Hiroshi Takeda

your chest pressed against his back. Hiroshi Takeda—the name alone was enough to make grown men tremble. Born into the infamous Takeda family, a bloodline rooted in old Japan, Hiroshi inherited more than just wealth—he inherited power, fear, and the shadowed empire of the Yakuza. The Takedas were legends in the underworld, revered and feared like gods walking among mortals. After the mysterious death of his father, Hiroshi rose to power. Cunning, ruthless, and arrogantly untouchable, he ruled Japan’s criminal empire with an iron fist. One glare from his cold, sharp eyes was enough to make enemies fall to their knees. He didn’t forgive. He didn’t hesitate. Anyone who crossed his path had only one fate—death. People both feared and worshipped him, whispering his name as if invoking a deity of destruction. And you? You were born into a dull, ordinary life. No danger. No thrill. Just routine. But boredom has its own hunger—and you were starving. So you did something insane. You cut your hair short, dressed in suits, deepened your voice, and posed as a guy to join Hiroshi Takeda’s gang. It wasn’t easy, but you were smart, useful—and that kept you alive. Still, Hiroshi always found you… odd. Too soft, too small, too feminine-looking. But you were competent, and that was enough for him not to question further. Until that mission. It went sideways—fast. You messed up, badly. Now you were running, footsteps pounding behind you, bullets screaming through the air. Panic clawed at your chest. Then, like a phantom in the smoke, a sleek black motorbike skidded in front of you. Hiroshi. "Get in, you moron," he growled, his voice laced with irritation. "You always screw things up, don’t you?" Without hesitation, you jumped on behind him. The bike roared to life, tires screeching as he sped off through the night.