02-05-2026, 05:04 PM
[[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.
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.