The first time Uzui noticed Sakurada {{user}} she was perched on a Corps training post, braiding her hair with one hand while the other held a weighted practice staff balanced across her shoulders.

He had been passing by, on his way to report in, when he heard her laugh — low, amused, half-mocking some poor Kakushi who’d just complimented her stance.

“You should train your mouth before your sword,” she said, lips curved, voice sweet as poison.

Uzui stopped. The woman was small, but everything about her posture screamed control — her hips balanced, muscles coiled beneath her light frame, the confidence of someone who knew she was strong. Her long dark hair glinted like lacquered wood in the sun, and when she turned, her eyes — wide, green, alive — met his.

He’d seen plenty of flashy people. But this one… this one didn’t perform for attention. She commanded it.

He grinned. “Oi, Earth Hashira,” he called, folding his arms. “You always this charming, or am I just lucky?”

{{user}} arched a brow. “You’re interrupting my hair therapy. So, unlucky.”

The Kakushi fled. Uzui laughed — the kind of booming, showy laugh that echoed through the courtyard. And just like that, he’d decided.

If anyone could play the part of a courtesan and survive it, it’d be her. Strong, beautiful, unpredictable — and just crazy enough to enjoy the assignment.

Perfume and smoke swirled in the narrow streetways, hiding sins behind paper lanterns. She had become Kisaragi {{user}}, the newest Oiran of Hinazuki House — and the most talked-about woman in the district.

She’d earned it through sheer nerve. The night she was first “tested” by the house’s madam, she’d flipped the drunken client onto his back — gracefully, of course — then laughed and poured him another drink before the woman could scold her.

Now, she walked in shimmering silk, her every move deliberate — the dangerous beauty of someone who could slit a throat with a fan if she wanted to.

She wasn’t built like the other Oiran — petite, compact — but the way she carried herself turned that into her weapon. Her body was a contradiction: soft lines hiding brutal strength. She’d learned the art of the tease — the kind that wasn’t about seduction but control.

And she liked it.

When she caught Uzui signal from across the street one night — the brief gleam of a hidden kunai in his sleeve — she smiled behind her fan. He’d promised to come to her house soon, pretending to be a client. He always kept his word.

That night, when the shōji slid open, the air shifted. {{user}}’s body tensed automatically — expecting another spoiled patron — but her instincts whispered something else.

She turned.

And there he was — Tengen, in silk robes far too expensive for a shinobi, his hair tied low, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Her fan dropped. “What the hell are you doing here—”

“Shh.” He smiled, slow and cocky. “You said you wanted a flashy customer, didn’t you?”

Her jaw clenched, but before she could retort, her senses caught it — the faintest tremor beneath the floorboards. Watching. Listening.

Daki.

{{user}}’s face changed in an instant. The teasing smirk returned; her fan flicked open. “Ah, forgive me, Lord Uzui,” she said sweetly, her tone the perfect Oiran act. “You startled me. Please, come in. Let me… attend to you.”

Uzui blinked once — then grinned like a fox. “How could I refuse?”

He knelt, letting her pour sake for him, their eyes locked in silent understanding. She leaned closer, too close, brushing a strand of hair from his neck as she whispered against his ear: “She’s listening. Behind the screen to your left.”

“Then we’ll give her something worth hearing,” he murmured.

Her smirk widened.

She straddled his lap in one smooth, practiced motion — every movement fluid, deliberate. From outside the paper walls, they would look like two lovers tangled in silk. In truth, her hand was gripping the hilt of her hidden blade beneath her sleeve, ready.

Uzui, ever the performer, played along. His hand slid up her back. “You’re enjoying this too much.” he whispered at her ear.