Chapter Text
The teahouse walls trembled faintly with the sound of laughter. Outside, the night had long settled in—a silence stretched across the land. But inside, it was anything but quiet. Music echoed off inside the establishment, paired with drunken roars and the shuffle of feet on tatami mats. Laughter rose and fell. And everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.
A burst of laughter erupted near the front of the room. “Oi, Okasan!” shouted one of the men seated near the elevated tatami dais. His voice was already ragged from hours of drinking, lips and cheeks stained red with alcohol. “What are your girls playing for us tonight? We’ve been bleeding ourselves dry just to catch a glimpse of those faces!” He leaned forward, voice thick with frustration. His brow was furrowed deeply, cheeks flushed from heat and drink. The ceramic sake cup in his hand trembled from his tightened grip.
Two young girls, no older than fifteen, spotted his drunken agitation and rushed forward—trained to recognize when desperation meant opportunity. Each held a lacquered tray stacked high with carefully arranged drinks and dishes—sake, grilled eel and sweet pickled plums.
“Big brothers, won’t you have just a little more?” one of the girls asked sweetly, her voice sweet and high pitched as she pushed the tray forward with both hands.
But the older of the two men scowled, knocking the tray aside with the back of his hand. Some of the drink poured onto the floor. “What’s all this? Just bring the damn girls already—we’ve paid more than enough for one night!”
“Leave them be,” came the curt voice of the old house mistress. Her words were dismissive. She stood in the corner of the tea house, upright despite her years, and lifted a single, bony hand.
The two girls bowed, obedient and silent, and backed away without protest. They disappeared down the room to catch other prey.
“They’ll be out soon,” the old woman promised, her tone clipped. “You wait.”
“It’s been five damn hours!” the drunkard bellowed. “You say that every time!”
And just then, a “Yo!” rang out across the teahouse—loud and crisp. Another “Yo!” followed, deeper this time, echoing from the far end of the entryway. The floorboards shifted under the rhythmic steps of black-clad attendants who marched in perfect sync, striking short wooden clappers to the floor. Each sound a countdown for the awaited moment.
And then—they arrived.
Three women entered, one after the other, each step careful, calculated and slow. A show on its own. Their brightly colored kimono caught every eye with each movement. Their obi belts were pulled tight and tied into elaborate knots at the back, emphasizing the curve of their waists. Tiny omamori charms swayed from their sashes with each step. Their necks were bare—white as porcelain under the powder, their hair was pulled into modest buns, not too slick or formal; a few strands fell artfully along their cheeks or temples, just enough to suggest intimacy, meaning—I’m here, and I am available.
Their faces were blank masks of elegance. Skin painted snow-white, lashes darkened, and lips carefully drawn in heart-shape. Red lined their eyes, extending like the wings. In each hand, they carried a closed fan.
“Sore!” called one of the attendants, marking the beginning.
Behind the dancers, a semi-circle of musicians sat,, almost unnoticed beside the girls. Their faces were hidden behind masks. They wore plain, unadorned robes, their presence nearly invisible.
Shamisen.
Koto.
Tsuzumi.
Taiko.
Bamboo flutes.
A low, string-heavy melody unfurled into the room. And then—
“Ikuzō!”
The fans unfolded in unison with a snap.
The women began to move—swaying on the floor, hips rolling with grace, their footsteps against the tatami. Each gesture was hypnotic. With every step, every delicate turn of the wrist or incline of the neck, they pulled the crowd deeper into a trance. The room, once filled with shouting and laughter, now exhaled in silence, breathing only with the rhythm of the girls. Every eye was fastened to them. Unmoving. Unblinking.
Three angels, dancing just for them.
“Hey,” the larger man whispered under his breath, eyes fixed on the center figure. “What’s the name of that one—the one in the middle?”
His drunk friend clutched his cup to his chest. “Amayame. That’s her name… Amayame-chan…”
“She’s an angel.”
“I’d give up my whole life for her!” the drunk suddenly cried, springing to his feet so fast the cup toppled from his hands and splattered sake across the floor.
“Dumbass!” his friend hissed, yanking him back down by the collar.
The big man leaned in closer now, eyes narrowing. “How much do you think it’d cost for a private play with her?”
From the far end of the room, the house mistress appeared again, gliding forward with steps far too light for someone her age. Her voice cut through the ambient music. “Oh? Curious about Amayame-chan, are we?” She folded her hands together and leaned slightly forward. “I might be able to arrange something—if your purse is generous.”
“How much, Okasan?” the bigger man asked, barely hiding his desperation.
She grinned wide enough to show all her teeth. “Amayame is the most requested girl we’ve ever had. She only accepts men who pay double the full price—and only if she likes them.”
The man raised a brow, “And what’s double?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand yen.”
“WHAT?!” he bellowed, slamming his cup down hard enough that it nearly cracked. “That’s robbery!”
“Don’t take offense, brother,” the old woman replied, with a mocking tone. “Amayame-chan isn’t like the others. Once a man spends a night with her, he can’t bear to live without her. Better to say so now if your pockets are shallow.”
The man turned his head back toward the dancefloor. Amayame was spinning slowly, her arms raised. Her every movement was too refined, too beautiful to bear. Her eyes met his.
“…Fine,” he muttered at last. “I’ll use my wife’s savings.”
“Oka-san.”
A voice cut in from behind her, and a hand rested on her shoulder.
She turned, and all the color drained from her face.
Standing behind her was a tall man dressed in a long black coat. Most of his face was concealed behind an orange mask. Despite the mask’s strange design, his posture was casual. And he seemed normal enough.
He tilted his head politely.
“In the name of the eternal skies…” the old woman whispered under her breath, taking two cautious steps back. Her spine stiffened.
The man scratched the back of his head. “Apologies. I like the look.”
“R-Right…” she said, suddenly hoarse. “What is it, boy?”
“I want the one in the middle,” he said simply. “Amayame, yes? I’ll take her tonight.”
“What the hell?” the big man erupted, rising to his feet again. “We had a deal!”
“I’ll pay four times her price,” said the masked man, calm as ever. His voice carried no weight, but the effect was immediate.
The old woman’s eyes widened. For a moment, her face was blank. Then she beamed. “Of course, of course! She’s yours for the entire night!”
“What happened to our bargain?!” the other man yelled, “You said she’d be mine!”
“She’s not going anywhere,” the old woman snapped, waving toward the hallway. “Come another day. You’re disturbing the peace.”
Two male attendants appeared immediately. They grabbed the man’s arms.
“Get your hands off me!” he roared, thrashing. His drunken friend sat slumped beside him, unable or unwilling to help. “Screw you, cunt!” he bellowed as they dragged him out the door.
Back inside, calm returned.
The old woman turned back to the masked stranger, wiping her palms discreetly on her sleeve. She forced a polite smile. “What’s your name, son?”
“Tobi!” he replied cheerfully. “Here, take it all!” Without hesitation, he emptied his pockets—coins, bills, a handful of strange paper scrolls, and several items she didn’t recognize at all.
The woman gasped as the wealth spilled out. She had never seen so much come from one man so easily. With nimble hands, she tucked bills into her obi, stuffed small notes into her sleeves, and hid the rest inside her collar, eyes sparkling. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of you, Tobi-san,” she purred, barely able to contain her grin. “Let’s get your room ready.”
The old woman traveled through the establishment, weaving past sliding doors until she reached the backroom where the dancers and maikos were preparing.
“Sumire-chan, come see! Come!” she hollered in a tone of ecstasy, almost delirious with excitement. She slapped her chest with both hands to emphasize—pointing at her breasts and sleeves, which were now bulging with money.
The girls inside turned their heads in unison, even the cooking makanai at the corner hearth. Their eyes widened.
“Oka-san! Is that for Amayame?”
“I had never seen this much money gathered at once!”
“Please! Just let me have some!”
They dropped to their knees, hands pressed together in playful desperation, bowing toward her.
“Not a way!” the old woman exclaimed, smacking one girl on the head. “We have depenses! I’ll get you your wishes. Just make a list!”
“Okini!” they cried out in unison, thrilled anyway.
“Haruka-chan! Come! Come look at that!” a girl called, peering through the narrow slit between a nearly closed door. “Head on, head on, head!” another chimed in, and all three girls tilted their heads at the same angle, staring at the direction the first had pointed out.
“No way—is that the man who paid for Amayame-chan?”
“Yes, it’s him!” yelled Sumire, bouncing on her slipers. “What a shame, though! Why does he wear a mask? Oka-san, you know Amayame only accepts good-looking ones!”
The old woman, still counting and organizing the mountain of bills and coins, turned toward them with a whip of her head. Her smile disappeared instantly. She rushed toward the door and smacked the backs of each girl with open palms.
Slap!
“What are you all doing?! What if someone sees you?” she scolded, “Get to work! Get changed, quick! Next turn is yours. Maybe you’ll get lucky too.”
“Yeees!” they groaned back in chorus, going back to their respective places.
She then took swift steps toward the inner part of the room, where the male staff worked. They were hunched over props, folding screens, and strings of lanterns—preparing the next performance.
“Hideki! What are you doing?”
“Fixing the lamp, Oka-san,” the young man replied, sweating slightly as he adjusted one of the paper lanterns.
She shook her head sharply. “Leave this now! Go get the biggest room ready. Decorate it. It’s for an important guest!”
Hideki blinked, confused—but obeyed without another word.
The mai had just concluded – “Konpira play!” the male attendants screamed in the teahouse, their voices rising. “Yo!”
“Is there no one who wants to play?” asked one of the maikos, her voice high pitched. She stood with one hand folded over the other, bright sleeves hanging as she smiled into the crowd. Her eyes held a challenge.
She waited a long moment, before finally meeting her opponent.
“There is, actually!” came a voice from the back of the room.
All eyes turned.
It was the masked man from earlier. His orange mask gleamed under the low lamplight. He raised one arm lazily, sake in hand. “I want to play all night! I am Tobi!” he declared, cheerful again.
A few men laughed at his words.
“Ara~ Let’s play then, Tobi-san,” replied the maiko in yellow, stepping forward gracefully. Her smile never wavered. She knelt before the low table and gestured to the plush seat across from her.
He took the invitation without hesitation and seated himself, sprawling comfortably.
The table was set. A cup placed before each of them. Hands ready.
She started the chant.
“Konpira funefune oite ni hokakete
shura shushu shu…”
Her voice was rhythmic, sing-song, rising and falling. The challenge was simple: whoever broke the rhythm or touched the cup out of turn would lose and drink.
“Mawareba Shikoku wa Sanshū
Naka no gōri zōzu-san…”
They went back and forth, slapping the table, circling hands, teasing each other’s timing with increasingly elaborate feints.
“Konpira Daigongen—”
But the masked man was too good. His hand moved quick. The rhythm remained unbroken.
“Ichido mawareba…”
He tapped the rim of the cup with perfect tempo, then pulled back just in time.
“Konpira funefune oite ni hokakete…”
The maiko misstepped.
“Shura shushu—ah!”
She gasped, realizing too late she had reached at the wrong moment.
“Drink!” the chorus shouted behind them.
She laughed softly and lifted her cup, head tilting just so. The white powder on her face couldn’t fully mask the creeping redness that flushed her cheeks. Whether from the alcohol or something else, her entire posture softened. She refilled her cup and drank.
Round after round, they played. And round after round—surprisingly—she lost.
Her hands trembled ever so slightly now. Her giggles had grown longer, breaths slower. She kept losing, and she kept drinking. Her cheeks were no longer pink—they were scarlet. The sake washing away her lipstick.
The room cheered with each misstep. Laughter grew louder, more indulgent. Tobi, still masked and unreadable, watched her with a smile behind his orange spiral. He never lost.
And then—
The music began to fade. The instruments behind the screens stopped. The candlelight dimmed slightly. An attendant stepped forward with a bow, speaking softly:
“Ara, Tobi-san… It’s time for your entertainment. Please keep the company of Amayame-chan upstairs.”
“Tobi-san, is it?” the girl asked with a sweet voice. She was seated on a low red couch at the center of the room, her posture composed, despite all the sake she had consumed. The table between them was set with fresh drinks, pickles and fruit slices, prepared while the guests downstairs continued their revelry. Her sleeves were folded neatly over her lap, hair pinned into a bun.
She extended one hand with grace, gesturing toward the spot in front of her. The remaining male attendants, sensing it was time, bowed and quietly excused themselves, sliding the door shut behind them.
The masked man said nothing.
He stepped inside, silent, his long coat brushing against the floor. That joyful, drunken air he wore before—gone. Something else had settled over him now. It was heavy and Amayame could tell..
She watched him. Her smile faltered, eyebrows furrowing. “Tobi-san?” she asked again, voice soft, uncertain. “Is something wrong?”
Still no answer.
She stood, perhaps to approach, to ask more—but froze.
There was a sudden glint.
A kunai appeared from his coat and found its place beneath her chin in less than a second. Cold steel pressed into her throat.
Her breath caught in her lungs.
“What the hell?” she choked out, her body going rigid, arms frozen mid-movement. But she didn’t scream.
“Make a sound,” he said roughly, a complete departure from the cheerful guest she’d entertained below, “and you’re done. Right here.”
His voice had changed entirely. It was no longer disguised. No longer playful. Just hard and dangerous. She felt the surging of ominous chakra from the man.
She tried to swallow, but the blade made it near impossible. “Did you lose your mind?” she hissed. “Do you think no one will come and kill you if I scream?”
He leaned in slightly, not tightening the grip, just applying pressure through presence alone.
“I wonder about that…” he murmured, tilting his head mockingly.
Her fingers twitched at her side. She could feel the pulse in her neck beating against the kunai.
“What do you even want?!” she snapped, panic creeping into her voice. The kunai dug a little deeper into her flesh, and her breath caught again. “I’ll tell you everything… anything you need, I’ll give! Just—just not my neck, not my throat, please!”
She was trembling now. The words came out in choked gasps, her mouth trying to move faster than her brain.
Still, the man said nothing.
Then—his voice dropped.
“Do you remember that day?” he asked.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, not understanding.
“The day I slit your throat open?”
Everything inside her froze.
The words sank slowly, and she had a hard time remembering the event he referenced.
She blinked. Her knees nearly buckled. “It was you…” she whispered, eyes darting across his mask, trying to remember.
A white mask. Long black hair. Chains. Katana. Blue robe and blood on it.
“You’ve come to finish your job after all these years?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he smirked—though she couldn’t see it, she knew the shape his mouth had made beneath the mask. She could feel it.
“I guess so,” he said. “The outcome will depend on your answer to one single question.”
Her breathing shallowed. “What is it?”
He paused.
“Have you awakened your eyes yet?”
Her mind reeled. Her vision blurred. The past rushed in.
“Yes,” she lied. Her voice didn’t even tremble.
A beat passed.
“You’re coming with me, then,” the man said, stepping back slightly, lowering the kunai—but not relaxing.
As he moved, she reached instinctively for the ornate hairpin in her bun, yanked it free, and slashed toward his neck. The movement was fast and imprevisible. She had almost succeeded.
The blade met steel. He blocked with his kunai, snapping the hairpin in two.
“Fuck is this useless piece of shit!” she complained furowing her eyebrows in annoyance and hurling the broken pin across the room.
Before he could counter, she spun and kicked him hard in the groin. He stumbled backward with a grunt.
She took the opening.
Dashing toward the red couch she had been seated on earlier, she dropped low, reaching underneath. In one smooth motion, she retrieved the wakizashi hidden beneath the cushion.
The metal sang as she drew it, and before the man could stand upright, the blade was already pressed against his throat.
He stopped. But his breath was alarmingly calm still.
But she didn’t care.
She pressed the blade harder. Her eyes were wild. Her breath came fast.
“Throat? Or heart? Or maybe… brain?” she hissed, her voice shaking. Her eyes flicked lower. “…or there.”
She tilted the blade downward, pointing it toward his groin, laughing—crazy, jagged laughter that rose from deep inside her.
“That day… you didn’t just slash my throat. I remember. We fought, didn’t we? And I won. You were on the soil, bleeding out!”
She advanced a step, pushing the wakizashi harder against him. She swore she felt it biting skin. But—no blood.
Nothing.
He didn’t even flinch.
“What?” he said coolly. “You lost. Look at you now, still can’t beat me—even in an unfair fight”
He swatted the blade away with the back of his arm and brought a kick to her cheek. She collapsed, the sword slipping from her grip.
He didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he was on top of her.
He straddled her chest, slapped her hard across the face, then again. Blood sprayed from her mouth and nose. Her head lolled to the side.
His hand came down, gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him.
He examined her face as if studying a painting.
“You’re coming with me, dear little Uchiha relative,” he said in a whisper. “It’s lonely in here.”
She spat all the blood that accumulated in her mouth on his face and the thick stream of blood and saliva landed on his mask. “Go to hell!” she yelled.
Then she shifted her hips and drove another kick into his groin. This time, it hit hard.
He grunted and fell back, and she could swear she heard him cuss in pain.
She rolled away, scraped her palms, stood up fast.
“If you keep doing this,” He said through gritted teeth, getting up “our clan is really going to be endangered.”
“Fuck the Uchihas. And your ugly damn haircut!”
He chuckled. “And I thought maiko didn’t swear.”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she tore away her outer garments—obi, oversleeves, the decorative folds. Now only a robe clung to her body, baring her thighs and shoulders. She kicked off her slippers. Barefoot, armed, stripped down. She exhaled sharply.
Then ran straight at him.
Her hands snapped into position. Her feet found the rhythm of battle.
And she began to send kicks professionally. A technique she had learned and practiced a lot visibly.
He dodged them all.
Her last strike grazed his shoulder.
He caught her leg.
Before she could twist away, he stepped in, grabbed her by the waist, and slammed her into the wall hard enough to shake the frame of the sliding door.
She grunted, breath leaving her in a ragged exhale. Her vision flickered.
Still—she didn’t fall.
She shoved off the wall and came at him again, blade in one hand, the other forming a loose fist. She didn’t know which strike was meant to hit first. She just wanted to tear into him
But he was faster.
He disarmed her mid-swing, using the weight of his body, not technique. The wakizashi spun out of her grasp and clattered across the floor. She reached for it instinctively.
He grabbed her by the hair.
Her body twisted sideways, her breath catching again as he yanked her back, slamming her against the wooden pillar five times.
She let out a choked sound and started crying. Her limbs felt heavier now.
He didn’t say anything. Even though he was starting to breath harder
She finally got back to herself and swung a desperate fist upward, blindly.
He dodged. Countered.
Fingers pressed into her pressure point just beneath the shoulder. Her arm went numb.
Her vision blurred again.
No.
She staggered back, nearly slipped on the silk layers she’d kicked off earlier. He was in front of her again in an instant. One hand reached for her throat to hold her still.
“Don’t you ever stop?” he muttered,
She tried to say something—anything. But the blood in her mouth and the ringing in her ears made everything too far away.
Her knees buckled and her body had made the decision before her mind did. Her legs folded. Her arms dropped uselessly to her sides.
The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was the mask—orange, absurd, and unmoved—and the eye behind it. Just one. Staring. Watching.