Veins of Deception

"Like a master of puppets, I weave the threads of fate, guiding them towards their own demise."

Ayato pov:

The city lights glittered like distant stars as I led Taro away from the alley and towards my home. He followed silently, his steps hesitant at first, like a lost soul seeking refuge.

As we reached the entrance of my apartment building, I turned to look at him.

His eyes held a mixture of wonder and uncertainty, as if he had stumbled into a world far beyond his own.

"Welcome to my place," I said in a tone that was colder than I intended. I pushed open the heavy glass door, allowing him to step inside.

The lobby was a contrast to the bustling streets outside—clean, quiet, and adorned with minimalist décor.

Taro's gaze shifted around the lobby, his eyes widening as he took in the upscale environment. The marble floors gleamed under the soft lights, and the architecture spoke of elegance and affluence.

I could tell he was mesmerized, his awe and disbelief barely hidden beneath his rough exterior.

My apartment was on the upper floors, so we took the elevator. As the doors opened to my floor, Taro hesitated again before stepping out.

I unlocked the door to my apartment, allowing him to enter first.

The interior was spacious, bathed in the gentle glow of ambient lighting. The living room was a blend of modern design and personal touches.

A grand piano stood against one wall, elegant but untouched. Paintings and sculptures adorned the walls, a collection that I had amassed over the years.

Taro's gaze moved from one piece to another, his eyes widening at the array of artwork. His expression shifted from wonder to detachment, his lack of interest in art evident.

I watched as he moved away from the paintings, as if unable to connect with the world they depicted.

"You live here?" Taro's voice held a mix of awe and disbelief as he turned to look at me.

"Yeah," I replied simply, not offering any further explanation.

Taro glanced around the apartment once more, his eyes lingering on the elegant furnishings and the artwork that adorned the walls.

He turned to me with a mix of curiosity and disbelief, his rough voice breaking the silence.

"You must be really rich to live in a place like this."

I shrugged, not one to flaunt my wealth. "I've had my share of privileges."

Taro's gaze remained fixed on me, as if trying to decipher something hidden beneath the surface. "And you just let me in like it's no big deal?"

I met his gaze evenly, my expression devoid of any superiority. "You needed help. Simple as that."

A moment of silence passed between us, his eyes still holding a mixture of amazement and wariness. It was as if he couldn't quite comprehend the contrast between our worlds.

"Don't get any ideas. I'm not here to be your charity case," Taro finally muttered, his pride asserting itself even in the face of his circumstances.

I raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Didn't think you were."

Taro's lips quirked into a half-smile, a mix of defiance and resignation. "Good. 'Cause I can take care of myself."

Heh, I doubt that lil kiddo.

I moved towards the kitchen area, Taro following me. The aroma of instant ramen wafted through the air, a simple but satisfying meal that I had prepared.

I grabbed two bowls and poured the steaming noodles into them. As I set the bowls on the table, Taro's gaze fixed on the food, a hunger in his eyes that went beyond physical sustenance.

"Help yourself," I said, taking a seat across from him.

Taro hesitated for a moment before picking up his chopsticks. Without wasting another second, he dug into the noodles as if he hadn't eaten in months.

The slurping sounds filled the air, a stark contrast to the elegant ambiance of the apartment. Taro's hunger was raw, his urgency palpable.

I watched him eat, his movements driven by a need that went beyond filling his stomach.

I couldn't help but feel a mixture of emotions as I observed him.----But sympathy was not one of them.

"You act like you haven't eaten in months," I remarked.

Taro paused, looking up at me with a mouthful of noodles, his expression unapologetic. "You have no idea."

The silence between us was punctuated by the sounds of his devouring the food. I waited until he had finished before I spoke again. "You don't talk much, do you?"

Taro looked up from his empty bowl, his eyes meeting mine. His expression was guarded, but there was a glimmer of something more—a hint of vulnerability that he couldn't fully conceal.

"Words don't mean much where I come from," he finally replied, his voice rough but sincere.

I nodded, understanding the sentiment all too well. "Fair enough."

Taro looked around the apartment again, his eyes lingering on the artwork. "You're into all this art stuff?"

I leaned back in my chair, contemplating his question. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. Art has a way of capturing emotions and stories that words often can't convey."

Taro's gaze met mine once more, and I could see the curiosity in his eyes. "You really like this stuff?"

I shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "It's a way to express myself, I suppose."

Taro's response was a noncommittal grunt, but I could tell he was processing our conversation in his own way.

After a while, as we sat on the couch in the living room, I turned to Taro, my curiosity getting the better of me. "So, tell me about yourself. How did you end up on the streets?"

Taro's expression remained unchanged, his eyes fixed on some distant point as he began recounting his past.

"My mom was a prostitute. She died giving birth to me. Never knew my dad. I grew up in the streets. Survival was all that mattered."

I could feel the weight of his words, the harsh reality he had faced from a young age.

Yet, his tone remained surprisingly nonchalant, as if he had detached himself from the pain.

"Stealing, begging, whatever it took to get by," he continued, his voice steady. "Life was tough, but you get used to it."

I nodded, absorbing the somber details of his story. "And now?"

He shrugged, a casual gesture that seemed at odds with the gravity of his experiences. "Now I just do what I have to do. There's no point in dwelling on the past."

His words resonated with a quiet acceptance, a coping mechanism that had likely developed over years of adversity.

"Doesn't it ever get to you?" I asked, my curiosity pushing me to understand more about his mindset.

Taro's lips curled into a humorless smile. "What's the point of dwelling on what you can't change? You either move forward or get left behind."

His pragmatic approach to life was both unsettling and impressive.

The way he spoke, it was as if he had hardened himself against the world, refusing to let it break him.

Despite hearing all of his sad ramblings I felt...........nothing. That's just how I was or rather... how I came out to be.

He had been dealt a tough hand, yet he had managed to survive with a resilience that was admirable.

As he rose to his feet, I stood as well. "You can crash here for the night if you want. It's better than the streets."

Taro hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Thanks."

I gestured towards the guest room. "There's a spare room right down the hall. You can use it."

Taro nodded again, his expression a mix of gratitude and something I couldn't quite place. With that, he walked down the hall, leaving me alone in the living room.

----------------------------------------------------------------------As the door closed behind Taro, a calculating the midst of the city's chaos, I had found a pawn, a tool to be wielded for my advantage. It wasn't about charity or kindness; it was about recognizing an opportunity and seizing it.

"Haha, Well that was easy...."

Taro's past, his skills, his very existence—all of it could be harnessed for my benefit

I had a talent for exploiting the strengths and weaknesses of those around me. It wasn't a matter of morality; it was survival. And Taro, with his history of survival on the streets, was a valuable asset waiting to be utilized.

As my fingers drummed thoughtfully on the armrest of the couch, my mind worked in overdrive.

Taro's connection to the underworld, his resourcefulness, and his unexpected alliance with me—it was all fodder for my grand plan.

I knew what I was capable of, what I was willing to do to achieve my ambitions. Taro was just another piece on the chessboard, a pawn to be moved strategically.

If his presence could help me ascend to greater heights of power, then so be it.

The Kirishima Corporation. A name that held sway over the city's power dynamics, a symbol of influence that resonated across every corner.

And yet, that very name was entwined with my own identity, hidden beneath layers of secrecy.

My aspirations were complex, my intentions multifaceted. As I considered Taro's potential, a subtle plan formed—a strategy that could dismantle the very foundation of the Kirishima Corp.

From the shadows, from within.

I knew the intricacies of the corporation's operations, its vulnerabilities, its darkest secrets.

Taro's presence was more than coincidental; it was a tool, a pawn that I could maneuver in a game that held stakes far beyond what others could comprehend.

My lips curved into a cold smile, a glimpse of the calculated ambition that burned within me. The world had taught me that sentiment was weakness, and power was the ultimate goal.

Emotion was a liability, and sentimentality a luxury I couldn't afford. The world had taught me the harsh reality of its indifference, and I had learned to adapt accordingly.

The narrative was mine to shape, and Taro's presence was another piece on the board. My ambition was unwavering, my methods unapologetic.

Sentimentality had no place in my world; power and advantage were my currency.

In this shadowed realm, I was the architect of my fate. Taro's entrance into my life was just another layer in a complex tapestry of schemes and maneuvering.

And as the city's pulse resonated around me, I settled into the role I had crafted—a cold-hearted strategist, a master of calculated moves, ready to seize control of every situation that came my way.

Looking back at a certain photo in my lounge, the only words I could muster up were.....

"Your son has turned out quite twisted, mom".