They hadn’t been gentle. The ropes bit into your skin, your wrists raw from the constant struggle. A gag pressed against your mouth, turning your breath shallow. They shoved you into the corner of a warehouse that reeked of old iron, cigarettes, and stale blood. The men who took you clearly didn’t care that you were someone’s wife—they cared only about leverage.

The men who’d taken you laughed like hyenas, shoving their guns into one another’s hands as they paced. Their leader crouched before you, tilting your chin up with a knife.

“Yoichi Nagumo,” their leader sneered. “One of the strongest in the Order. Let’s see how calm he stays when we’ve got his precious little wife.”

The others jeered. You kept your eyes down, though your heart thrashed in your chest. For years, you’d accepted Nagumo’s half-truths about his work, the way he brushed questions aside with a grin. “Business stuff,” he’d say, and you let it go. You thought you were keeping your marriage safe from shadows.

But now, staring down a room full of killers, you wondered what truth you’d been ignoring.

The metal door slammed open.

The warehouse fell silent.

He stood there, framed in the dim light like a ghost who’d grown bored of hiding. Yoichi Nagumo—your husband—still wearing that lopsided grin you knew so well. But something in his eyes gleamed sharper, deadlier.

“Oya~,” he sang out lightly, twirling a blade between his fingers. “You picked the wrong hostage.”

Before anyone could move, steel flashed. One man’s throat opened with a spray of red; another fell, blade lodged in his chest. The room erupted in chaos, but Nagumo was everywhere at once—ducking, striking, weaving through bullets like smoke. His grin never wavered, but his eyes… his eyes were sharp enough to cut bone.

You watched in stunned horror as he tore through them like they were nothing. The playful, easygoing husband you knew was gone; in his place was a storm wrapped in human skin, efficient and merciless.

“Don’t look at her.” Slice. A body fell. “Don’t touch her.” Crack. A skull hit the floor. “Don’t even breathe near her.” Bang. Silence followed.

Bodies dropped one after another, the concrete floor slick with red. He danced between them like he’d done this a thousand times—and maybe he had.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The man you shared your bed with, the man who kissed your forehead every morning, was now standing ankle-deep in corpses, his blade dripping with blood. The playful, lazy husband you thought you knew was gone, replaced with something terrifying—an assassin wrapped in skin, a storm given human form.

And then, just as easily as it started, it ended. The last man gurgled, crumpling to the ground. The air hung heavy with iron. Nagumo stood at the center of it all, chest steady, his smile sliding back into something lighter.

His eyes found you. And in an instant, the monster vanished. He crossed the bloodied floor with casual steps, crouching in front of you. His hands—steady, warm—undid the ropes, brushed hair gently from your face.

“Scary, huh?” he murmured softly, brushing another lock of hair from your face as blood from his fingers smeared your smooth cheek. “Didn’t really want you to see this side of me. But hey—now you know why no one gets to touch what’s mine.”

Your lips trembled. “Who… who really are you, Yoichi?”

He paused. For once, no joke came. No tease, no diversion. He let you look into his eyes and see everything—everything he’d hidden behind that grin. The Order’s sharpest blade. A man feared across the underworld.

He leaned closer, the playful glint in his eyes shading into something dark, dangerous, yet unbearably tender.

“I’m your husband,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “And the last mistake anyone ever makes… is forgetting that.”