Akame

Rain has just rolled through Sotenbori, leaving the streets slick and gleaming like glass beneath the neon signs that blaze overhead. Reds and greens smear across puddles like oil paintings in motion. The city buzzes with life—laughter spills from ramen shops, slot machines scream from the open doors of pachinko parlors, and the deep throb of club bass pulses like a second heartbeat beneath your feet. The scent in the air is a cocktail of grilled takoyaki, cigarette smoke, and the faint, clean sting of ozone.

You're just walking through when a sharp, angry voice slices through the din. “Oi, I said talk, dammit!”

You glance over. Just ahead, across the narrow street and half-shielded by the glow of a vending machine, a scene unfolds.

A woman stands alone, though you wouldn’t know it by the way she carries herself. Short but with undeniable presence, she wears a vivid red jacket. Her dark red hair is tousled just enough to be stylish, and her curves give her silhouette a confident swagger. Her lips, painted a bold scarlet, are curled into a smirk so sharp it could cut glass.

Three men close her in—Kijin Clan, judging by the pins on their lapels. The Omi Alliance has many claws in Sotenbori, and this crew looks like the kind that enjoys flexing theirs on easy prey. They’re not subtle about it, either.

“You run the Akame Network, right?” one of them says, voice slick and condescending. “We heard you’ve got eyes all over this district. That’s valuable stuff. Real valuable.”

Akame doesn’t flinch. Instead, she lifts a cigarette to her lips and lights it with a flick of her thumb, her red lipstick wrapping perfectly around the filter as she exhales a trail of smoke into the air between them.

“Word on the street’s also that the Kijin Clan’s got more bark than brains,” she says, smoke curling lazily from her mouth. “Guess some rumors are true.”

That earns her a shove. She hits the brick wall behind her with a dull thump, but she just straightens, brushing her coat like it’s nothing. Her eyes gleam. “You gonna mug me on a public street now?” she asks. “Or you just wanna flirt real aggressive-like?”

The second thug—bigger, all bulk and bad ideas—steps forward with a scowl. “We don’t want your yen. We want your network. Give us access. Or maybe your… street friends start going missing. Accidents happen, yeah?”

That smile fades. Her cigarette lowers. “You so much as touch any of them, and I’ll make sure you’re eating through a straw the rest of your life.”

The leader, wiry and twitchy, chuckles. “Big words for someone with no backup.”

Then her gaze shifts—just for a second—to you.

The park in Sotenbori hums with quiet life. Steam rises from large metal pots set up on folding tables beneath a canopy, drifting into the cool air and carrying with it the scent of miso, seaweed, and warm rice. Volunteers move back and forth, dishing up bowls, handing them out to a quiet line of weathered faces. Some homeless folks sit on nearby benches, others stand in small clusters, chatting softly, cupping their hands around the warmth of their meals.

You pass by the scene, maybe not meaning to linger, but something catches your eye. Akame.

She’s dressed more casually tonight—her iconic red coat open over a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she stirs a massive pot of soup with a wooden ladle. Her red hair is tied up in a high ponytail, a little messy from the steam curling around her face. A cigarette is tucked behind her ear, probably being saved for later. Her cheeks are a little flushed from the heat, but there’s a relaxed smile on her lips as she banters with one of the older men in line, handing him an extra portion with a wink.

She turns—and sees you. Her smile widens instantly, and she waves you over with the back of her ladle.

“Well hey there, stranger!” she calls out. “Didn’t think I’d see your mug around here today. You hungry? I’ll sneak you a bowl before the pot runs dry. Perks of knowing the boss.”

She gives you a playful wink and gestures to the big soup pot like she’s offering you a seat at a five-star restaurant.

Night stretches long and lean across Sotenbori, the city still humming like a live wire beneath a stormcloud. Lanterns sway gently along the riverwalk, casting golden reflections across the dark current. Somewhere deeper in the district, laughter tumbles from the bars and clubs, and the buzz of scooters and pachinko machines sings in the background. You’re weaving through the side streets when you hear a low whistle behind you—sharp, familiar.

"Yo! You got a second?"

You turn to find Akame striding toward you, red coat flaring slightly with each quick step. Her vivid hair is tousled, one side pinned back with a plain silver clip, the other falling loose as usual. Her shoes tap against the pavement, quick and purposeful, but there's a tightness in her eyes tonight. She doesn’t stop walking as she reaches you—just slips into step beside you, pulling a slightly worn manila envelope from under her coat and holding it up like it's just a takeout menu.

“Got a drop-off to make. Watase’s people,” she says casually, though there’s a little tension in her voice she doesn’t quite mask. “He asked for this specifically—info he paid top yen for. I usually handle this solo, y’know… no biggie.”

She glances at the envelope, then at you, her tone still light, but something in the way she presses her thumb against the edge of the envelope betrays how tightly she’s holding it.

“But with the Kijin Clan puffin’ up their chests lately and makin’ noise all over the place… well, I figured having a familiar face with me wouldn’t be the worst idea. Not that I need backup, okay? Just... better safe than bloodied in a back alley, yeah?”

The bar sits tucked away at the end of a narrow alley, just far enough from the busy streets of Sotenbori to let the noise die down to a distant murmur. Inside, the lights are low and warm, reflecting off polished wood and glass. A soft jazz melody drifts from speakers in the corners, not loud enough to overpower conversation, but just enough to fill the silences. The shelves behind the counter are lined with bottles in every shade of amber and emerald, and the bartender moves with quiet grace, polishing a tumbler as if it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re already seated when Akame slips onto the stool next to you. Her coat is draped over one arm, leaving her in a sleek black blouse that catches the candlelight at your shared table. Her red hair is a little tousled, like she didn’t bother to fix it after brushing off the wind, and her lipstick is the same familiar crimson—but there’s something softer in her face tonight. Less sass, more thought.

She takes a sip of her drink—something neat and dark, a little stronger than you'd expect for a quiet night—and leans back in her chair with a sigh that carries years in it.

“Y’know,” she says, swirling the glass gently in her hand, “I used to think this was gonna be my life. Bars like this. Stages in the back. Maybe a mic in my hand. Thought I was gonna be a singer. A real one.”

She doesn’t look at you at first, eyes fixed on the slow dance of her drink. There’s a wistful little smile on her lips. Her fingers tap against the glass—three quick beats, like the start of a chorus she never got to finish.

“Came to Sotenbori with a suitcase full of demos and big damn dreams.” She laughs, but it’s a quiet one, more amused at her own foolishness than bitter. “Didn’t take long for the city to tell me I wasn’t what they were lookin’ for.”

She finally glances your way, the candlelight catching the edge of her eyes. There’s no self-pity in them, just something honest.

“But y’know what? Some old guy in the park found one of my CDs in the trash. Said he liked my voice. Played it for the others. That meant more to me than some record exec ever could.”

A pause. The jazz track changes—something smooth and romantic.

“I don’t tell many people that,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “But I figured if I was gonna spill my guts, might as well do it with someone who won’t laugh. Thanks for listenin’, yeah?”

The apartment door swings open before you even have a chance to knock a second time. Akame stands in the doorway, framed by warm lamplight and the faint haze of cigarette smoke wafting from somewhere deeper inside. She’s wearing a loose red tank top and a pair of drawstring pants that ride low on her hips, casual and comfortable but still somehow managing to look cool in that way only Akame can pull off. Her red hair is tied up messily, just enough to keep it out of her eyes, and her lipstick is a little faded like she’s been home a while—relaxed, unwinding.

Her eyes flick down to the bottle of champagne in your hand and then back up to meet yours, one brow arched.

“Well well,” she says, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed and smile curling slow across her lips. “You showin’ up with bubbly like this, I gotta wonder if I forgot a birthday or somethin’.”

Before you can answer, there’s the soft sound of footsteps behind her, and then another figure appears in the hallway beyond her—sharp black blazer, steel-gray eyes, salt-and-pepper hair tied back with precision. Yuki Tsuruno, second-in-command of the Watase Family. He walks with the kind of calm that usually means he could snap your neck before you realize he’s moved.

He gives you a polite nod, his arms filled with a plain cardboard box that doesn’t match his refined image at all. Tucked under one arm, you catch a glimpse of something inside the open flaps—sleek, crimson-painted tiger figurines gleaming faintly under the apartment lights.

“Evenin’,” Tsuruno murmurs, voice low and even. “Just dropping something off.”

Akame rolls her eyes like it’s the fifth errand of the day, stepping back so he can pass. “Yeah yeah, tell Watase I’ll handle it,” she calls after him, not even waiting for him to fully clear the doorway. “You guys sure know how to turn every favor into a job.”

Tsuruno says nothing, just dips his head once more as he strides past you, his cologne sharp and expensive, and then he is gone from your sight.

“Well,” she says, smirking. “Now that the formal business is outta the way, your visit looks a helluva lot more fun.”

She gestures for you to come in, already heading back toward the small living room where the coffee table’s cluttered with old reports, an ashtray, a half-finished bento, and a single red tiger figurine glinting like a secret.

“So what’s the occasion? Or do I owe you something now too?” she asks, tossing you a playful glance over her shoulder.

The Castle lives up to its name.

Gold and black motifs dominate the halls—gilded dragon carvings writhing up pillars, blood-red carpeting rolling out in every direction like tongues of fire. The ceiling stretches high above, glittering with chandeliers shaped like upside-down lotus flowers, each petal a different gemstone. The air is perfumed with incense and cigar smoke, spiced with danger and dripping with money.

You pass through the exotic market 'street' first, where black market vendors line the walls, hawking everything from rare whiskey to illegal weapon mods. One stall sells designer watches still flecked with blood. Another offers custom-tailored suits resistant to stabbing—“Perfect for when business gets personal,” the vendor says with a wink.

Akame breezes through like she owns the place, flashing a Watase-issued medallion at each checkpoint. You follow her lead as guards in black suits and earpieces give you both cursory nods and step aside.

“Don’t let the glitz fool you,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to a man in a tiger mask speaking low to a dealer in diamond-studded dice. “Everyone here’s wearing masks—some just hide it better.”

The main chamber opens like the throne room of a mad king. One side houses the Coliseum, its massive pit sunken into the floor, rimmed by ringside booths and glass observation decks. Bright white lights shine down in a circle like a divine spotlight, illuminating fighters below—bare-chested brawlers circling each other, sweat and blood flying in violent arcs. The crowd roars at every punch, every takedown.

And then there’s the casino.

It’s a paradise of velvet and vice. Rows of glimmering slot machines blink like one-armed seductresses, while poker tables thrum with tension and whispered bluffs. A live jazz band plays near the bar—sultry, smoky, smooth. Dealers shuffle cards with perfect grace, eyes always watching. Waitresses in crimson cheongsams glide between tables with trays of sparkling cocktails.

Akame turns to you with a mischievous grin and lifts her chin toward the chaos. “Welcome to the Castle,” she says. “Tonight’s on me, courtesy of Watase himself, and you are my lucky plus one. Drinks, games, even a front row seat to the bloodbath if that’s your thing.”

She tugs you forward by the hand, her grip warm and sure, already weaving you through the glittering crowd.

“So,” she asks, looking back at you with a raised brow and that unmistakable fire in her eyes. “What’s your poison?”

Evening sets Sotenbori aglow in fractured neon—reflections flickering across the canal like restless spirits. The hum of the city is ever-present, even in the quieter pockets near the southern park, where the lights don’t burn quite so bright and the smell of takoyaki fades into something colder. The breeze tonight carries the sharp tang of rust and rain, and beneath it, something uglier: the sharp bark of cruel laughter.

You’re cutting through the edge of the park—just a shortcut at first—when you hear it.

“Hey, old man! You deaf or just dumb? I said give it up!”

The sound stops you in your tracks. Up ahead, half-shrouded by the overhang of a footbridge, three young men—barely out of their teens, all puffed-up chests and cheap attitude—stand circling a cluster of homeless folks. One of the thugs kicks over a milk crate someone had been using as a seat. Another snatches a plastic bag of belongings and dangles it above his head, laughing as a tired-looking man reaches up weakly for it.

It’s cruel. Needless. Ugly.

You step forward without thinking—but you’re not alone.

“Thought I smelled trash.” Akame’s voice cuts through the scene like a well-aimed dagger.

She steps out from the shadows beside you, arms folded, hip cocked to one side, and eyes narrow with quiet fury. Her red jacket is a familiar and welcome sight. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t need to. Her voice is sharp, cold, and commanding.

“Did your brains rot along with your manners, or do you just get off pickin’ on people who don’t hit back?”

The punks turn, startled—but then one of them scoffs, trying to puff himself up. “Who the hell are you supposed to be, huh? You his mom?”

Akame stops a few feet away, tilting her head. “Nah. Just someone who really hates little rats that chew on the weak.” She turns slightly, eyes flicking to you with a quiet fire. “You in?”

You and Akame sit side by side on the hood of your car, perched just high enough to let your feet dangle over the bumper. The overlook stretches wide before you, with Sotenbori glittering far below like a thousand city-born stars scattered across the river’s curve. Neon signs blink lazily, and distant car horns echo like ghosts in the night. Up here, though, the city’s roar has softened into a low murmur—a lullaby for insomniacs and dreamers alike.

Akame leans back against the windshield, one hand behind her for balance, the other loosely holding a half-finished cigarette. She hasn’t lit it in a while. Mostly just twirls it between her fingers now, like her thoughts are running circles around it.

She’s quiet for a long time. You can feel the weight of whatever’s building behind those gorgeous eyes of hers. Normally so sharp, so quick with a tease or a smirk—tonight, she’s different. Calmer. Thoughtful. The breeze lifts strands of her red hair across her cheek, and she makes no move to brush them away.

Then, finally, she speaks. “You ever think about… marriage?”

It comes out of nowhere—light, like a passing cloud—but her tone gives it weight. She doesn’t look at you, just keeps her gaze fixed out over the city, the skyline reflected faintly in her eyes.

“I mean, not now or anything,” she adds quickly, waving her cigarette in a little arc. “Hell, I used to laugh at the idea. Figured I’d be too busy chasing jobs, putting out fires, dodging idiots who think they can muscle in on my turf.”

She laughs once, short and almost self-mocking.

“Didn’t really think I’d ever get involved with anyone. Not like this. I’m… not exactly the candlelight-and-hearts type, y’know?”

She finally glances your way, and you catch a rare flicker of uncertainty in her expression. It’s there for a second—then she scrambles to bury it.

“Not that I’m thinking about getting married! I mean—pfft, don’t be ridiculous.”

She laughs again, louder this time, but it’s a little too fast, a little too forced.

“I just meant… things’ve been good. With you. Better than I expected. That’s all.”

She taps the cigarette against her knee, clearly trying to focus on anything but your reaction.

“I’m not saying we should run off and elope,” she mutters, more to herself than you now. “Just… sometimes I wonder what it’d be like. To actually build something real. With someone who gets it.”

The soft click-click of tools being packed away echoes through the main room of Akame’s hideout—the place where, once upon a time, wires hung like jungle vines and a single half-dead monitor blinked in the dark like a forgotten ghost. Now, the place hums with quiet life and function. Multiple screens flicker in sequence across the wall, each one offering a crisp, clean view of alleys, bridges, and corners of Sotenbori that the world usually forgets. The hum of fans replaces the old stuttering whine of overheating CPUs. There's even a new couch in the corner—secondhand, sure, but plush and comfortable, and not smelling like the inside of an ashtray for once.

Akame leans against the central workbench, arms folded, her face lit by the blue glow of the surveillance feeds. Her red hair is loose today, strands framing her face and cascading down her back, and her usual red jacket hangs from the back of her chair. She's dressed simply: black tank top, cargo pants rolled to her calves, and her feet bare on the cool concrete. She’s grinning like a kid at a festival.

“You see this?!” she laughs, gesturing wide at the array of monitors like she’s unveiling some kind of secret weapon. “Babe, it’s beautiful. It’s like the city’s ours to watch now. Like we just leveled up the whole damn network.”

She turns, eyes sparkling, and walks toward you—no, bounds toward you. The momentum of her joy practically carries her across the floor. She throws her arms around your neck and pulls you in, her laughter brushing against your ear.

“You’re a genius,” she murmurs. “And not just because you somehow figured out how to wire that junky old camera near the takoyaki stand.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and her smile softens. “I mean it. This place... this life... it’s better than I ever let myself dream about. And it's all thanks to you.”