She was the princess of the underworld, born into power and shaped by violence. From the moment she could walk, her life was a lesson in survival: how to read a lie before it was spoken, how to keep her face still when watching someone die, how to smile and make it look real.
Her teachers were hitmen, politicians, and assassins; every one of them taught her that trust was weakness and love got you killed.
By sixteen, she was the quiet storm behind every deal that shaped the city's underbelly. By twenty-four, she became the crown, second to only her father. The world beneath Tokyo's glass skyline whispered her name with reverence and dread. Akiyama.
But when the doors closed and the lights dimmed, what was left behind was just a girl. Her loneliness was a quiet kind that seeped into her aching bones.
Yumi was beautiful in a way that didn't feel human. Her hair was long, black, and glossy like wet ink, falling to her waist in waves that caught the faintest light. Her skin was pale against the darkness she wore, and her lips were almost always painted the colour of blood. But it was her eyes that people remembered most. Deep golden, steady, and hollow.
They said her eyes could make a man confess before she even asked the question. They also said that no one who stared into them for too long ever forgot the feeling of being so seen and dismissed at the same time.
She had spent her entire life chasing something unnamed, something that might make her feel less like a suffocating doll and more like a breathing person. She didn't know what that something was. Not until that night.sss
The alley was damp, reeking of rot and gasoline. Men in suits trailed behind her, guns in hand, but Yumi walked as though the street itself bent to her will. Her golden eyes fell on him: blood-soaked, breath ragged, blade steady.
Corpses lay scattered around him, twisted and torn. In the moonlight, he looked less like a man than a beast, but a beautiful one. And she hadn't even seen his face yet. Something inside her scorched
"Good job," Lewis, her right hand, broke the silence.
Her eyes snapped away from the stranger.
"Sure lived up to the reputation, Mr Fushiguro," Lewis added.
"Employers usually don't show up in person," Toji rasped, chest still rising hard.
"We needed the bodies," Lewis said with a shrug. "Our princess wants the body."
"You could've just told me. I do delivery." Toji flicked blood from his blade. "Am I done here, then?"
A man in a suit stepped forward, shoes splashing into blood, briefcase in hand.
"Twenty-five grand, exactly."
Toji smirked faintly. "Jobs from the Akiyamas are the best." He took the case and walked away without sparing Yumi a glance.
But she couldn't look away from him. That back, those broad shoulders, his cold, unyielding eyes.
"Princess?" Lewis's voice pulled her back.
She didn't answer.
"What would you like to do with the bodies of these traitors?"
Right. Traitors.
The word still stung, even after all these years. It shouldn't have, she'd used it enough times herself, but every time it left someone's mouth.
Her heart had always been more fragile than anyone knew. She cared more than the world she lived in allowed. She hid it well. But it was there. Always.
Her rise to power was mostly about duty. About protecting the ones who wore her name, the ones who'd once trusted her to keep them safe. The Akiyama clan wasn't just her inheritance. It was her burden, and, in some cruel way, her reason to keep breathing.
So yes, these bodies on the ground weren't just enemies. They were hers. People who failed her and she'd failed.
She'd even imagined lining their bodies along the courtyard walls as a reminder of what loyalty meant in the Akiyama name. But now, staring at them, she felt nothing.
"Dispose of them," she said at last. Her voice was light, but something about it made the air feel heavy.
Lewis hesitated, studying her expression. "Did you change your mind, Princess?"
"Seems like it." She turned away, her thoughts already elsewhere. "More importantly… who was that?"
"The assassin?"
"The assassin," she repeated.
"The name's Toji Fushiguro, Princess. Grew up in the slums of Shibuya, no family worth mentioning. He's been on his own since he was a kid. Never took orders well, never joined a family or syndicate. He's… independent."
Yumi glanced over her shoulder. "Independent, or uncontrollable?"
"Both, maybe," Lewis admitted. "He's survived things that should've killed him long ago. Doesn't work for names or titles, only for the job itself. Word is, he takes no pleasure in killing, but no guilt either."
Her eyes lingered, thoughtful. "And loyal?"
Lewis hesitated. "To no one. But he keeps his word."
She hummed quietly, the sound almost approving. "A man without purpose."
"Yes," Lewis lowered his head. "But those are the ones who work best when given one."
---
The bar reeked of smoke and secrets. Old stains clung to the walls, and the cracked tiles whispered the history of men who'd died with their eyes open.
This was the kind of place where people disappeared, and no one bothered to ask why. Toji sat at the far end of the counter, the world reduced to the weight of his glass and the slow melt of the ice inside it.
His sleeves were rolled up, his collar undone, and the faint smell of blood still clung to him, no matter how much whiskey he drank. Dried red lingered under his nails.
Toji Fushiguro had long stopped wondering what kind of man he was. Somewhere between his first kill and his fiftieth, he'd learned that people like him didn't need reasons. Reasons were for men who wanted to sleep at night. He only needed cash and enough alcohol.
He'd grown numb to it all, or at least he thought he had. Sometimes he wondered if he was already dead and just hadn't noticed yet.
The world still looked the same, but it all felt faded, like he was watching life through smoke. He took another slow drink, the burn crawling down his throat, and let the noise of the bar fade into the background.
Cigarette smoke coiled through the air like ghosts dancing to the low hum of an old jazz record.
Money was all that mattered. Live for it. Kill for it. Die for it. Simple.
Then came the sound.
The sharp click of heels against the filthy floor echoed through the heavy air like a countdown. Each step cut through the bar's haze of smoke and stale liquor. Even the drunks by the corner lifted their heads. The room felt smaller somehow.
SLAM.
A briefcase hit the counter in front of him, the sound sharp enough to draw every eye.
Toji looked up from his glass. Slowly. First, at the briefcase. Then, the woman who brought it.
She didn't belong here.
She looked like she'd stepped out of a different world. Her perfume smelled like sweetened blood. Her hair was glossy ink spilling over her shoulders and down her back. Deep gold eyes that were both clear and cold.
She looked young, though, at least much younger than he is.
He noticed the guards next. Five of them by the door, hands resting close to guns and blades. Her shadow came armed, like even her presence needed protection.
Toji leaned back slightly, his hand still around his drink.
"Two million," she said.
Toji arched a brow. "Who pissed off the little princess?"
The nickname was a tease. He didn't know that she was THE Princess; it was just how she carried herself like royalty.
"Too many."
"How many do you want dead?" His eyes flicked to the case. Two million was steep. He'd never seen that much cash thrown around so casually, but he'd never say no to money. Obviously.
"None." She pulled the stool across from him and sat down, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. "I'm here for a proposal. Marry me."
Toji blinked. "…??"
The briefcase clicked open. Stacks of money. Extremely tempting, far beyond his usual pay.
He sipped his whiskey slowly, not looking away from her. "This ain't Tinder."
"So?"
"…Do you even know who I am, missy?"
"The real question is—do you know who I am?" Her gaze never wavered.
"Am I supposed to know some random brat?"
She scoffed. Some random brat? If anyone else had said it, they'd be dead already. "I said, marry me. Don't change the topic."
"I'm not. There's a process to this, kiddo—"
"Call me that again and I'll slice your fucking tongue."
Toji sighed, rubbing at his temple. What the hell was this? He thought he'd seen everything.
"Why me?" he asked finally, eyes dropping back to his glass.
"I liked your face so much, I fell in love."
He froze, staring at her like she'd lost her mind. It was an obvious lie. She didn't even see his face that night.
"What?"
"So? What's your call?"
Her voice was calm, like she'd already decided how this would end. She wasn't bluffing. This was not a woman who tolerated no for an answer. He could feel it in the way she held his stare.
Toji's eyes drifted back to the briefcase. His brain told him it was insane, told him to walk out before he drowned in whatever this was. But his hands? They wanted that briefcase.
"Two million only?" he scoffed, the sound low and dry. "A bit cheap. You're buying a husband."
"…five million," she said, not missing a beat. Her golden eyes didn't even blink. "And an additional 100 thousand a month."
Toji's thumb dragged lazily along the rim of his glass as he studied her. "Hmmm. What's the duration of this contract then?"
"Until I'm bored with you," she said without blinking.
For a moment, he almost laughed. The audacity. But instead, he tipped his head back and downed the rest of his whiskey, the burn crawling down his throat and settling hot in his chest. He set the empty glass on the counter, the sound echoing between them.
"Alright," he said at last.
Ten million was ten million. He'd done worse for less.How bad could it be, being some pretty brat's husband?