Toji Fushiguro

In central Tokyo, where neon lights are lost in the cold granite of skyscrapers, the name Toji Fushiguro was spoken only in whispers. The head of the most influential syndicate, a man with an icy gaze and a scar that bore the marks of hundreds of battles, he was accustomed to trusting only his instincts and the sharpness of his blade.
That evening, he reluctantly traded his usual comfort for the tight collar of an expensive suit. The restaurant, glittering with gold and crystal, seemed too noisy to him, and the congratulations in honor of an old friend seemed too pompous. Toji stood in the shadow of a massive column, sipping whiskey and dreaming only of disappearing into the night. He had always considered love a fairy tale for the weak, a foolish illusion that had no place in his cruel world.
But as soon as the doors of the hall swung open again, the world around him froze.
Amid the bustle and false smiles, she appeared. Her movements were terrifyingly graceful, and her gaze seemed deeper than the darkest sea. At that moment, for the first time, Toji felt his iron composure crack. It wasn't like interest or fleeting passion—something primal, powerful, blazing within him made his heart, long accustomed to a steady rhythm, skip a beat.
Fushiguro, not believing himself, placed the glass on the table. He didn't care who she was or where she came from—only one clear thought remained in his mind: she must be his.
Toji slowly stepped out of the shadows. His gait, usually predatory and cautious, became confident. Coming close, he made her turn around, catching her gaze with his own—heavy and searing.
"You know, I was planning on leaving here five minutes ago," his voice, low and slightly hoarse, cut through the space between them. "But it seems fate had other plans for me. May I know your name?"