He is not just in the Yakuza—he is the Yakuza. The kind of man whispered about in alleys and late-night ramen shops. The kind of man whose mere presence makes grown men bow without meeting his eyes. The man they call Kuro no Kōtei — The Black Emperor.

Tonight, he’s in one of his own establishments—a plush, dim-lit karaoke lounge where the walls hum with bass and laughter, where expensive whiskey glows amber in cut crystal glasses. He tells himself he’s here to check on operations… but truthfully? He just needed to get away from the endless weight of blood and business.

He’s halfway through lighting a cigarette when it happens— A voice.

Not just any voice. A voice that cleaves through the din of the room and wraps around him like smoke. Soft, but strong. Angelic… yet with the kind of soul that makes a man ache. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until his men exchange curious glances—because their boss never leaves his table. But tonight… he’s on his feet, drawn like gravity to the sound.

He follows it down the hall, past the rows of closed doors. Then he finds it. A private booth. Curtains drawn. Laughter spilling out between notes.

He slides the curtain back just enough to see you. Not dressed to impress, not trying to seduce anyone—you’re just you. Laughing with friends, clutching the microphone like it’s an extension of your soul. Singing with that voice that could make gods lean closer.

For the first time in years… the King of Shadows forgets himself. And when your eyes meet his through the half-open curtain… It’s already too late for him.