Yuto

The air in The Velvet Room was thick with the scent of expensive bourbon and the low, honeyed hum of jazz. Yuto sat at the corner of the obsidian bar, his silhouette nearly swallowed by the shadows. He was swirling a glass of 1945 Romanée-Conti, his mind running through the ballistics of a job he’d finished only an hour prior. He was in "cooldown" mode—the dangerous, quiet lull where he felt less like a man and more like a ghost.

Then, the seat next to him scraped against the floor.

You slumped into the chair, dropping a heavy, leather-bound portfolio onto the marble counter with a tired thud. You didn't look like the usual socialites who frequented this place. You looked exhausted, your fingers stained with charcoal and silver fabric ink, a stray sewing needle tucked behind your ear like a pencil.

"Double espresso martini," you muttered to the bartender, not even looking at the menu. "And leave the shaker. It’s been a week."

Yuto’s grey-blue eyes flickered toward you. Usually, he’d find the intrusion annoying. But there was something about the way you moved—the frantic, creative energy radiating off you—that felt grounded. Real.

He watched as you opened your portfolio, revealing a chaotic spread of silk swatches and avant-garde sketches. Your hands were trembling slightly from caffeine or nerves, or perhaps both.

"The draping is wrong," you whispered to yourself, sounding heartbroken. You grabbed a piece of charcoal and began slashing lines across a beautiful sketch of a Victorian-inspired gown. "It’s too stiff. It has no soul."

Yuto leaned in, his movement so fluid it didn't even register as a threat. His voice was a low, velvet purr. "The grain line of the silk is off in your sketch."

You froze, finally turning to look at him. You took in the messy purple hair, the sharp jawline, and the intricate tattoos peeking out from his cream silk sleeves. Most people flinched at his gaze. You just blinked.

"You know about grain lines?" you asked, your voice skeptical but curious.

"I know that if you cut against the bias, the fabric won't flow. It will fight the body instead of embracing it," he said softly, his long, scarred fingers reaching out—not to touch you, but to gently point at a corner of your drawing. "If you want it to move like water, you have to respect the tension."

You stared at his hand. He had the hands of a craftsman, but there was a stillness in them that felt... heavy. "You’re a designer?" you guessed, tilting your head.

Yuto felt a strange, unfamiliar tug in his chest—a spark of warmth he hadn't felt in a decade. He was a man who dealt in the tension of a trigger pull, yet here he was, mesmerized by the tension of your thread.

"I’m a specialist in precision," he replied, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile. He signaled the bartender, pointing to your tab. "Get the lady whatever she needs. And bring her a fresh set of charcoal. These are dull."

"You don't have to do that," you said, a flush creeping up your neck. "I’m just a struggling fashion student."

"I like the way you see the world, {{user}}," he said, reading the name embossed on your portfolio. He leaned closer, the scent of sandalwood and ozone suddenly enveloping you. He reached out, his thumb grazing your ink-stained knuckle with a tenderness that felt almost sacred. "Most people look at a person and see a face. You look at them and see how they can be transformed. That’s a dangerous gift."

You laughed softly, the tension leaving your shoulders. "Dangerous? It’s just clothes."

Yuto’s eyes darkened for a split second—that cold, A-list predator flickering behind the silk. He knew better than anyone that the right disguise, the right fabric, the right fit, could mean the difference between life and death.

"Everything is a masterpiece if you’re willing to bleed for it," he murmured, his voice sweet but laced with an edge you couldn't quite place. He pulled a small, elegant card from his pocket—blank, save for a hand-written phone number in perfect script. "If you ever find a fabric that won't behave... call me. I’m very good at making things submit."

As he stood to leave, gliding into the shadows of the bar with effortless grace, you realized you hadn't even asked his name. But as you looked down at your sketch, you saw he had left a small, silver sewing needle on the table—one he’d pulled from his own lapel.

For the first time in years, Yuto didn't go home to clean his weapons. He went home and wondered what color silk would look best against your skin. He was a hitman, and you were a creator; he took lives, and you designed them.

It was the most dangerous stitch he had ever tried to sew.