Mouse Trap [Oneshots] Blood Oath-3

Dim light casts amber shadows across the velvet walls of the underground den. The air is dense with smoke, curling upward in slow, serpentine coils. Jazz plays faintly in the background—low, sultry, and entirely out of place in a room where death is often discussed like weather.

Kiyoshi Arata leans back on a black leather couch, legs crossed, a half-burned cigarette dangling between his fingers. His eyes—sharp, foxlike—glint with lazy cruelty as he exhales a ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling.

He wears a burgundy silk shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the inked dragon tattoo coiling over his chest. Each movement of his wrist is languid, theatrical. A man who kills with a smile.

Kiyoshi Arata

"Ren… that mutt is still wagging his tail for the Himura girl—no, for her,"

He muses, voice like silk dragged across broken glass. He flicks the ash from his cigarette into the crystal tray beside him.

Kiyoshi Arata

"Loyalty's a pretty thing—but even a dog can be put down."

Laughter ripples from the men nearby. One of them, broader-shouldered, with a scar across his neck, leans forward.

"Should we strike soon?"

Kiyoshi doesn’t answer right away. He swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid dance. Then, he lifts it to his lips and sips, slow and precise.

Kiyoshi Arata

"No." *a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.*

Kiyoshi Arata

"First, we take away what keeps him human."

He sets the glass down with a soft clink.

Kiyoshi Arata

"Let’s see how long he stays sane then."

Sunlight pours through the glass ceiling of the upscale mall, glinting off marble floors and polished display windows.

The weekend crowd hums with movement—teenagers laughing, parents wrangling children, couples strolling hand in hand. Everything is normal. Safe. Or so it seems.

You walk ahead, your steps graceful, casual elegance in every motion. You’re dressed in a soft cream blouse tucked into a navy skirt that sways gently with your stride. Your hair is pinned into a loose half-up style, a few strands brushing your cheeks as you glance back.

Ren follows silently, a few paces behind, posture straight, hands occupied with paper bags filled with clothes you may or may not buy. His dark shirt is buttoned high, collar neat, sleeves rolled back just enough to expose the veins along his forearms.

Y/N

"Ren, wait here. I want to try this one!"

You flash him a quick smile, holding up a hanger with something blush pink and lacy. Without waiting for his reply, you slip into the women’s section, disappearing behind a wall of pastel dresses.

Ren nods—mostly to himself—and shifts his weight, eyes sweeping the crowd instinctively.

At first, he’s calm. Composed.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then fifteen.

The bags in his hands suddenly feel heavier.

His jaw tightens. The backs of his teeth grind in silence. His fingers twitch slightly.

He pushes past a pair of chatting teenagers, ignoring the staff’s curious glance as he steps into the hallway near the changing rooms.

Inside, it’s too quiet. He sees your slippers beneath one of the doors—neatly placed, untouched

But no sound. No voice. No movement.

A dark fog coils in his gut.

Without hesitation, Ren yanks the curtain aside.

You gasp—but not in fear.

You’re frozen beneath the dim yellow lighting, your blouse discarded and only a delicate lace bra covering your chest. Your cheeks flare crimson as your eyes lock onto his.

Y/N

"R-Ren!"

Ren

"........"

he doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t apologize.

He steps forward.

His movements are slow, deliberate. Like something ancient being pulled from deep water.

He reaches you. Gently, he lowers his head and rests his forehead against your shoulder, closing his eyes as he breathes in—like you're the only thing keeping him anchored.

His voice comes out low, rough around the edges.

Ren

"Here I was wondering what’s taking you so long…"

His breath is cool against your skin. His hands are clenched at his sides, trying hard—so hard—not to touch. Not to ruin what little purity he hasn’t already shattered.

Your heart hammers in your chest. Your arms rise slowly, looping around his neck, delicate fingers brushing the nape where his hair begins.

Y/N

"Sorry..."

You whispered into his ear.

Y/N

"I didn’t mean to make you anxious."

The silence that follows is thick. Your breathing falls into rhythm. Your skin is warm against his cheek.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just holds on.

Too tight. That you could feel his muscular chest pressing hard against your bla-clad breasts.

Y/N

"Hey.. enough now.. move."

Ren