---

The corridor was quieter than the rest of the mansion, dim light spilling through tall windows and painting pale streaks across the polished floor. It was just the two of us now—no whispers, no glares, no suspicious eyes trailing after my every move. For the first time since I had decided to act, I had Ayame exactly where I wanted her.

And gods, she looked the part.

Her outfit was far from her usual combat-ready attire, no stern uniform of steel and leather, no muted tones that made her blend into shadows. Tonight, she had dressed beautifully—almost unnervingly so. Flowing fabric clung to her form in a way that suggested grace but whispered danger beneath. The subtle swish of her skirts against the floor echoed faintly with every step she took, and I could feel the jealous stares of the others burning into my back as we left the living room.

But I didn't care. Let them stew in their envy. Let them gnash their teeth in silence.

She was mine tonight.

"You've outdone yourself," I murmured as she emerged into the corridor, my voice dropping into that smooth, careful register I knew carried weight. My eyes traced her figure openly, deliberately. "If the goal was to make me forget how to breathe, you've succeeded."

The compliment struck its mark. I saw it in the faint shift of her lips, the quick flutter of her lashes before she narrowed her gaze at me. Ayame—always disciplined, always composed—was blushing.

And that made me grin.

The others had noticed too. Back in the living room, their eyes had been sharp and restless, measuring every gesture, every word exchanged between us. Mei's smirk had faded to silence. Akane's arms were folded tight, the muscle in her jaw twitching. Even Elira, ever the regal one, had seemed rattled, closing her book and watching as though witnessing some dangerous spell unfold. Sora, sweet and timid Sora, had looked… hurt.

But their disapproval was powerless here. For the first time, Ayame walked with me, willingly, unshackled from their judgment.

I let the silence linger between us as we reached the midpoint of the corridor, savoring the faint click of her steps against the stone, the way her presence seemed to draw the very air taut. When she finally slowed, turning toward me, I raised a brow, playing the part of the curious escort.

And then it happened.

Without warning, Ayame closed the space between us. My back met the wall in a muted thud, her palms pressing firmly against my chest as her weight pinned me there. I froze—not out of surprise, but out of satisfaction. The predator had decided to strike.

Only… I wasn't her prey.

"You don't have to keep up the act with me," she said, her voice low, stripped of the harsh edge she carried with the others. For once, her eyes weren't hard steel but something far softer, deeper, more dangerous in its own way. "They're not here. I don't need to pretend."

Her words sparked fire through me, hotter than her hands pressing against me. Pretend? So, even Ayame—the impenetrable blade, the unshakable warrior—was hiding a truth beneath her armor. And that truth… was leaning into me, close enough for her breath to tickle my lips.

"I want to finish what you started."

And then her mouth pressed against mine.

The kiss was not a strike, not a sharp clash of will—it was gentle, smooth, like silk sliding over bare skin. I had expected resistance, perhaps some cold, calculated testing of boundaries. But this… this was yielding. Warmth. Desire, barely restrained but undeniable.

My hands moved instinctively, curling around her waist, pulling her tighter against me. The plan had worked—perfectly. Every seed I had planted, every careful gesture, every word dripping with insinuation—it had all led to this moment.

Her lips moved against mine with surprising tenderness, and yet I could feel the tension burning beneath it. Ayame was not a woman who gave herself freely, nor easily. To have her here, pressed against me in a shadowed corridor, kissing me as though she had been waiting for this chance—it made something wicked curl inside me.

Mine.

Her fingers shifted, tracing faint lines across my chest. It was almost absentminded, a distraction of touch that left warm trails behind even through the fabric of my shirt. To her, maybe it was an exploration, a way of grounding herself in this sudden boldness. To me, it barely registered. I was too wrapped up in the taste of her lips, the feel of her body molded against mine, the way her breath hitched when I deepened the kiss just slightly, teasing at the edges of her composure.

Ayame—the perfect swordswoman, the paragon of restraint—was faltering.

And I reveled in it.

I let my thumb brush slow circles against her hip, grounding her while stoking the fire higher. My mind swirled with thoughts, sharp and mischievous, strategies building themselves layer by layer. This was more than desire—this was leverage. Every stolen breath between us was proof of my victory, every tremor in her voice when she pulled back just slightly was a confirmation that she was slipping into my orbit.

She looked at me then, eyes hooded but bright, lips parted as though caught between words and kisses.

I tilted my head, smiling that dangerous little smile. "I thought the disciplined swordswoman didn't indulge in distractions."

Her blush deepened, but she didn't pull away. If anything, her fingers pressed firmer against my chest, her body leaning closer, her resolve unraveling.

"Even a swordswoman," she murmured, her voice soft but fierce, "needs to breathe once in a while."

And then she kissed me again.

This time, there was no hesitation, no testing of waters. It was need. Heat. Her control fraying with every press of her lips against mine. My pulse thrummed in triumph—this was more than I had hoped for. She wasn't just yielding; she was giving herself over, piece by piece, until the walls she had built around herself crumbled at my touch.

The plan had worked.

Every glance I had thrown her way, every sly compliment, every staged scene of distance from the others—it had all led here. And now Ayame, the one who unknowingly brought me into being, was falling into my hands just as I intended.

Her lines traced deeper now, from my chest up toward my shoulder, and though I barely registered them in the haze of triumph, I knew what they meant. She was marking the map of me, memorizing me.

But the truth was, it wasn't her hand that was in control.

It was mine.

And as I held her there, pinned between desire and decision, I couldn't help but think one simple, wicked thought:

This was only the beginning.

---

The kiss broke like glass.

One moment Ayame's lips were on mine, soft and full, her warmth pressed tight against me—every part of me certain that I had won. The next, she stepped back, her hands falling away from my chest, leaving only the ghost of her touch.

I blinked, the heat still buzzing in my veins. Why did she stop? I hadn't given her reason to. I leaned forward slightly, expecting her to return, but her expression had shifted. Not shy. Not flushed with desire. Her eyes were sharp again, calculating.

Like a blade being drawn.

"You—" I began, but the sound of footsteps cut me off.

I turned.

The others were there.

Sora. Elira. Mei. Akane. Even Rin hovered at the edge of the group, tail flicking nervously, ears pinned back. They stood in the corridor, forming a silent wall of judgment, and then—deliberately—they stepped forward until they were beside Ayame, flanking her like soldiers surrounding their captain.

My heart kicked against my ribs.

"What…" I started, trying to laugh it off, to tilt my head like it was all a harmless misunderstanding. "What's going on here?"

But no one smiled back.

Instead, Ayame raised her hands. Sora mirrored her. Elira too. Their voices joined together in a low, steady chant—ancient words woven with power that made the very air around me vibrate.

The hair on my arms stood on end.

"Stop." My voice snapped, firmer, more commanding this time. "Ayame, what are you doing?"

I stepped back, but my chest—my chest burned.

It was sudden, like fire blossoming beneath my skin. I staggered, pressing a hand against the spot she had traced only moments ago. My knees buckled.

No.

I looked down, fingers fumbling at the fabric of my shirt, tugging it open enough to see. Faint, glowing lines spread across my skin, twisting into unfamiliar symbols—runic patterns that pulsed with the rhythm of their chant.

My stomach dropped.

Her touch. Those gentle, distracting fingers across my chest. She hadn't been caressing me. She had been carving me. Mapping sigils onto me in strokes of invisible power while her lips distracted me from everything else.

The kiss.

The kiss was the trap.

I staggered back another step, my spine pressing into the cold wall as I tried to think, to calculate, to escape. But the chanting only grew louder, the pressure mounting, the glow on my chest searing hot.

"AYAME!" I snarled, desperation cracking my voice. "What are you—what have you done?"

Her eyes didn't waver. Neither did Sora's. Neither did Elira's.

The burning surged, twisting deeper, like hooks digging into the core of me. My breath hitched, then ripped from me as a scream. The sound echoed down the corridor, raw, guttural, the kind of sound no pride could swallow.

I clawed at my chest, frantic, as though I could peel the runes away with my bare hands. But they weren't drawn on my skin. They were inside me, etched into my very being.

"No…" I panted. "No, no, no…"

It was then Mei stepped forward, her voice cutting through the chant like a blade through smoke.

"You're not the real Ren."

The words struck me harder than the burning ever could.

"What?" I gasped, the taste of iron in my mouth.

Mei's arms were folded, her eyes narrowed, her smirk replaced with a cold, damning certainty. "Whatever you've done to him, wherever you've hidden him… we'll find him. And we'll bring him back."

Her words slammed against the wall of my mind, and for the first time since I had come into being, panic swallowed me whole.

The kiss.

The softness in her voice. The warmth of her lips. The way she leaned into me, whispering that she wanted to finish what I started.

It hadn't been desire.

It had been bait.

And I had bitten down on it like a fool.

"No!" I roared, trying to push myself off the wall, trying to flee, to outrun the burning agony clawing at my chest. My legs betrayed me, collapsing as the runes spread wider, tighter, binding every muscle into searing paralysis.

Ayame's voice rang over the chant, calm, resolute. "You were never him. You could never be him."

The others' faces blurred through my haze of pain, but I could see their expressions clear enough—pity, anger, disgust. And worst of all… certainty.

They knew.

They had known.

Every smile, every coy remark, every jealous glare—they hadn't been fooled. Not truly. And the one thing I thought I had conquered, the one woman whose lips I believed sealed my victory… had been the very one to set my downfall in motion.

The kiss was never mine.

It was hers.

Her weapon.

Her distraction.

I screamed again, my voice cracking, tearing through the corridor like a wounded beast. The pain reached a peak, white-hot, unbearable, and then—

Black.

The last thought that flickered in the fragments of me was bitter, venomous.

I had been caught.

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