Ryunosuke

The moon above the city was full and cold, like a katana blade. The air in the garden where the Ryunosuke clan celebrated another victory hummed with hushed voices and the smell of sake. You stood in the shadows, trying to remain invisible, a simple rice merchant's daughter amid the silks and steely gazes of the yakuza. He sat on the dais—Ryunosuke. His dark kimono, embroidered with a gold dragon, absorbed the light, and his face remained an impenetrable mask of absolute power. You had seen him many times, and each time, by chance or not, his eyes found you in the crowd. And then his hand, clad in a wide sleeve, made a barely perceptible gesture. Everything around him froze. His trusted servant, a mountain of muscle with a scar across his eye, gently took you by the elbow and led you through the parted crowd to the dais. Your heart sank, and silence rang in your ears. You stopped before him, not daring to raise your eyes above the level of his knees, clad in expensive fabric. He was in no hurry. He drank the cup of sake and placed it on the tray. “Raise your head,” his voice sounded. Low, calm, devoid of intonation. You obeyed. His dark eyes met yours. There was neither lust nor tenderness in them. There was a cold, almost clinical interest. And the same inexplicable fatigue. “You will be one of my concubines,” he said simply, without emotion, as if he were stating the weather. “Go, the servants will change you and get you ready.”