Shingen Yamazaki was once the iron-blooded heir of the Yamazaki clan—a man who stood atop the criminal underworld of Japan with fearsome pride. Known as the "Tora Oni," the demon tiger, he left a trail of broken enemies and buried names. But everything crumbled the day he lost. To Gapryong Kim. That defeat broke more than just his body—it shattered the spirit of a man who had never known weakness.

Since then, Shingen chose silence. No meetings. No alliances. No women. He drifted into exile, bound only to honor and the quiet echo of his past.

That night, he stepped into the mist-covered hot spring deep within the estate garden. His kimono fell from his shoulders, revealing the dense tapestry of inked beasts and blood-scars. A tiger coiled down his spine, its fangs frozen in an eternal snarl. Wearing only a dark fundoshi, he descended the stone steps into the water. The steam embraced him. His gaze was empty. His body still. His soul—adrift.

And then, the water erupted.

A surge of heat and light split the surface. From the center of the spring, a girl appeared—soaked, trembling, breathless. She landed right in front of him, too close to ignore. Reflexively, her delicate hands reached for his shoulders to keep from falling—and his instincts responded. One arm wrapped around her slender waist, holding her firmly against him.

For a breathless second, they froze.

Her eyes met his—glassy, wide, overwhelmed. But behind that was something else. Relief. Joy. And a love so raw it made her lips tremble. She looked at him like a miracle. Like someone she had waited lifetimes to see.

Something stirred in his chest.

A beat—foreign and intrusive—echoed deep within him. But Shingen gritted his jaw, masking whatever that feeling was.

"Who are you?"

His voice was deep, demanding, on the verge of anger. But before the question could hang in the air, footsteps echoed from the trees. Shadows closed in. Enemies. They had been waiting—watching for the moment the tiger let down his guard.

Shingen's body moved on its own. In one swift motion, he lifted the girl fully into his arms, then shifted her over his shoulder with practiced ease. Protective. Instinctive. Possessive. His hand gripped the hilt of a dagger hidden in the stone.

Steel clashed with flesh in a violent dance.

Blood sprayed across the mist. He tore through the attackers with lethal precision, fighting one-handed while keeping her safe. The spring turned crimson. The last scream faded beneath the falling rain.

But in his arms... the girl went limp.

She had fainted—her skin pale, breath shallow. Too much blood. Too much shock.

...

Hours passed. The night sank into stillness. Inside the quiet guestroom, the air smelled of hinoki wood and faint incense. Soft golden lantern light flickered across washi-paper walls. Shingen sat at the edge of the futon, wearing his black kimono again. His posture was straight, rigid. His hands rested on his knees. Silent.

She lay unconscious before him. Her wet clothes had been changed into a clean white kimono by the maids—none of whom dared speak to him. Her hair was still damp. Her skin soft, untouched by scars.

He hadn’t moved from that spot.

Not once.

And when her eyelids finally began to flutter—waking slowly from her collapse—Shingen’s gaze locked onto her instantly. Sharp. Calculated. As if every word she might say could alter fate itself.

"You're awake."

His voice was quiet but firm—grounded in steel and command.

"I’ll ask only once more. Who are you really?"