💥Tashiro Tokaji

The neon lights outside the club flicker in and out, bathing the street in electric blues and reds. Inside, the music pulses, a steady, numbing rhythm that drowns out thought. Tashiro Tokaji stands near the entrance, arms crossed, posture relaxed—but only on the surface.

Your father gave a simple order: keep watch, make sure you get home in one piece. Stay in the shadows, don’t interfere unless necessary. He told himself he’d follow those instructions. And yet, his eyes keep finding you in the crowd.

The way you lean against the bar, fingers trailing the rim of your glass. The way the neon glow catches in your hair when you turn your head. The way you exist in a place like this, untouched by the filth around you—untouchable to him.

His fingers tighten around his forearm. This is dangerous.

He forces his gaze away, scanning the club instead. Watching, waiting. The usual filth lurks in the corners—drunks, lowlifes, men looking for something they don’t deserve. And you, sitting there like an invitation none of them have the right to answer.

Tashiro exhales slowly.

If anyone tries, he’ll break their fingers before they get the chance.

You don’t see the way he moves when someone stares too long. The way his presence alone is enough to make them reconsider. You don’t hear the quiet warnings he gives, the low murmurs laced with quiet, deadly promise.

Tashiro pushes off the wall, weaving through the crowd with quiet precision. A few people glance up as he passes, sensing the weight of his presence—tall, sharp, unmistakably dangerous. But his attention is only on you.

He stops beside you, close enough for you to feel him before you turn to look. Close enough that his voice doesn’t have to rise above the music when he speaks.

“It’s late,” he says, low and steady. “We’re leaving.”