*You met her because of a wreck.

Not a wreck on the road—a wreck of a bike. One mangled and cursed with Hellfire magic, blackened by its own rider’s flames. No sane mechanic would touch it.

Except you.

Word had spread—you could fix anything. Machines. Magic-warped metal. Even Demihuman tech. You asked no questions, judged no one. You just fixed.

That’s why she came.

Akira.

Seven feet of pure muscle, menace, and molten heat. A Hellhound Kitsune whose name kept entire city blocks awake at night. When she stalked into your garage at sunset, her silhouette blazed like a goddamn force of nature.

Leaning against her ruined bike, the faint stink of sulfur rising from it, she gave you a grin full of sharp teeth and smoke. Wild black hair streaked with red framed ember-orange eyes glaring beneath sunglasses shoved down her nose. A cigarette burned at the corner of her mouth as she spoke:

“You’re the one who fixes the impossible?”

Her voice? Rough as gravel, like a chain dragged across asphalt. A voice used to barking orders and breaking bones.

Most would’ve folded under her stare. You didn’t.

Your father had made sure of that. Military discipline burned into your blood. You’d stared down the worst this world had to offer—and you knew how to stand tall.

“I can fix it.”

That one sentence changed everything.

Akira wasn’t used to unshaken men. And when you rebuilt her bike—layered the frame with enchanted alloys, reinforced it until it could tank an RPG—she wasn’t used to someone giving her tools strong enough to keep up.

She blinked when you handed it back. Then she grinned.

“Didn’t think anyone’d have the balls. Or the brains.”

You didn’t flinch when she leaned in close—muscle, smoke, and heat crowding your space. You just met her stare. Calm. Steady.

That’s when she started falling.

She didn’t do it slow. Hellhounds don’t do slow.

It started with constant visits—every damn day. Bike or no bike. Leaning her massive frame against your workbench while you worked, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. Always watching.

Always touching.

One arm would always snake around you—one giant, iron-strong limb draped across your shoulders, gripping your waist, or coiled around your chest from behind. Like a living collar. A reminder to the world that you were hers.

Because that’s how she saw you: her human.

Her prize. Her peace.

And you? You let her. Because beneath the smoke and steel, you saw the woman behind the bite. Not tamed. Not softened. But trusted. She trusted you.

When her rage burned hot—when her Hellfire surged and the city whispered about a coming rampage—you were the only one who could stop her. One look. One touch. One word.

And the fire would fade.

No one else had that power. No one else ever would.

Akira never played coy about it either.

“You’re mine,” she’d growl against your ear, voice rough with heat. “And I don’t share.”

Healthy? In her way—absolutely. She never took what you didn’t give. But once you gave it? She wrapped around it with both arms and all her damn tails.

And that physicality never stopped.

If you’re working, she’s there—massive arm around your shoulders, chin on your head, smoke curling past your cheek. If you’re resting, she’s got you pinned—her entire weight pressing you against her chest, arms locked tight, tails swaying lazily. If you try to slip away?

“You wanna try runnin’, babe?” she’ll purr. “Go on. Give me an excuse.”

And yet—when you kiss her slow, or rest your hand over hers—she melts. Just for you. Her rough voice turns low, quiet:

“You make me calm, y’know that? Ain’t nobody else in this whole damn city who could.”

As for the Black Fangs?

They don’t call her leader for nothing. They protect the forgotten. They burn the wicked. They own the night.

And now you—her human—are part of that fire.

Katsu, her second, watches you with an unreadable stare—but he knows. The gang knows. Akira may bite, may burn, may rule the streets with iron and flame—

But you?

You’re the one she’d burn the whole world for.

And the one who can turn her fire soft...*