The rain hit Tokyo like a confession—loud, messy, and impossible to ignore.
Raijo crouched beneath the flickering sign of a ramen shop in Shinjuku, his hoodie soaked, his stomach empty, and his fists clenched. The city didn't care. It never had. Not when he was ten and stealing rice balls for his sister. Not when she died in his arms, whispering apologies for being a burden. And definitely not now, when he was twenty-three, broke, and still chasing a dream that felt like a cruel joke.
He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp jawline and haunted eyes. Women noticed him. They always had. But beauty was a currency he hadn't yet learned to spend.
"Hey, pretty boy," came a voice from behind.
He turned. She was tall, wrapped in a red trench coat, heels clicking like gunshots on the wet pavement. Her lipstick matched the coat. Her eyes didn't blink.
"You look like you need a warm meal," she said, nodding toward the ramen shop.
Raijo smirked. "You offering to pay?"
She smiled. "I'm offering more than that."
That night, Raijo didn't just eat. He tasted power, lust, and the first spark of something dangerous. Her name was Yumi, and she would become the first of nine.
Nine women. Nine obsessions. Nine reasons to rise—and nine ways to fall.
The ramen shop was dim, lit by a single buzzing light bulb that swung slightly with every gust of wind from the door. The scent of pork broth and soy sauce hung thick in the air, but Raijo didn't notice. He was too busy inhaling his bowl like it was the last meal he'd ever have.
Yumi watched him from across the table, chin resting on her hand, eyes scanning every inch of him. The way his jaw flexed as he chewed. The way his collar clung to his neck, soaked from the rain. The way his abs pressed against the fabric of his shirt every time he leaned forward.
How the hell does a man with no money, no lotion, no protein, and no roof over his head look like a damn Greek statue? she wondered. He's more beautiful than me. And I know I'm a ten.
She smiled, sipping her sake. "So… family?"
Raijo didn't look up. "Dead."
"All of them?"
"Yeah."
She tilted her head. "Siblings?"
He paused. The chopsticks froze mid-air. A flicker of something—pain, maybe—crossed his face. Then he nodded. "Had a sister. She's gone too."
Yumi didn't push. She just nodded, letting the silence settle between them like steam off the broth.
"What's your dream?" she asked, breaking it gently.
Raijo looked up, eyes narrowing like she'd just asked if water was wet. "That's a dumb question."
She laughed. "Fair. I mean, sure, maybe it's to be rich. But you speak English like a damn diplomat, and you dress like you're trying to cosplay as a NEET, even though you're clearly broke as hell."
He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ouch. My non-existent pride."
She leaned in. "So what is it then? You don't strike me as the type to just drift."
Raijo leaned back, arms stretched behind his head, muscles flexing under the thin fabric. "I'm not drifting. I'm climbing. Just… slowly. One dirty step at a time."
Yumi raised an eyebrow. "And what's at the top?"
He grinned. "Whatever I want."
She laughed again, but there was a flush in her cheeks now. He didn't even realize it, but every time he spoke, he was reeling her in. The way he looked at her—like he saw through her clothes and her soul at the same time. The way he answered her questions with just enough mystery to keep her leaning closer.
He's a natural, she thought, biting her lip. Doesn't even know it.Raijo leaned back, the last of the broth warming his stomach like a hug he hadn't felt in years. He exhaled, slow and heavy, then looked up at her with those sharp, unreadable eyes.
"Thanks for the meal," he said, voice low, almost reluctant. "But who are you, really?"
Yumi tilted her head, amused. "What do you mean?"
He gave a half-smile. "You're not some hooker looking for a quick lay. And you're definitely not one of those lonely types trying to bring a pretty boy home to fake a boyfriend for your parents."
She raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"I saw the car," he continued. "Black Lexus. Parked two blocks down. Tinted windows. Engine still running. And the two guys in suits pretending to smoke? They've been watching us since we left the alley."
Yumi's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. "You're observant. I like that."
Raijo shrugged. "I'm hungry, not stupid."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her voice dropping to a velvet whisper. "I'm the CEO of a company. Tech, mostly. But I've got hands in other pies. Real estate. Fashion. Entertainment. You name it."
He nodded slowly. "So… why me?"
Yumi's eyes flicked over him again, lingering. "Because you're beautiful. But I don't collect pretty things unless they're useful. Beauty without purpose is trash. I've seen enough of it."
She sipped her drink, then added, calm and cold, "Any man can last ten minutes in bed. It's not a must that he has a fuckable face."
Raijo chuckled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Too bad," he said, flashing a crooked grin. "I'm a virgin. So I can't give you a number for duration."
Yumi blinked, then laughed—a real, throaty laugh that turned heads in the quiet shop. "A virgin? You're kidding."
"Nope."
"Not even once?"
"Not even a handjob," he said, deadpan.
She stared at him, then shook her head. "You're either lying or you're the most dangerous man I've ever met."
Raijo leaned in, eyes locked on hers. "Why? Because I haven't been touched, or because I don't care?"
Yumi's smile faded just a little. "Both."Raijo chuckled, the sound low and dry, like gravel rolling in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on Yumi's with that signature mix of curiosity and defiance.
"It is what it is," he said, shrugging. "So, what's your proposal?"
Yumi's smile widened, slow and deliberate. She reached into her coat and pulled out a sleek black business card, embossed with silver kanji and a minimalist logo. She placed it on the table between them like a poker chip.
"You have one week," she said. "Get yourself a suit. Not just any suit—a real one. ¥150,000 and up. Tailored. Sharp. Paid for by your own means."
Raijo raised an eyebrow. "That's a lot of ramen."
She stood, smoothing her coat, her voice calm and cutting. "Fail, and this never happened. No calls. No second chances. No memory of tonight."
She leaned in, her lips brushing his cheek in a soft, calculated peck. Not affection—just punctuation.
Then she turned and walked out, heels clicking like a countdown.
Raijo stared at the card. It felt heavier than it should. Like it carried weight. Like it carried fate.
He pocketed it, stood up, and stepped into the rain.
Seven days. One suit. One shot.
End of chapter 1.