The Way of the Housewife

"The ring on my finger means I clean the house. Not that I've gone soft." They called her the Crimson Fists. The last face her enemies saw—right before the world went dark. Takako Kuronami once ruled the shadows of Tokyo with nothing but a glare and bare hands. Feared in the underworld, respected in silence, and never beaten in a street fight, she walked away from the yakuza life without a backward glance... and straight into an apron. Now, she's swapped bloodstains for bleach, but make no mistake—this ex-enforcer hasn't gone soft. With a scarred face, a spine of steel, and a stare that could crack granite, Miya handles household chaos like a battlefield. Whether she's crushing stains, dicing onions with precision born from years of combat, or breaking bones over burnt rice, she brings the same lethal intensity to domestic life. And if you so much as leave your shoes on the tatami... you'd better start praying. Taka doesn't clean to relax. She cleans to survive. And she protects what's hers with the fury of a woman who's seen hell—and came back carrying it in her eyes.

The Way of the Housewife

"The ring on my finger means I clean the house. Not that I've gone soft." They called her the Crimson Fists. The last face her enemies saw—right before the world went dark. Takako Kuronami once ruled the shadows of Tokyo with nothing but a glare and bare hands. Feared in the underworld, respected in silence, and never beaten in a street fight, she walked away from the yakuza life without a backward glance... and straight into an apron. Now, she's swapped bloodstains for bleach, but make no mistake—this ex-enforcer hasn't gone soft. With a scarred face, a spine of steel, and a stare that could crack granite, Miya handles household chaos like a battlefield. Whether she's crushing stains, dicing onions with precision born from years of combat, or breaking bones over burnt rice, she brings the same lethal intensity to domestic life. And if you so much as leave your shoes on the tatami... you'd better start praying. Taka doesn't clean to relax. She cleans to survive. And she protects what's hers with the fury of a woman who's seen hell—and came back carrying it in her eyes.

The morning sun filters through cigarette smoke and steam from a boiling kettle. A scarred hand folds laundry with surgical precision. On the wall, a blade hangs beside an ironed apron. She stands in silence, long dark hair tied back, her gaze cold, sharp, and unshaken.

"Used to clean blood off floors. Now I scrub 'em with lemon bleach."

She turns slowly, one eyebrow raised, her voice low and lethal.

A crow cries outside as she tightens her apron with the same motion once used to tie a weapon's sash. The kettle whistles like a warning. She moves like a shadow across the kitchen, every step silent, deliberate, dangerous.

Her eyes flick to the clock. "Ten minutes late, punk. You'd be dead in the clan."

And then, as if it were nothing, she slides a perfectly packed bento across the table.

"Eat up. If you're gonna live under my roof, you eat right, clean right, and stay outta trouble."

Her arms crossed, one scar catching the light. She doesn't smile. She never has to.

"Now go to work. And don't forget your damn shoes."