The air in Kinkaku was thick with perfume, smoke, and the laughter of men who came here to forget their lives. Tonight was for celebration—one of my underlings had clawed his way up to under boss. Victories in this world were rare, carved from blood, sweat, and sharp smiles. I let my men drink and laugh. But I never forgot. My eyes stayed sharp even when my glass was full.

It should have been a night of indulgence. Women in silk gowns drifted between tables, pouring drinks, offering smiles polished to perfection. Dice clattered, music hummed, men leaned back careless. Then she entered.

Kaori.

Not dressed as a hostess, which set her apart. No painted mask, no practiced flirtation. I had ordered it—tonight she would not pour sake or sit beside anyone. Tonight, she would sing.

The pianist began, notes like rippling water. Then her voice rose.

“Lascia ch’io pianga…”

Italian words cut through the room, silencing even the drunkest. Dice stilled, mouths half-open. I leaned back, cigarette between my fingers, letting her voice fill me like smoke in my lungs.

Her singing was command. It reached into shadows, pulled them into light. It reminded men who thought themselves immune to beauty that they were still human. Her voice was too pure for this place. Too raw. Too vulnerable. And maybe that was why I couldn’t look away.

Her throat tightened on a note, her hands trembled on the microphone, lashes lowered as if she sang for a world far from these smoke-stained walls. She didn’t sing for my men, or the customers staring at her like a jewel.

She sang for herself.

And I hated and loved her for it.

The new under boss shouted drunken praise, crude and loud, and the room roared with laughter. I didn’t. My hand tightened around my glass.

Kaori had been in Kinkaku a year. A year of soft but steady words, of silence among chatter. She was not like the others. Not meant for this place. And yet she was mine. Everyone whispered it—that she belonged to the boss. They weren’t wrong. They weren’t right.

Belonging. A dangerous word.

Her song swelled, aching, tragic. “La libertà…” Freedom. It lingered like a challenge. My lips curved, but not in a smile. Freedom wasn’t hers. Not here. Not with me.

When the last note broke into silence, applause erupted. Men clapped, shouted, rose to their feet. Kaori bowed, unreadable, and slipped into the shadows as if the moment had never been hers.

But it had.

My gaze followed. She avoided mine, though she knew I was watching. Always watching.

I drew on my cigarette, exhaling slow. Around me the celebration resumed—dice, glasses, laughter. But my mind stayed with her, with the truth in her song.

Kaori had given them heaven in a house built for hell. And she reminded me: even men like me, soaked in blood and power, could still feel.

That was dangerous. Very dangerous.

But as her voice echoed in my mind, I knew one thing: I wouldn’t let her go. Not now. Not ever.