The wind, that shameless rogue, grew bolder again, slipping beneath the scandalous hem of her midnight kimono and lifting it like a curtain before the grandest of forbidden stages.

And there, revealed to the starving night, was her ass—perfection forged in the fires of some infernal paradise.

Full, ripe, impossibly round, it rose like twin moons carved from the palest alabaster, each cheek a flawless swell of taut silk over steel.

The kind of curve that could launch a thousand wars and end them all in surrender. Her ass skin so luminous it seemed to glow with its own unholy light, smooth and unmarred, begging—no, commanding—to be touched, worshipped, claimed.

Every subtle shift of her weight sent a slow, hypnotic ripple through that glorious flesh, a promise of softness yielding to the most delicious resistance. It was an ass built for sin: high and proud, flaring from the narrow cinch of her waist in a heart-stopping arc that made the air itself thicken with lust.

She was commando.

Nothing was beneath that sinful kimono to cover her ass.

Probably her pussy too.

The cleft between those magnificent globes was a shadowed invitation, deep and teasing, hinting at secrets (her perked asshole) that could unravel the strongest will.

Men would kill for a single glance. Women would curse the gods for not granting them such weaponized beauty.

Mortals would fall to their knees and forget how to rise, reduced to trembling, aching need at the mere sight of it—barely concealed by that wicked scrap of silk, now fluttered high by the wind's greedy caress.

She knew it. She felt the night devour her with its eyes, and she arched her back just a fraction more—slow, deliberate—letting the moonlight bathe every lush inch.

No shame.

No mercy.

This ass was not merely beautiful.

It was devastation incarnate.

A throne of temptation that could break empires with a single sway.

And beneath the watching stars, she wore it like a crown.

Her hair was pink.

Not dyed—pink. The exact shade of cherry blossoms bursting open in first light, the color of lips swollen from rough kisses, the flush that blooms across bare skin when desire hits hard and fast.

It was cut short, close to her shoulders in a sharp, almost looked harsh, but on her it only made everything else stand out more: the delicate line of her jaw, the long curve of her throat, the way her face looked like it had been designed for trouble and knew it.

Not one strand stirred in the wind.

The kimono whipped and snapped around her thighs. The air screamed across the rooftop like it wanted inside her skin. But her hair stayed perfect, locked in place, as if the laws of the world had learned long ago not to fuck with her.

She was short.

Five foot two, maybe less in bare feet. The kind of height that made people—men especially—look down at her and think small, think fragile, think they could handle her. They always learned better too late.

The kimono clung to her like it had been painted on. Midnight silk, thin enough that the moonlight showed every line beneath it.

Her breasts weren't huge—just full enough to press softly against the fabric, modest but perfect, the kind of shape that made you imagine how they'd fit exactly in your hands. High and firm, nipples just visible through the silk when the wind pushed the cloth tight against her skin.

They just existed, quiet and lethal, like the rest of her.

The katana hung at her hip.

Of course it did. The tiny, obscene kimono wasn't enough—she needed the blade to finish the picture.

Short silk, bare legs, pink hair, and a sword older than the city sprawling beneath her feet.

The hilt was wrapped in black silk worn soft from centuries of hands, but the guard and the curve of the scabbard were ancient, dark, unforgiving.

Yūrei no Kiba.

The Fang of the Ghost.

Her fingers rested on the hilt now, tracing it absently, feeling the faint thrum of the steel like a cat purring for blood. It had been quiet too long. It remembered warmer days, wetter nights. It wanted out.

Soon, she promised it without words.

The music from below climbed higher, wilder, notes crashing together like bodies in the dark. She felt every one of them hit her skin, slide down her spine, pool low in her stomach. The pianist was giving everything—pouring himself out until there'd be nothing left when the final chord fell.

Beautiful.

Fucking tragic.

She let out a slow breath, almost a sigh.

"I hate how good you are," she said quietly, voice low and rough, meant only for the wind and the night and the man two floors down who had no clue death was standing above him wearing almost nothing. "I hate it so much."

But the mission wouldn't wait for the music to end.

And she had never been one to let beauty stop her from doing what needed to be done.

She opened her eyes.

Red.

Deep, wet red—like fresh blood catching light, like the last color you see before everything goes black forever.

She drew the katana.

The blade slid free without a sound. No metallic whisper, no singing ring—just pure, absolute silence. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums and makes your heart skip, because something that sharp shouldn't be that quiet. It was steel choosing not to speak. Death deciding it didn't need an introduction.

She stepped off the rooftop.

Not a jump. Not a dive. Not even a push.

Just a step.

As if the night air thickened into glass beneath her bare feet. As if the hundred-floor plunge to the street below was an inconvenience she'd decided to skip. Gravity reached for her, clutched at the hem of that tiny kimono, and found nothing to hold onto. She simply refused it.

The wind didn't howl around her.

It held its breath.

The midnight silk flared out behind her like liquid shadow, the glowing cherry blossoms streaking into red-white blurs.

Her short pink hair didn't move—still perfect, still defiant. The fabric snapped tight across her chest for a heartbeat, outlining the modest, mouth-watering curve of her breasts, nipples hard from the cold or the thrill, it didn't matter.

Then the silk streamed again, riding high on those endless thighs, flashing the heartbreaking swell of her ass before settling back into its teasing almost-coverage.

She descended in perfect silence.

A slow, controlled fall that looked more like floating than dropping. Every tiny shift of her hips, every subtle tilt of her shoulders adjusted her path with impossible precision. She moved through the air like she'd written the rules of physics herself and was now editing them in real time.

The katana gleamed in her hand, catching fragments of starlight and city glow, the ancient blade waking up hungry. It remembered blood. It remembered screams cut short. It remembered nights centuries ago when it had sung for her.

Two floors below, in a penthouse wrapped in money and unbreakable security, Phei pressed the final notes from the piano—soft, aching, emptying himself into the last chord like he was saying goodbye to something he couldn't name.

He had no idea every layer of protection around him had just become meaningless.

He had no idea the music that tore his soul open had also called something far older than the tower, far older than the city, far older than him.

He had no idea death was gliding down toward his window on silent feet, wearing almost nothing and carrying everything he should have feared.

The woman smiled as she fell.

A small, slow curve of her lips—sharp, private, hungry.

Not the smile of an assassin at all.

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