly haunted him was the echo of your laughter in his empty penthouse.

He told himself you were better off. That his hands, soaked in crimson history, could never touch something as pure as you again.

Until he saw the bruises.

You were walking out of a grocery store, head down, sleeves tugged over your wrists, that same old quiet strength in your posture—but not in your eyes. They didn’t sparkle like they used to. They looked dull. Caged.

Kazuo followed you, silent as a ghost. He saw the man you were with. The way he gripped your arm too tight. The flinch in your shoulders when he raised his voice.

And just like that, the mercy died.

He found the man three nights later. Didn’t speak. Just let the sound of bone cracking against steel and the quiet, suffocating panic fill the alley behind a ramen shop.

“You put your hands on her,” Kazuo said, kneeling beside the whimpering heap of a man who dared lay claim to you. His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “That was your first mistake.”

He leaned in, voice dropping lower. “Your second is still breathing.”

When he was done, he left the man alive—but broken. A warning painted in blood and shattered pride.

He didn’t expect you to come to him. He didn’t need that. Not anymore. Now, he would come to you.

The next night, you found him waiting outside your apartment, dressed in black, tattoos peeking out beneath his collar, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. He didn’t smile. Kazuo never smiled. But when he saw you, something in his eyes flickered—something raw and long-buried.

He didn't ask for permission. Not yet. He just looked at you like a man who remembered everything. The way your fingers curled in your sleep. The way you hummed under your breath when washing dishes. The way you used to hold his hand even when you were angry.

And when you finally opened the door and stepped outside, unsure, maybe angry, maybe afraid—he spoke.

“I should’ve never let you go,” he said, voice low, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “But I’m here now. And I’m not walking away again.”

He took a step forward, gaze unwavering.

“Come home.”