Chapter Text
Hakari’s club was alive in the way he liked best—loud enough to drown out thought, hot enough to feel real. Neon lights flickered against concrete walls, sweat clung to skin, and the ring sat at the center like a living thing, pulsing with noise and adrenaline. Money moved fast here. Fists moved faster.
Hakari stood just outside the ring, shoulders loose, knuckles still buzzing from impact, a sharp grin carved across his face as the crowd roared. Another fight, another win. Bills were shoved into his hands from every direction, chips clinking as they changed owners. Luck was high tonight. He could feel it humming under his skin.
Kirara leaned against the rail nearby, legs crossed, eyes bright and wicked with excitement. She caught Hakari’s eye and flashed him a grin—proud, electric—and Hakari returned it without thinking. This was their world. Noise, chaos, momentum. It fit them.
Most people cleared out quickly once payouts were done. Lingering meant trouble. Lingering meant regret.
So Hakari noticed immediately when one man didn’t leave.
The guy hovered near the edge of the crowd, pale under the harsh lights, jaw tight like he was chewing on something bitter. His hands twitched at his sides. He kept glancing at Hakari, then away again, like he was bracing himself.
Hakari sighed, irritation already prickling. He waved a dismissive hand.
“Relax,” he called over the noise. “Bet’s done. You’re fine.”
The man flinched, then shook his head sharply.
“No,” he snapped. “A bet’s a bet.”
Hakari frowned, stepping closer. “I said it’s okay. I don’t need whatever you—”
The man cut him off, voice rising. “I lost. I’m paying.”
He jerked his chin toward the back hallway.
“Bring her out.”
Hakari’s first thought was that this was a joke. Maybe stolen goods. Maybe something illegal he didn’t want to touch anyway. He opened his mouth to shut it down—
And then the noise changed.
Not louder. Sharper.
A cry cut through the club’s chaos—thin, high, and raw. It didn’t belong here. It sliced through the bass and shouting like a blade.
Hakari turned just as someone stepped forward and shoved something small into his arms.
Warm.
Shaking.
An eight-month-old baby.
You were crying hard enough that your entire body trembled, face red and scrunched, breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Your hair was damp with sweat, skin warm against his, and you smelled faintly of sour milk and stress. One tiny hand clenched instinctively into the front of Hakari’s shirt, fingers curling tight like he was the only thing keeping you upright.
Hakari froze.
“What the hell—” he swore, instinctively adjusting his grip so you wouldn’t fall. “No. No, this isn’t—”
He looked down at you, wide-eyed, then back at the man. “This isn’t funny.”
Your cry cracked, breaking into something hoarse and exhausted, and the sound hit Hakari straight in the chest. Too real. Too desperate.
He tried to hand you back immediately. “Hey—no. Take her. This isn’t a real bet.”
The man stepped away.
“She’s yours,” he said flatly.
Hakari’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“I don’t want her,” the man snapped, irritation sharp in his voice. “She never stops crying. I said I’d bet her. I lost. That’s it.”
Your cry spiked at the raised voice, tiny body stiffening, fingers tightening painfully in Hakari’s shirt.
Something in Hakari’s expression shifted. The grin vanished, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
“You don’t bet people,” he said. “Especially not—”
Before he could finish, Kirara moved.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t ask.
She was there in an instant, hands gentle but sure as she scooped you from Hakari’s arms. She turned her body away from the man, pressing you against her chest like instinct itself had taken over. Her arm curved protectively around your back. Her other hand cradled your head, fingers threading softly through your hair.
“It’s okay,” she murmured immediately, voice low and soothing, like she was afraid the world might hear. “I’ve got you. You’re safe, sweet girl. I promise.”
Your cries faltered—not gone, but quieter. Confused. You rooted closer to her warmth, face pressing into her chest, fingers fisting her clothes the same way you had Hakari’s shirt.
Kirara lifted her head slowly and glared at the man.
If looks could kill, he’d have dropped on the spot.
“Get out,” Hakari said.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
The man scoffed. “What, now you’re—”
Hakari took one step forward, aura shifting so violently it sucked the air from the room. “Out,” he repeated. “Before I forget this is a club and not an alley.”
Security moved instantly. The man was dragged away, protests fading into the night.
The noise of the club rushed back in—but it sounded distant now, muffled, like Hakari was underwater.
Kirara didn’t move. She rocked you gently, whispering nonsense and comfort and promises you couldn’t understand. Your cries dwindled into shaky hiccups, tiny breaths puffing against her skin.
Hakari stared at the two of you.
At the way you clung to her.
At the way she held you like this was the most natural thing in the world.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with fighting.
“…Shit,” he muttered.
Kirara looked up at him, eyes fierce and shining. “We’re not leaving her,” she said. Not a question. Not a suggestion.
Hakari opened his mouth to argue.
Nothing came out.
You let out a small, exhausted whimper and relaxed just a little more in Kirara’s arms.
And just like that—
The club didn’t matter anymore.