The First Age

Whatever instinct had blocked her from the ability, the confrontation in the tunnels had snapped it free. She felt it now, a pulse of warmth and light just beyond her ordinary senses. The shame of the temptation to embrace it warred with her resolute acceptance that this was what she was. The compromise she had no choice but to be. Just because something felt right did not mean it was right.

Dusk was settling on the streets. Snow drifted thick and silent; not dangerous yet, but it was settling hard. She walked alone.

Long months of devoted practice had tightened the muscles and reflexes the past years had let soften. Eido moved with an understated, agile grace, head tucked against the weather, eyes softly observant. She wasn’t hunting, or not that kind; she was looking for her brother, and walking because it was better than stillness. Kōta hadn’t answered his wallet, and she was checking his most usual haunts – those she knew of, at least. Kōta maintained his connections with the underworld in Moscow; talked just enough of Yazuka influence, new clubs, and new clients, for her to understand the circles he called home. He had mentioned Haruto's name in passing once, just pointed enough that she caught the meaning, though she'd only inclined her head and never asked more about it. Since Zephyr had erased their names from the Atharim lists, he had delved back deeply into the world once denied him, and Eido had reluctantly let him go. The admonishment of him seeking a real life was often on the tip of her tongue, but he only ever raised an amused brow and ushered her to a mirror. He wasn’t wrong. And she could never meet her own eye in that reflection.

[[Thread is open btw. Takes place the first night of the snowpocalypse, so characters will be stuck here. Location is Hikari]]

New spaces were like new blades: beautifully made, and dangerously honest. Moscow had not shaped Hikari yet, and that made it fragile. She stood above the floor, not in the balconies meant for patrons but in the half-shadow behind them, where glass and silk curtains muted sound without killing it. From here the club looked like a living thing just waking up: bodies drifting in, laughter testing the air, music settling into its bones. The host staff moved with careful precision, still mindful of rules rather than instinct. They would learn. Or they would be replaced.

Mitsuki had not been in Moscow long, but the city had already begun to press against her skin. It was heavier than Tokyo. Less polished than Hong Kong. Its wealth was loud, its hunger unashamed. A place like this did not pretend to be clean, it simply demanded to be profitable. She respected that honesty, even as she distrusted it.

She wore no ornament that marked her station. No pin. No obvious luxury. A dark silk dress, cut simply, sleeves draped long enough to hide the line of her wrists. Her hair was pinned up without decoration. Those who noticed her at all assumed she was an investor’s companion, or perhaps management. Someone adjacent to importance, but not its centre.

That was intentional.

Power worked best before it was named.

Below, the first wave of patrons had settled into their drinks. Russian, Japanese, a smattering of Europeans who liked to play at danger on weekends. They laughed too loudly, touched too freely. The serving staff smiled and redirected with practiced grace. Mitsuki watched all of it with the calm patience of a tide waiting to turn.

She was cataloguing faces when footsteps approached behind her. Light. Careful. Trained. A staff member – security, not floor – stopped two steps back and inclined his head. He did not speak immediately. He knew better.

“Yes?” Mitsuki said softly, without turning.

“A woman at the door,” he began. “She surrendered a blade.”

That earned him her attention. She turned, slowly, eyes dark and intent. “What kind?”

“A tantō,” he said. “Wrapped. Handle first. No argument.”

That was… unusual. Most weapons came hidden, smuggled, or surrendered with irritation and bravado. Even professionals tested boundaries. A tantō was not a casual choice, either. It was intimate. Personal. Not the sort of thing one forgot they carried.

“And?” Mitsuki prompted.

“She asked for someone named Kōta. Would not give a family name. She did not press when told we could not confirm.”

Mitsuki was silent for a moment.

The music below swelled, a low pulse threaded with silk and threat. Somewhere, a glass shattered and laughter followed.

“She was uncomfortable,” the man added, carefully. “Not frightened. Just… out of place.”

Mitsuki considered that. Uncomfortable but not afraid. Armed, but respectful. Asking for someone, but not insisting.

Interesting.

“Did she understand the rules?” Mitsuki asked.

“Yes. Better than most.”

Of course she did.

Mitsuki looked back out over the floor, letting her gaze drift as if the conversation had ended. “Where is she now?”

“Inside. Near the bar. She declined a drink.”

That, too, was telling.

“You did well,” Mitsuki said. “You may go.”

The man bowed and withdrew, footsteps dissolving into the hush behind her.

Mitsuki did not move.

A woman who surrendered a tantō properly was not a tourist. Not Yakuza muscle, either – too precise, too quiet. She had learned long ago that weapons told stories. Not just in how they were used, but in how they were given up. Below, she spotted her easily once she began to look. The woman stood apart from the press of bodies, posture straight but not rigid, hands folded loosely in front of her as if unsure where to rest them. Plain clothes, deliberately so. Hair worn long and unstyled. No attempt to invite attention, and yet she drew it anyway, the way still water did when everything else churned.

Her eyes moved constantly. Not darting. Assessing.

She looked like someone who had learned to survive rooms that wanted to swallow her. Mitsuki felt a quiet stir of recognition, not familiarity, but kinship of discipline. Of restraint sharpened to a blade. Rumours had begun already, she knew. Whispers among staff, murmurs carried by men who liked to feel important. A woman behind the clubs. A dancer who did not dance. A name passed half-formed: Tsuki no Mai. Moonlit execution. Poetry for violence.

None of it had settled yet. Moscow had not seen her move.

She let her gaze slide away from the woman at the bar and returned to watching the room as a whole. Tonight was not for introductions. Tonight was for listening. For learning how this city lied. But she filed the woman away carefully. A surrendered blade was a promise, or a warning. Later, perhaps, she would decide which. For now, Mitsuki remained where she was: unseen, unclaimed, and watching as the club continued its slow, uncertain heartbeat around her.

The cold was not unusual for Moscow, but the snow was falling but you'd never know it from the people inside. She was included in that. They asked for weapons -- she didn't have any. The only thing questionable on her person was the P -- and other fun doodades, though the P wasn't really to be sold here -- not unless she saw a regular and new to ask. And there was a small bit that she was allowed to offer to entice someone to the Dream. But right now she was here for fun not for the sell -- it was new. She hadn't been here. Her parents thought she was studying in the library at school -- she always had an article to write.

Her outfit was glittery and fit the theme well -- she didn't look like the hosts here but she didn't look out of place either in her glitzy fiery orange dress that looked like it was on fire but it was just a display of lights and fabric. The proprietor wouldn't miss it. Well they probably would but there were others on the rack and she'd burn it after tonight -- one time that was it.

Tonight was about the fun. She walked up to the bar. - a quiet girl stood there without a drink, Flora pushed in next to her with a bright smile and a proffered hand "Flora." she waved over the bartender "Purple Rain. You can't be here and not drink." she shouted. She turned back to the shy girl. "What will you have -- H20 on the rocks?"