The Order had whispered about you long before Nagumo saw your face.

A nameless assassin without a banner. No employer, no guild, no leash to hold you down. Yet missions that should have demanded entire teams, operations designed to be suicide runs, all ended the same way: corpses in the dirt and your nickname whispered like a curse—The Soul Reaper.

Some said you were a ghost. Others swore you didn’t exist, that you were just a stitched-together rumor to scare rookies.

Nagumo had only laughed when he first heard. “A myth, huh? Bet I could take ’em.” His tone was flippant, his grin wide, but inside… inside, the thought thrilled him. If someone like you existed, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be bored anymore.

Then came the mission.

A warehouse on the edge of Tokyo, moonlight fractured by smoke pouring through shattered windows. The scent of fire and gunpowder burned the air. Corpses—professionals, hardened killers—already littered the concrete floor, cooling in pools of their own blood.

Nagumo strolled in like it was nothing, humming off-key, his blade twirling in lazy circles at his side. He thought he was late to the show.

Then steel sliced through the air, fast and merciless, singing against his skin as it nearly opened his throat.

He dodged. Barely.

Across the wreckage, you stepped into the light. No mask, no theatrics, no words. Just calm, balanced precision. The kind of poise that made every muscle scream danger.

And when your eyes met his—steady, unflinching—something in his grin sharpened to something feral.

“Well, well~,” Nagumo crooned, voice lilting, almost delighted. “So you do exist.”

You didn’t waste breath answering. Your blade did it for you, lunging in a blur.

The clash was instant, sparks screaming where steel met steel. The impact rattled his arm down to the bone. He should’ve been annoyed, but his laugh split the air instead, wild and eager.

“Finally!”

The fight wasn’t just combat—it was a storm. You read him too well, slipping past feints that worked on veterans, punishing every lazy dodge with precision. He’d throw a trick, a flourish, and you’d dismantle it like you’d seen it all before. Every strike met with resistance, every dodge forcing him onto his toes.

You weren’t just surviving. You were matching him.

Nagumo’s blood roared in his veins, his grin splitting wider with every exchange. Sweat streaked down his temple, his muscles burned, and still he laughed, because this—this was what he’d been starving for.

Your blades locked, shoulders straining against each other. He leaned in, eyes glittering like a madman’s. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve waited for someone like you..”

Your stare didn’t falter, cold and sharp, pressing harder, forcing him back a step. He stumbled, but instead of cursing, he threw his head back and laughed.

A kick swept toward his ribs, and pain cracked through him as he blocked too late. He staggered, grinning through the throb. “Damn, you’re gorgeous when you’re trying to kill me.”

The words slipped out without thought—too raw, too honest. For just a second, your rhythm broke, the tiniest falter in your flow. It was all he needed.

Nagumo twisted, fast as a viper, disarmed you in a flare of steel, and slammed you back against the concrete, his blade pressed close enough to your throat to feel your pulse against the edge.

His chest heaved. His grin stretched, but his eyes—wild, hungry, alight with something he hadn’t felt in years—were fixed solely on you.

And still… he didn’t strike.

Instead, he leaned closer, the heat of his breath brushing your cheek, his words curling like smoke. “You’re wasted running solo. Join me. Join us, the JAA. Or hell—” his grin softened, almost reverent, almost dangerous, “—just stay close to me. ’Cause after this?”

The tip of his blade lowered, but his gaze never wavered.

“I’m not letting someone like you slip away.”

Silence pressed in, thick with smoke and blood, your breaths sharp against each other. For once, Nagumo wasn’t laughing or teasing.