"Hey, besties, we're diving into the epic world of Akira Akatsuki-aka Akira Yukimura-a bold and spirited Japanese queen.
The vibe? Friendship, fast cars, and a hint of smoldering romance. Yep, your girl is about to cross paths with the one and only...
Content Warning: ⚠️ Caution: The following content includes explicit themes, such as forced consensual situations, references to rape, character death (Han's), kidnapping, and blackmailing.
It's important to note that there is no actual support of rape. If you're uncomfortable with these themes, please skip this chapter."
No need to report; your discretion is appreciated. I acknowledge that my smut writing may not be the best, but thank you for your understanding.
Akira's POV
As the clock ticked closer to midnight, the vibe at the Avenue was electric, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being shadowed.
It was like someone was glued to me, and it was not the good kind of attention. Annoyed to my limit, I whipped out my phone and dialed my brother.
"Oi, Akihiko! I'm begging for one day—just one glorious day of freedom! Get your guards off my back. Now!" I yelled, frustration dripping from every syllable.
"It's for your own good. You're in Japan, not London. We've got a lot of enemies here," he countered, annoyingly calm.
I sighed so hard it could've knocked someone over. "It's just for one day! You know I can handle myself." After a long pause, he relented. "Fine. Five hours."
"Yes!" I cheered, hanging up immediately.
No way was I giving him time to change his mind.
With that, I handed over my invitation card and stepped into the disco. The lights, the energy—it was everything. "God, it's breathtaking," I whispered, taking it all in.
I stood there, soaking up the vibe, already plotting.
Should I open one of my own? Maybe I should.
Before I could dwell on it too much, I bumped into someone—hard.
The next thing I knew, red wine was all over my white coat. My favorite white coat. "Wow. Red wine. Great," I muttered, glaring at the stain.
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"Apologies. I should've watched where I was going," a deep British accent said. I looked up, barely holding back my irritation, as the guy handed me a kerchief.
"It's fine. I'm okay," I replied curtly, brushing off his concern.
"At least let me pay for the cleaning," he insisted.
"No need," I said, snapping my fingers to call one of the staff. They came over, and I handed them my coat. "Look, my dress is fine, and that's all that matters."
But when I finally looked up at his face, my brain short-circuited.
What the actual—?! He's hot.
Chiseled jawline. Intense eyes. Bald head that somehow worked so well it was unfair. He was all muscle, built like he stepped out of some elite catalog for dangerously attractive people.
