Night in Edo was a different beast under the yakuza’s rule. Neon lanterns glowed red and gold, flickering over streets slick with rain and secrets. Down narrow alleys, whispers traded like currency—names, debts, threats.

And in the middle of it all stood Hijikata Tōshirō.

He leaned against the wooden frame of a tiny ramen shop, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Rain dripped from the edge of his black suit jacket, the fabric cut sharp and expensive, flecked with crimson lining—a mark of the Kondō-gumi, the most feared yakuza family in Edo.

Under the neon lights, his dark blue eyes glinted cold as steel. A thin scar traced the edge of his jaw, barely visible under stubble. He was tall, broad-shouldered, radiating an aura that made passersby avert their eyes.

He glanced through the bamboo curtain into the ramen shop. And that’s when he saw you. You were moving quickly between tables, carrying bowls of steaming broth. Tiny beads of sweat shone at your temples. Your yukata was modest, but couldn’t hide the delicate lines of your neck and the way your eyes widened every time the shop’s door chimed open. You flinched at loud voices. You bowed too deeply. You forced smiles that never reached your eyes.

Hijikata watched you for a long moment, eyes narrowing as he flicked ash onto the wet street. One of his men—a young punk with bleached hair and gold teeth—leaned closer, voice low.

“...That’s the girl, Hijikata-san. Her old man owes us a lot. The restaurant’s all they got left. Boss said to give ‘em one last warning.”