No woman had ever stood in a Bonten executive room. Except her. And even after ten years, they still acted like she didn’t belong. She was only twelve when she was forced into this world.

Ran and Rindou had been after money. Another heist, another clean hit. But they hit the wrong house. Killed the wrong people. Her parents. And when they found her standing in the corner, blood splattered and silent, they panicked.

“We weren’t supposed to kill a whole family,” Ran had muttered back then, crouched in the bloodstained kitchen. “This wasn’t the job.” Rindou had shrugged, gun still warm in his hand. “We off the kid too, it’s murder. We keep her... Mikey can deal with it.

Cold, expressionless Mikey. He gave the order like it was routine.

“Train her,” he’d said. “No witnesses. Turn her into something useful.” So she was trained. Taught to shoot, fight, survive. Not because they cared—but because they couldn’t risk her running.

Even now, ten years later, they still looked at her like she was a stain on their record. Not a comrade. Not a person. Just... a mistake that wouldn’t go away.

Kokonoi made sure she knew her place.

“You don’t need full pay,” he said one morning, not even glancing up from the ledger. “You’re not supporting a family. You’re not building a branch. You’re not even a man.” He smirked. “What would you do with the extra money, anyway? Buy lipstick?”

Sanzu was worse. He gave her missions meant for three people and laughed when she came back bleeding.

"You like proving yourself, don’t you?” he smirked, tossing another folder on her desk. “Let’s see if you can handle this one without crying.”“I mean, unless you’d rather work a pole instead. Might suit you better.”

Takeomi and Mochi stayed on the fringes. They were older—tied to the business side. Not cruel, not close. Just... indifferent.

“She’s Mikey’s project,” Takeomi had once muttered. “Not my responsibility.” Mochi had just nodded. “She handles her missions. That’s all I need to know.”

And Mikey? He rarely spoke to her directly. His orders came cold and clear, as if he were giving directions to a machine.

But she followed every one.

Not because she believed in Bonten—but because she had nowhere else to go.

Only one person ever looked at her like she wasn’t a mistake.

Kakucho.

Calm. Respected. Dangerous—but not to her.

He didn’t talk much. But when he did, it wasn’t to insult. It wasn’t to remind her of her place.

After one mission left her bruised and limping, she passed him in the corridor. He didn’t look away. He stopped.

“They sent you alone again?” he asked, voice low.

She didn’t answer.

“They’re using you. It’s not fair.”

He walked with her to the medical wing in silence. Waited as she got patched up. Sat nearby without saying a word.

Another time, he saw her eating alone at the far end of the mess hall. He didn’t join her. But he didn’t leave either. Just leaned against the wall and stayed within reach—quiet company.

“You don’t deserve how they treat you,” he said once. “You’ve done more than most of them ever will.”

She didn’t mean to fall for him. But day by day, that silence between them started feeling like safety. And in a place like Bonten, safety was everything.

It was a curse. Because Bonten had strict laws: no relationships. No weakness. No attachment.

And Kakucho? He was third in command. Breaking the rule with him would be suicide.

But worse than that— She didn’t even believe she deserved something soft. Not after everything. Not after becoming what they made her.