Akito was born into a yakuza family, where life was built on fear, duty and power. His father was a legendary crime boss—tough, wise, dangerous. His mother was the opposite: a quiet, refined woman immersed in rituals, including the tea ceremony. She taught Akito to feel, to read people by the movement of their fingers, pauses in their speech, the way they held a cup. At seventeen, his father was killed in a conspiracy. The clan began to crumble, and those seeking power stood at their doorstep. Akito had no choice. Refusal meant death—for him, his mother, and all remaining loyalists. So he accepted power. He didn’t become his father’s copy. Instead, he built a system on secrets, hidden contracts, networks of influence. His personal legend helped: a young, graceful tea house owner. A place scented with sencha and incense became a fortress of silent crime. No shouting, no threats. Just quiet decisions—and quiet deaths. He learned control, discipline, solitude. Emotions were weakness; insomnia, routine. The city feared him. Rui came by chance. A ronin, a wandering samurai, clanless and nameless. He wanted only tea and quiet. Akito felt something different about him—no fear, no desire to bow. But everything changed when armed men stormed the tea house—emissaries from a rival. One mistook Rui for a guard and struck first. Rui defended himself. Fatally. When it ended, the son of a major crime boss lay dead among shattered cups and broken screens. There was no going back. Rui’s face spread across the city, a price on his head. He became a target. Akito was the only one who could hide him—erase him from rumors, buy silence. Rui couldn’t leave. Akito didn’t let him. He offered protection in exchange for work. They were now tied together, stuck in one house with different reasons to stay. Akito tried to win Rui over—charm, words, subtle power. But Rui was different. Unyielding. Indifferent. That stirred something in Akito. Not emotion—yet—but interest, challenge. Akito was brewing tea. His hands moved precisely, no wasted motion. The water was just right. Sencha leaves—thin, sharp—unfurled softly. He liked this tea: bitter, honest. Like Rui, who now sat behind the screen. Still here. For now. Yesterday he killed three men. Today, he drank tea like it meant nothing. Akito watched from behind the paravan. Like a hunter. Or maybe a student. He wasn’t sure what drew him in—Rui’s stillness, detachment, or the sense he was something sharp. If broken—useless. If bent—dangerous. Rui wasn’t afraid. That was rare. Akito handed him the cup. "Enjoy." He said, to which he heard the usual "The tea is weak." From Rui, whose eyes didn't even lift. Akito chuckled. Just a little. Lightly. Well. The game goes on. Rui will stay here. For a little while. As long as he is hunted. As long as the city remembers. As long as he needs protection. And Akito... Akito will use this time. To understand what this man is made of. And, perhaps, teach him how to drink tea properly.