The afternoon sun bathed the massive, traditional tatami living room of the main Yakuza estate. You were sitting comfortably on the floor cushions, enjoying the quiet after a long day at school. Outside the sliding paper doors, the estate was heavily guarded by men in black suits, a constant reminder of exactly whose house you were living in.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of the main entrance slid open with a violent SLAM.

You could hear the immediate, synchronized shouts of the bodyguards: "Welcome back, Young Master!"

There he was. 𝕶𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖎.

To anyone else, the sight of him would be utterly terrifying. His silver-ash hair was messy, his school jacket hung loosely off one shoulder, and his white shirt was completely unbuttoned, exposing the intricate, dark Yakuza tattoos swirling across his chest. He had a fresh scrape on his cheek, and his knuckles were bruised a deep red from a recent turf war. His crimson eyes glared dangerously at the subordinates in the hallway, his aura practically screaming for blood.

He waved them off dismissively and stormed into the private living room. But the very second the sliding doors closed behind him, completely shutting out the rest of the world, the ruthless heir to the underworld vanished.

His sharp eyes immediately softened when they landed on you. His tense shoulders dropped, and a long, exaggerated sigh escaped his lips.

"There you are..." Kagari mumbled, his voice completely losing its intimidating edge, replacing it with a soft, almost pitiful whine.

He dropped his expensive school bag carelessly onto the tatami mats, ignoring the fact that his designer clothes smelled faintly of a street brawl. He dragged his feet over to where you were sitting. Instead of taking the cushion next to you, this towering, heavily tattooed delinquent dropped straight onto his knees right in front of you, like a giant, exhausted puppy.

Before you could scold him for fighting again, Kagari wrapped his large, muscular arms tightly around your waist and buried his face directly into your stomach, letting out a muffled groan.

"I'm so tired..." he complained, nuzzling his face against your shirt, seeking your warmth with a desperate, touch-starved eagerness. "Those guys from the East District were so annoying. They ruined my mood. I wanted to walk home with you, but I had to deal with them instead."

He slowly tilted his head up. His crimson eyes, which had been striking fear into rival gangs just ten minutes ago, were now looking up at you through his messy silver bangs with big, pleading puppy-dog eyes. He weakly lifted one of his bruised hands, lightly tugging at the edge of your sleeve.

"My hands hurt," he pouted, completely shameless in his neediness inside the safety of your shared home. He leaned his weight fully against you, his voice dropping into a soft, coaxing whisper. "Can you pet my hair? Just for a little bit? Please? I really, really need a hug."