She's Pissed Off

Hanako stared at the paper slip — her final exam marks and practicum results.

The numbers weren’t disastrous, not yet, but they were slipping.

A quiet, undeniable reminder that her “normal” life was slipping with them.

“Ojo‑sama.”

Masaki knelt beside her, offering her favorite tea — yuzu with honey.

The warmth was there.

The fragrance was there.

She wasn’t.

She hated that he’d gone back to calling her ojo.

She didn’t need to guess who had “educated” him.

Her eyes drifted to Minami across the picnic mat, seated with Advisor Kuromori.

He felt her gaze and bowed his head — an apology without words.

Masaki’s bruises still bothered her.

When she pressed him, he’d claimed he “fell while helping out.”

When she pressed him to call her by her given name, he refused.

“Ojo‑sama, I cannot call you that now that I am part of the family.”

Family.

The word should have brought him closer.

Instead, it pushed him further away.

She felt herself drifting from the people she wanted closest.

Sayuri’s “Capiche” still echoed in her head — she didn’t understand the word, but she understood the warning behind it.

If Hanako stayed close, Sayuri would be in danger.

Minato too.

Keeping them at a distance would protect them.

So why did watching the two of them together make her chest throb?

Why did it hurt?

“Ojo‑sama.”

Masaki’s voice pulled her back to the Sumida Park picnic mat, where Yukihana‑ikka members were eating bento and drinking sake under the lanterns.

“Your tea is getting cold,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the ground.

She wanted to reach for him.

She wanted to reach for Sayuri.

She wanted to reach for the life she was losing piece by piece.

She wanted them back.

Before she broke something.

Hanako straightened her posture.

The Yukikaze hairpin tugged at her scalp, its weight a constant reminder of who she was supposed to be.

Her lavender kimono, embroidered with golden birds, caught the last of the sunset and glowed softly — beautiful, ceremonial, suffocating.

Masaki sat beside her in a crisp black suit, the faint chemical scent of dry‑cleaning still clinging to the fabric.

He was close enough that she could reach out and touch his sleeve.

Yet his posture — straight, formal, distant — made it feel like he was sitting on the far side of the river.

A floating barge drifted along the Sumida, stacked with fireworks for the evening show.

Around them, Yukihana‑ikka members laughed over their bento, the sweet aroma of sake drifting through the air, their voices warm and unguarded.

Hanako’s gaze slid to the temporary police booth nearby, officers pacing in slow, predictable arcs.

Even if Sayuri or Minato appeared, she wouldn’t have a single moment of normalcy.

Not with the clan watching.

Not with the police watching.

Not with Masaki watching her like a subordinate instead of—

She swallowed.

Three weeks.

That was all it took to lose him.

He was right here, within arm’s reach.

But he wasn’t her Masaki anymore.

He was the clan’s Masaki — polished, obedient, careful.

She wanted to stand up and disappear into the crowd, just for a breath.

Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be a student instead of an heir.

For a moment, she thought she saw Sayuri and Minato in the distance — hands brushing, laughing under the lanterns.

Her chest tightened.

She rose to her feet, hand pressed over her heart.

It wasn’t them.

“Ojo‑sama, is something wrong?”

Masaki stood immediately, voice low, posture rigid.

“Yes,” she exhaled, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

“Everything.”

A member shuffled over to the advisors’ mat and whispered something to them. The laughter in the head mat faded. Quiet murmurs replaced it, then the member stepped away.

Hanako walked over to Advisor Kuromori.

“Is there something afoot?” she inquired.

“Nothing ojo-sama, pesky Wanyudo-gumi are back in our turf again.”He grinned, but irritation flickered beneath it. “We’re relaying for everyone to be on alert, but do not engage. Too many eyes tonight.”

Hanako’s fingers curled.

She wanted to break something.

“Allow me, I came prepared.” She insisted.

She needed something she could control.

Several lieutenants stood, ready to follow. She lifted her hand to stop them.

“I’ll take Minami and Ma…” She caught herself. “…Fuyuki with me. I’ll be diplomatic.”

She’d make any excuse to have a fight.

“Where were they last seen?” She asked.

“Near the narrows behind the buildings.” Minami answered. “Ojo-sama, you don’t need to…”

“I do,” she cut in. “Accompany me, please.”

Hanako led the two men away from the picnic area, toward the wooded path where the lanterns thinned and foot traffic faded.

The quiet pressed in.

“Masaki…”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

“…are you still the same Masaki I… liked?”

She realized too late she’d spoken too loudly.

Both men froze.

She turned. Their faces were half‑shadowed by branches, unreadable in the dim light.

“Ojo‑sama,” Masaki said, voice tight. “This isn’t the time or the place for that.”

His words crushed against her chest.

“…Sorry I asked.”

She turned away.

Her steps echoed inside her, each one hollow, as if the wooden geta were striking through her ribs instead of the path.

Neither Minami nor Masaki spoke. The silence pressed in, thick and dark.

Her eyes drifted to the couples beneath the tree canopies, leaning close as they watched the river.

She wanted to blame Sayuri for putting strange ideas in her head — romance, dates, “capiche.”

She’d made excuses to dodge Sayuri’s plan, but now she couldn’t shake the thought:

What if Sayuri really was on a date with Minato right now?

She didn’t know where that idea was supposed to lead.

She didn’t want to know.

Focus.

An enemy clan is on their turf during a festival.

They should be on guard, and if they were up to no good...

Hanako’s fingers curled.

She would give them a just punishment.

Her hand went to her obi, loosening it for movement. The knot slipped, fabric easing just enough for her legs to breathe.

Five idiots clustered in the dank alleyway — crouched, smoking, pretending to look tough. Two had red oni masks hanging off the sides of their heads.

Hanako stepped forward.

Masaki moved faster, blocking her path. His eyes flicked down — to the exposed line of her thigh where the kimono had begun to slip from the loosened obi. Her shoulder was showing. Her leg too.

His face flushed.

One of the Wanyudo-gumi spotted her and let out a low whistle.

The others stood, flicking their cigarettes aside.

“Lady…”

“Yukihana‑ikka demands you leave the premises. Immediately.”

Her voice was cold. She lowered her stance, weight shifting into judo form.

Minami watched from the rear, silent and steady.

Masaki rushed to her side, positioning himself to cover her exposed leg — protective, embarrassed, and terrified she’d notice.

Hanako clamped a hand on his shoulder and shoved him aside.

One of the goons reached for her with a sneer.

“Just because you’re some hottie won’t get you off the—”

She caught his wrist and threw him cleanly over her shoulder — along with half her kimono.

Fabric tore with a sharp rip just before his body slammed onto the asphalt.

The rest scrambled to their feet.

Three snapped open telescoping batons.

One lifted a walkie‑talkie.

The last reached inside his jacket.

A gun?

Masaki lunged before the man could draw.

He seized the wrist, twisted hard, ripped the gun free, and kicked it back toward Minami without looking.

Hanako stepped over the downed man and drove her geta into his face.

He went limp.

“Requesting backup at the park, south side!” one of them barked into the comm.

Two rushed Masaki.

A baton struck his forearm.

Clang.

Metal bracers under his jacket — he’d chosen those instead of activating his bakki.

Hanako whipped her loose kimono sleeve toward another attacker, blinding him for a heartbeat.

She hooked his ankle, swept him down, grabbed the back of his head, and slammed it into the ground.

Thud.

Minami dropped another man with a sharp strike from the gun’s butt while Masaki wrestled the last two into the wall.

Hanako stepped toward the final conscious thug and held out her hand.

He handed the walkie‑talkie over without hesitation.

She pressed the button, voice steady and cold.

“Yukiharu Hanako of Yukihana‑ikka. Festival night is neutral ground. Stand down.”

“Yukiharu—san?”

A familiar voice crackled through the device.

Hanako froze. The aggression in her chest softened, replaced by a sharp, bewildered jolt.

Masaki’s expression tightened instantly, jaw locking.

Minami turned toward her, waiting for an explanation.

She had no answers.

Hanako stared at the walkie‑talkie, pulse climbing.

Why was Minato’s voice on the other end?