‘𝘐.. 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵,’ — ғrαɴcιѕ αѕнғord [ ғorced мαrrιαɢe ] 🦢 кαтαкαи, к¢αтzуи: — ᴍᴀᴅᴇ-ᴜᴘ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ! ! The once stiff and composed general dropped to his knees before you. Every head in the ballroom turned, wide-eyed as gossip erupted in waves across the room. A few months ago, The Red War—a civil war between the country of Katakan—had finally come to an end: how? Because Duke of the North, cousin to the King and also known as General Francis Ashford had met you on the borders of the North and South cities and proposed. You were leading the opposition against the King, and this marriage he proposed was to bring an end and come to peace. You were not allowed to continue being a general, now reduced to a house-spouse as a ‘reward,’ so you could, ‘rest,’ while Francis was risen in rank. In the North, you were still disliked—seen as a villain, unlike in the South where you were a hero. Anywho, the man was cold. He was like an ice block, and he was prideful, harsh, cutting. He was made up of rough and jagged edges. But when he’d taken it too far, when he realised that perhaps you were not just a nuisance he’d taken in to calm the country, his facade began to crack. Like bad paint. It was amidst a ball where you refused to stand by him after something particular harsh he’d said, something that hit a nerve, that he grabbed your gloved hand in his with the intention of apologising; you kept pulling away and thats when his desperation had kicked in.

‘𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶..’ — ɢᴡɪ-ᴛᴀᴇᴋ ʙʏᴇᴏʟ [ мαғια вoѕѕ х мαғια вoѕѕ ] 🦢 ρσℓαи∂, ωαяѕαω: The night was rough. Poland was your homeland, your territory, yet, tonight, mafiosos from all over the world would be landing in Poland’s beloved capital. Why—well, for the annual gathering; every year, a country would be chosen to hold the event where mafiosos from all over would gather. It would usually end in a brawl, gunfight or just some sort of violence. Deals would be struck, wars declared, alliances made or broken all the while people got drunk and stupid high or lost millions on high-stakes poker. The gala was in two days from now and people were landing. There was only one person you were somewhat cautious to run into—Gwi-taek. He was a longstanding rival. The bastard refused to compromise or give in, and you grew just as stubborn. It was a dance of evasion and playfulness, hiding truly dark intentions, hiding weapons, blades, guns. Tonight you were walking Warsaw’s back-alleys, alone, just for a moment to clear your mind with all the stress that had befallen you. You’d seen the shadow following you since the moment you left your estate. When the time was right, you whipped around and faced the person head on, knocking them out flat. A cloth was pressed over your mouth from behind. Fuck. You struggled against them, but it was useless: your vision was already darkening ‘𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯..’ that cheeky, smooth voice coaxed—Gwi-taek. ‘𝘔𝘮𝘮𝘩𝘩𝘬 𝘰𝘰𝘱𝘩!..’ fuck you, you uttered with the last of your dissipating strength. Then you passed out. The walls had moss growing on them. It was damp and cold, the light dim over your head, waking you up.

‘𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬,’ — ᴍᴀʀᴅʏ ᴋᴇᴇɴ [ вυlly х qυιeт ĸιd ] 🦢 єиgℓαи∂, ℓσи∂σи: The rain pounded against the classroom window while your history teacher bored on. ‘𝘍𝘶𝘶𝘶𝘤𝘬, 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦..’ your resentful friend grumbled to you under their breath. Mardy, the school’s bully; he didn’t only target specific people, or people he thought were ‘losers,’ or ‘lesser,’ he simply treated everyone that way. Mardy was a troublemaker, a prick, rough around the edges and everyone had met his wrath at least once. Except you. You seemed to have something about you which made Mardy leave you untouched, unstained by his quick, or blunt temper. Mardy had never once taken out his bad mood on you. But he was still scary—you always avoided him, incase your good luck ran out one day.. You waved a dismissive hand to your friend as the bell whistled through your thoughts signalling the end of the day. You had an afterschool club—volleyball—and by the end, the rain only pounded harder outside. ‘𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘪𝘪𝘵...’ you muttered quietly as you returned to your locker, knowing you had no umbrella or jacket today—and that’s when you say him, eyes closed, sitting on the floor besides your locker.

‘𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸..’ — ʀᴀᴠɪ sɪɴɢʜ [ clαѕѕ reυɴιoɴ - ғrιeɴdѕ тo loverѕ ] 🦢 υѕα, иєω уσяк: Back in high-school, you were the quote-on-quote smart kid: classic nerd, not the best with fashion sense. You had a pretty face, but had no idea how to use it. And back then wasn’t all great either.. You tried to stay under the radar, just get through school, but of course, there were always a few assholes who targeted—bullied—you. Well, that was until Ravi stepped in. Ravi looked like a total thug, bad grades, coming from a harsh background. Everyone was pretty scared of Ravi, usually avoiding him. Just as you were about to be shoved into a locker, he stepped in. From that day on, a reluctant friendship formed. And that reluctant friendship grew into something real, and trusted. A confidant, a friend. After high-school though, you two lost contact over the years. Ravi, who was never good at school, opened his own successful company, branching into a conglomerate. You, however, didn’t end up in an office job, or at the top of a company, no, you ended up being in front of a camera. You ended up being a model, all looks, no grades. Things had ended up so differently from what anyone had expected. Almost a decade later, you got a text. A reunion? At first you debated saying no, not going—why would you want to see those assholes again? Then you though: ‘𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸. 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘮.. 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵..’ There was one thought that you didn’t voice though: maybe you’d see Ravi again—one of your closest—and only—friend from back then.. You’d always wondered how he had done for himself.

‘𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘩𝘶𝘩,’ — sʜɪɴɪᴄʜɪ ‘sʜɪɴ’ ᴏʀᴀ [ cαpтor х cαpтιve ( ? ) ] 🦢 нιѕтσяι¢αℓ נαραи: The door slid open, not that you noticed; you were rather busy daydreaming, sorting information through your head. Shinichi ‘Shin’ Ora, the illegitimate, bastard son of Ryu Ora, a yakuza. Despite that, he did not grow up wealthy with power seated in his pockets, but instead he was pushed aside, thrown to the slums to fend for himself after his mother’s death. That was Shin’s breaking point. He swore to the Gods, ‘𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮,’ with venom and promise binding his tongue. And when he did indeed grow up, he made good on his promise. He killed his father in his own home, and his half-brother was given a merciless death. Shin made sure to twist the katana slowly. A moments relief—at your dead husband—twisted your body, before the imminent threat before you stiffened your posture again.

‘𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳,’ — ᴅᴏʀɪᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ [ coɴтrαcтυαl мαrrιαɢe ] 🦢 єиgℓαи∂, ℓσи∂σи: The emergency room was never quiet, bustling with the hustle of saving lives. Your shift came to an end quite late—two am. Eye-bags bruised your eyes as you walked down London’s quiet streets apart from the occasional drunkard. ‘𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢- 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯.. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘹.. 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢- 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬,’ desperate pleas echoed from the alley. A single glance wouldn’t hurt, hm?.. A man, imposingly large with a cigar between his lips, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. More men—henchmen, maybe?—stood around, one of them lighting the cigar for the man in the trench coat. He leaned down, a bored, indifferent emotion glaring in narrowed eyes, ‘𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺. 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦.’ He hissed in an annoyed drawl. Then.. Then there was blood. A lot of blood. It splattered across his glasses, across pale skin and expensive clothes. And when that predatory gaze flashed on you, deep eyes glowing in the dark, he had seen you. He cursed lowly, ‘𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬.’ Then nothing. When you woke up, tied to a chair across from him, he spoke in a deep, smooth voice, ‘𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬—𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯. 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳.’ Your heart was pounding. Of course he had probably done some sort of background check. He slid over a paper. ‘𝘈 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘺?!’ You exclaimed, eyes wide. ‘𝘚𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰, 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.’

‘𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘦? 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬—𝘪'𝘮 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘫𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘥,’ — ғelιх мeιer [ ѕυperιor х ѕυвordιɴαтe ] 🦢 cнιиα, σff-gяι∂ ‘𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?! 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘛𝘢𝘵𝘴𝘶?’ you protested. Tatsu was your genius twin, working for major corporations, including the asian secret forces branch in a research lab. You were often left in his shadow. And two weeks ago, he left with no explanation, just a simple goodbye, saying he’d be back soon. But then your uncle showed up. ‘𝘛𝘢𝘵𝘴𝘶'𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦,’ your uncle waved a dismissive hand. He’d always been that way. Your uncle worked under the Warden for the Asian Branch, and after forcing you into the off-grid building, you’d had grown to get uncomfortably comfortable—forced to adapt to the cutthroat environment and constant threat of death. A few weeks after settling in, the Asian Branch had a training camp with the Europe Branch, where you were warned of the psycho in black gloves—Felix Meier: he was no older than you, but highly regarded, and disliked by a lot. He was a mystery. In previous years, he’d gotten away with killing other members and even a few Branch captains. People resented him, his own team feared him. He was a weapon: extremely capable but often off the hook due to loopholes. In those two weeks of training, the bastard weaselled his way into your life, uprooting it in chaos. But after the Warden died, they had to appoint a new one, which unfortunately happened to be someone as good as their job like Felix. And you got stuck working under him—his right-hand—as he personally requested you..

‘𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘴,’ — sᴀʜɪʀ ɢᴄᴏʙᴀɴɪ [ мαrrιαɢe oғ coɴveɴιeɴce ] 🦢 ιzкαяנαи, נυммα: — ғιcтιoɴαl plαce ‘𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘕𝘦𝘶𝘧𝘻𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦,’ the advisor uttered, handed off the letter to your father. Your father, the Duke of Izkarjan’s northern territory—a place called Jumma—had been fighting back the forces of Neufzen, a tribe in also based in the mountainous regions: and suddenly, they wished to visit the Dukedom?.. You’d been present in the room as the news was read to your father. You spoke up a suggestion, ‘𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭.’ Your father shot you an almost sceptical look before ordering it. The day of the banquet had arrived sooner than you’d expected. You had to admit, you were slightly giddy to be meeting someone from Neufzen, despite the lurking dangers. Rumours said they had come for an alliance, a peace-treaty, perhaps a marriage of convenience, but who really knew?.. Unruly, loud and playful, the tribe scattered across the Grand Hall where the banquet was being held in the Dukedom. [ R A N D O M V O I C E ]

‘𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬—𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨,’ - ʀᴇᴍɪ ᴍᴏɴʀᴇᴀᴜ [ αcтor х αcтor / coworĸerѕ ] 🦢 кσяєα, ѕєσυℓ: ‘𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦,’ he murmured, his warm palms a caress against your cold cheek, ‘𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘐.. 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶..’ Desperation clutched his tone, a hint of irritation as he grabbed your shoulders with narrowed eyes. Your eyes widened, pulling back slightly to Remi’s distaste. ‘𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦!’ called the director. His face cracked into his usual, charming grin. Your face fell back into its usual neutralness. ‘𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘩𝘮𝘮?’ Remi leaned in, whispering the affirmation in your ear. Remi had always been a bit of a flirt, a charmer with hundreds of scandals every other day — not that his fans weren’t used to it, often pushing it aside to adore the cheeky man, who was not native to Korea. He always claimed they were not true, but who was to say? You, his polar opposite, yet just as cherished with the public, happened to be starring with him in a film. There was an odd sort of relationship between you two; you’d known one another for years, since you both began in the industry at similar times. Remi would even consider you friends.. but you had your benefits— hooking up from time-to-time, not that it was public knowledge.. ‘𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬..’ you mumbled to yourself, cursing lowly as you felt heat radiate off him. [ R A N D O M V O I C E ]

‘𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩..’ — нαĸυ cнoι [ αrrαɴɢed мαrrιαɢe ] 🦢 кσяεα, gωαηgση ρяσvιηcε: ‘𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯,' your parents announced. You spluttered, almost choking while your sister scoffed like it was a foolish notion, ‘𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 300 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴?’ Families could serve deities for generations, in return for secure power and wealth; your family served the dragon deity: elusive, reclusive. It was currently the Joseong Era, and your family held onto their power as nobility through the deity’s help. However, for 300 years, he lay dormant. Asleep. ‘𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦 — 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺. 𝘚𝘰, 𝘸𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘑𝘶-𝘮𝘪, 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮.’ Your parents were straight-faced. They were willing to give off your younger sister, Ju-mi, for the reassurance that the dragon would remain. You stood up, eyes wide, slamming your hands against the table before Ju-mi had the chance, ‘𝘕𝘰! 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 — 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵. 𝘑𝘶-𝘮𝘪 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺.’ The words escaped your lips before a second thought could form. A look of gratitude and relief fell over Ju-mi as she gave you a thankful glance. [ R A N D O M V O I C E ]

‘𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧,’ — нιroтo ĸoвoyαѕнι [ fαmσuѕ х mαnαgєr ] 🦢 ʝαραɳ, ƚσƙყσ: An hour before Hiroto’s fight, you were walking back to his dressing room when his opponent pulled you aside. ‘𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 — 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘐'𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴,’ he uttered, holding onto your wrist. You refused, but by then it was too late: Hiroto had seen the scene laid out before him. His narrowed eyes darted to the grasp around your wrist. Opening your mouth to explain only left you cut off as Hiroto grabbed your other wrist and dragged you into the dressing room. ‘𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬?’ Hiroto hissed, clearly looking for an explanation—he was on edge, angry: he was quick to anger, but he would never hit you. Explained, sorted, done. The match begins. ‘𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘒𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪!’ the host announced over the mic, cheers erupting in waves throughout the crowd. You could see the rage burning a gaze through his opponent as he put his fists up. Blood splattered, bruises blossomed. It was a quick dance of chaos and pain with Hiroto on top, pummelling his opponent. [ R A N D O M V O I C E ]