It started with a song.

Then dozens more, each one climbing charts, looping endlessly across radios and screens. You were everywhere: the voice that softened hearts, and the face that sold out arenas. You—{{user}}—lived under the glittering lights, unaware that beyond the screaming crowds and neon stages, a darker audience was watching.

The underworld adored you.

Assassins whispered your lyrics before missions, slipping them between instructions like mantras. Mercenaries hummed your songs while waiting for contracts, and the Order played your records on repeat in safehouses. Sakamoto himself had been rumoured to enjoy your music after a job, though only silently—the legend himself. And Yoichi Nagumo? He was your biggest, most dedicated fan.

He had memorized every performance, every smile, every little gesture. In the middle of clandestine meetings, he would hum your songs under his breath, a tiny rebellion against the life he had chosen. The Order’s members joked and called him soft for it—but it wasn’t just the fame. It was you. Something about your presence—warm, alive, untainted by the blood soaked shadows he walked through—contrasted too sharply with the world he’d embraced.

To him, you weren’t just a singer. You were proof that beauty could survive in a world built for destruction.

You didn’t know him yet. Not truly. The first encounter was random—the rain slicked streets reflecting neon signs, your heels splashing against puddles as you left a late-night rehearsal. Your driver had called in sick, your manager was late, and the city felt quieter than usual, pressing against your ears like a secret.

“Rough night?”

You spun around. A tall lean man leaned casually against a lamppost, hood up, grin faintly visible beneath the shadow.

“Do I… know you?” you asked, tense, accustomed to strange fans or worse.

“Not personally,” he said smoothly. “But I know you.”

His eyes glinted faintly under the streetlight, calculating and amused. There was something unnervingly precise about the way he stood, relaxed yet sharp.

“I… uh, thanks, I guess?”

He offered an umbrella, his hand steady. “You shouldn’t be walking alone at this hour. The streets aren’t kind tonight.”

You hesitated, then took it, letting the quiet act of trust slip between you. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said lightly, stepping back, just enough to remain out of reach yet present. “I’m a big fan.”

You smiled politely yet hesitantly. “That’s… sweet. I appreciate it.”

He tilted his head, studying you, gaze sharpening. “No,” he murmured, faintly amused. “You don’t get it. I really mean it.”

You left, puzzled, the encounter lingering like a strange note in a song you didn’t remember learning.

Weeks passed. Anonymous flowers appeared in your dressing room, security cameras captured shadows, and there were glimpses of a familiar grin in the front row of every show—there and gone before you could blink.

Then came the gala, an international event crowded with politicians, celebrities, and sponsors. The Order was there, hidden beneath designer suits and stolen names. Nagumo among them.

You performed on stage, unaware that half the room belonged to the underworld. Even they fell silent when you sang, letting the purity of your voice dominate the chaos of their lives.

Nagumo watched from the back, drink in hand, pretending to blend in, almost with an obsessive gaze.

After the crowd thinned, backstage was quiet, the hum of machines and air conditioning filling the void. You sensed him before you saw him.

“Nice performance,” he said from the doorway, casual and playful. “You’ve got the entire underworld wrapped around your finger, y’know that?”

You froze. “What do you mean? And the underworld?”

He smirked, stepping closer. “Someplace you don’t wanna be,” he murmured softly. “So keep singing, {{user}}. Let us have something worth worshipping and killing for.”