_{Social relations were not permitted between their "families".}
~

      She was a thief, trained to grasp her survival from the living of the better off. Her parents were dead, left her on the streets for the clutches of the city yakuza. "Earn your keep through money or blood" they told her; taught once to steal and warned to never get caught. She trained herself to fight lest her maturing body become property of another. She was safe until thirteen; no protection would be offered after that day.
      Her eyes froze their ocean ripples as her hands learned blood and the snatch of possessions from the most guarded of targets; she would cover them with a black blindfold unless the situation demanded otherwise. There was no light for her to see, so she cared not to hide the forgotten beauty that used to live there. Her heart was no more than a stone, unfeeling towards any male in the gang she relented to sleep with. Some didn't care, releasing their sexual tension and made no argument when told to get out right after; one would ask if he could stay, caressing her with a gentleness that struggled to prove he'd lost his heart to her. His words couldn't pass her barriers; she'd turn away from him and offered only her scarred back and hair scented of battle and tragedy that she could no longer feel. She'd let him hold onto her, attempt to find an affection that existed not.
      Many tried to coerce her voice from the vault within, but received nothing. She spoke when necessary to respect her elders and their requests of her, but did not see the need at any other point to speak a voice that no one cared about hearing.
      Ankoku Mitexi. Child of the moon wrapped in darkness. She lived to exist and follow the orders of those who led her away from the bodies of her murdered parents.
      Not to fall in love...



      He was in line to take over the gang when his father retired or died in battle with their enemies. At 19, he expressed his leadership and dominance of the life he would one day control. He earned their respect, each team member trusting him to lead them to victory. Although they moved into town, stone chips and all, they did not intend to roll over their alpha position to the existing gang. Their arrogance was not unprecedented; a history of being the top clan in any city they migrated to earned them the right to express confidence in their goal to control the streets once more. He would ensure that.
      As the son, he didn't have to be the best fighter – force of orders over physical execution of them – but he insisted to his father that no one should lead lest it be by example. His father smiled at the focus in his son's words before ordering their rank test tournament to continue. He grew up with the taste of blood on his lips, remembering each savoury stain as his "family" moved up in the fears and hearts of those they came across. He could handle any blade with ease, though long and thin served him best; the wind never hindered his movements. If no weapon lay at hand, he chose his injuries with trained strikes of his fists, and snap judgments through kicks. Underestimation lead to defeat, death if the situation called.
      No woman desired to say "no" to his careful caresses, hungry to hold the muscles that moved between steel and silk. He sought their company when he so chose, preferring to lure their hearts into desperation and longing for him before he'd relent and be theirs for the night. Relationships meant little to him; time, effort, sacrifice, nothing that served to improve his abilities. His spikes of black hair moved with a life of their own in whatever situation he stepped within, casting his presence into the air and the lungs of his "company", be they friendly or hostile.
      Takamura Hiro. Born leader of a transient clan. His existence was to rule, to bring his yakuza family into the top position once again in their newest setting.
      Not to lose his footing to his enemy.

-~-~-~-~

      The clan battles were brutal. Blood was shed on both sides with no hope of submission from one or the other. Ankoku had control of the city for generations, proving their worth through years of wars and challenges and never backed down, no matter who was left standing; Takamura were nomadic, but there wasn't an enemy they hadn't cut down in their reign. Both acknowledged the dangerous fighter of the other, disturbed by the blindfolded woman wearing no more on her torso than bandages over her breasts and a black jacket soon off her shoulders, unnerved by the blood crimson eyes that glittered in the darkness before the blade of a shadowed man struck home. Both determined the victory of the current fight, unless they appeared on the same battlefield. That circumstance grew in frequency lest the losing side desired to submit with heavy casualties once again.

      Hiro frustrated Mitexi; she called him in familiarity to distinguish his dogged presence as a thorn in her efforts. He matched her blades, a flurry of daggers that she had on hand, and her strikes, when their weapons fell to the ground, but he matched her with a nonchalance that gave him the appearance of 'bored'. As if she were an inconvenience, not a threat. She felt his movement caress past, smooth and fluid, the unstoppable flow of a river, carrying a strength that left destruction in their wake; the opposing forces living inside of her enemy cut at her pride, chiselled away at her gathered respect. Chipped away at her reason for living. She'd not seen him, sketching his body out with their brief connections of skin and steel. She'd heard his eyes were the glisten of fresh blood, flashing in the moonlight before he spilled yours; the mythologizing description only infuriated her more. She'd never felt emotionally charged by an enemy, much less a male enemy.
      She hated him.

      Mitexi intrigued Hiro; he worked her name on his tongue, struggling to figure out the enigma of her existence. He'd never met an enemy that could persist to keep up with him night after night...and a woman no less! He'd watch her in and out of battle, how her black jacket would begin on her shoulders, slide to her elbows and eventually fall away without hindering her movements in the slightest. Her upper torso lay bared for any man to strike, flesh above and below a careful wrapping and positioning of bone grey bandages over her breasts. He pondered how she placed so much effort into such an appearance. Was it to distract her enemies or for personal reasons? Did she have a reason at all? He upset his room every time her name tarnished a late battle; he could not decipher her like any enemy he'd read in the past. He blamed that damned blindfold. It still deceived the lower ranks, assuming a handicap of her, yet Hiro could tell that the handicap was theirs; that black strip of fabric separated her from him. Hiro would vent his ire for not knowing her eye colour, break his wooden batons in practice while thinking about the red tips of her jet black hair that pattered where her eyes lay hidden. He knew damn well he would have no interest in her if those barriers existed not and this bothered him to the point of rage.
      He wanted her dead.