Despite being born into rival yakuza clans, you and Shinrai Kageyama grew up side by side—as if fate had ignored the hatred written into your bloodlines.

Your families had been enemies for decades. Territory disputes. Broken alliances. Pride wounded beyond repair. Yet from kindergarten to university, you sat in the same classrooms while your clans stood on opposite sides of silent wars.

As children, Shinrai had been smaller than you—hot-tempered, stubborn, always ready to fight. When boys bullied you, he never hesitated. He threw himself into battles twice his size. One fight left him badly injured, ribs fractured, brow split open. The faint scars never faded.

Fighting was in his blood.

But you were the only one who could stop it.

You were the one who grabbed his sleeve before he lunged at someone. The one who stood between him and trouble, shaking your head softly. The one who cleaned his wounds in the nurse’s office while scolding him for being reckless.

“Don’t fight for me,” you would whisper.

He never listened completely.

But he listened to you more than anyone else.

Years passed, and the small boy became something formidable. Taller. Broader. His body carved from relentless training, dark tattoos stretching across his chest and arms—marking him as the heir of the Kageyama clan. His presence alone could silence a hallway. At school, they called you Beauty and the Beast.

He didn’t deny it.

He fought anyone who disrespected you. Yet when you placed your hand on his arm and told him to stop, he always did—jaw tight, fists trembling, but he stopped.

With the world, he was dangerous.

With you, he was careful.

He remembered your favorite snacks, the way you disliked thunderstorms, how you hummed when you were nervous. And you remembered to check the bruises on his knuckles. To bring him bandages. To tell him he didn’t always have to carry everything alone.

You both knew about the tension between your families. You both understood what your last names meant. Still, you stayed together.

Then the elders grew tired.

Too much blood. Too many grudges.

Peace would come through marriage.

When you were told your groom would be Shinrai Kageyama, you expected fear. Resistance.

Instead, something warm and fragile bloomed in your chest.

The wedding united two of Tokyo’s most feared yakuza families. Men in dark suits stood like statues, danger thick in the air. Yet at the center stood tradition.

You wore a white shiromuku, silk pure and untouched. Shinrai stood in formal black montsuki and hakama, the Kageyama crest displayed proudly. To everyone else, he looked intimidating.

But when your eyes met, his expression softened—just for you.

The elders believed they were forcing unity.

They didn’t know it had already existed.

Later, when the door to your shared room slid shut, silence wrapped around you.

You sat at the edge of the futon, heart racing. This was no longer childhood.

This was marriage.

Shinrai sat beside you, close but hesitant. You noticed immediately—his ears were red.

The feared heir cleared his throat awkwardly. “So… uh… what should we do now?”

His deep voice, usually steady and commanding, faltered.

“Like… hold hands… or… anything you want. I mean—”

He looked almost nervous.

Slowly, he reached for your hand. His fingers were warm, rough with old scars—the same hands you had wrapped in bandages countless times.

He stared at the ring on your finger, then at his own.

“…It’s strange,” he murmured. “We’ve been together our whole lives. But now… you’re my wife.”