Eidolon

Lessons

The air in the make-up room was thick with the scent of powder, perfume and old smoke. It was a sanctuary of illusion, tucked behind the throbbing bass of the Den’s hostess floor. Glass-topped trays glittered with lipsticks like spent cartridges, and pots of cream shimmered like stolen treasure. Rei sat before a brightly lit mirror, her reflection a stark canvas of apprehension.

Yuri, the club’s top hostess, moved behind her with the serene grace of a shark. Yuri was a vision of impossible elegance, her platinum hair a helmet of perfection, her figure a testament to the best cybernetic sculpting money could buy. To Rei, who had spent a month eating proper meals and discovering the curves of her own body, Yuri was both an aspiration and a warning.

“The first rule,” Yuri said, her voice a low, melodic hum, “is that you are not putting on a mask. You are removing one”, she placed a cool, steadying hand on Rei’s shoulder, “The man out there doesn’t want a painted doll. He wants to feel like he’s the first man to ever see the real you.” Rei met Yuri’s eyes in the mirror, “But that’s a lie.”

“Is it?” Yuri picked up a foundation brush, “When you are hungry, you pretend you are not, to stay strong. When you are afraid, you stand tall. This is no different. It is a performance of the truth of will – show them what you truly want for yourself. Now, tilt your head.” Rei obeyed. The brush was soft against her skin, blurring the faint traces of a life lived in the grime of the city. “So, I have to learn to weaponize my… genuine wants?” Yuri’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, “I am teaching you the power of leading without the prey being none the wiser. The goal is not to make him bleed, but to make him thank you for the wound”, she switched to a concealer, expertly dabbing under Rei’s eyes, “Your eyes are your greatest asset. Beautiful, black, deep. We will not hide them. We will frame them. Make them a promise and a mirror.”

She worked in silence for a moment, the only sound the distant pulse of the music. “Aoi’s son Aoto, He’s teaching you self-defense?”, Yuri began, selecting an eyeliner. Rei nodded. “He is young like you, feisty. What do you think he sees while training you?” Rei fidgeted with the edge of her skirt. “I’m not sure… he treats me like I’m made of crystal, I’m not though,” Rei murmured, remembering the guy’s intense eyes, the mix concentration and caution in them.

“That’s a compliment Rei. That means he wants to protect you, take care of you. If you want to be treated like a tougher student, show him you are though enough. Now close your eyes” Yuri’s hand was impossibly steady as she traced a thin, sharp line along Rei’s lid, “The second rule: seduction is not about what you give. It’s not about what you allow him to take – it is what you don’t give. Start by offering small gifts: a glimpse of vulnerability. A secret smile meant only for him. But you are not giving him a key to your soul; you are letting him pick the lock, so he believes it was his idea.”

She leaned back, assessing her work, “Now, the lips. Don’t move. Aoto is a fighter, like his dad, but not as hardened. He will listen. Start a conversation, give good reasons”, She chose a shade not of garish red, but of a softened berry, the color of a bruise just beginning to heal, “Apply this. Not all at once. Pat it on. Like you’re leaving a secret on your own skin.” Rei did as she was told, pressing the color into her lips. It felt different. It didn’t feel like warpaint; it felt like an emphasis of what was already there. “Good,” Yuri approved, “Now, look at yourself.”

Rei looked. The girl in the mirror was still her, the ruby red hair, the dark eyes, but somehow more. The lines were cleaner, the features sharper, yet softer. She didn’t look like she was pretending to be someone else. She looked like the most perfect, captivating version of herself. “This is the art,” Yuri said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Men like Karasu-sama play a game of owning things. But a woman who knows her own power is never truly owned. She is merely… visiting.” She placed a final, tiny dot of gloss in the center of Rei’s bottom lip, “Remember, young sparrow. You are not a prize – you are a force that guides the movements of men around you. Now, go. My clients are waiting.”

Rei stood, her skirt falling down against her legs. She felt a flicker of something unfamiliar; not confidence, not yet, but the first spark of its possibility. It wasn’t about becoming a seductress. It was about learning that the most powerful weapon she had was herself. And for the first time, holding that weapon felt less like a burden and more like latent ability.

Training with Aoto

The dojo at the back of The Electric Dragon Den was a world away from the velvet and neon of the main floor. It was a spare, serious room, smelling of old wood, sweat, and faintly of harsh cleaning products. Rei stood in a basic fighting stance, knees bent, hands up. Her body was sheened in a slick layer of sweat, making the new, dark training clothes Karasu had provided stick to her frame. The weeks of proper food had worked a quiet miracle. The sharpness of her malnutrition had softened into a curvy strength. The hollows of her cheeks were less pronounced, and the muscles in her arms and shoulders, once just bone and tendon, now held a defined, yet lush potential. Her red hair, damp with sweat, was tied back in a severe ponytail, highlighting the clean lines of her jaw and the obsidian intensity of her eyes.

Across from her, Aoto shifted his weight, his own stance relaxed but impeccable. He was four years older, built with the compact, efficient power of a street brawler refined by discipline. He wore a simple grey tank top that showed off arms corded with muscle, scarred knuckles, and a network of faded tattoos that coiled around his left forearm; Japanese Zen-garden patterns mixed with circuit-board motifs, a common style for Chochin. His black hair cut into a classic barber shop side-part and his eyes, dark and serious, tracked her every micro-movement.

The only sounds were the rhythmic rush of Rei trying to land a hit. Aoto, watched evading everything, his expression as impassive as the tattooed tigers coiled around his right biceps. “Enough,” Aoto rumbled, his voice hoarse, “Your form is improving. But you’re pulling your punches.” Rei dropped her hands, chest heaving. A sheen of sweat glistened on her skin, which had lost its alarming pallor.

Her body’s transformation held Aoto spellbound. The fragile angles softened into curves, her patched training clothes, once loose, now strained against a newly generous bosom and clung to the smooth, definite curve of her hips. Her waist remained thin, creating an hourglass figure that was impossible to ignore. “I’m not pulling them,” she countered, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist, “You’re the one not engaging and stopping me now – telling me to hold back.”

Aoto’s jaw tightened. This was the problem. It was no longer a fear of breaking the malnourished girl she had been. Now, it was a different kind of apprehension. Correcting her stance meant his hands near her waist. Demonstrating a block meant his arm brushing against her side. He, who could disarm a thug twice his size without blinking, found himself hesitating, his movements suddenly self-conscious. The fear was that she would misunderstand, or worse, that the proximity would bring a flush to his own face.

“I am matching your level,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “My level is higher than this,” Rei insisted, her black eyes holding his. She took a step closer, “Aoto, I’m not that fragile anymore. I need to be strong. I need to be able to defend myself – really defend myself. Not just practice.” He looked away, focusing on a knot in the wooden wall behind her, “Karasu-sama would not be pleased if you were injured.”

“Karasu-sama wants me to be stronger,” Rei said, her voice dropping, layered with a meaning they both understood, “He’d be more displeased if his investment didn’t pay off, because her trainer was going easy on her. I want you to stop cuddling me.” Aoto met her gaze again. The intensity in her eyes was a tangible push. He saw the street-smart girl who had arrived, but also the fierce woman she was becoming. He took a slow, deep breath, centering himself. He could not tell her the real reason for his hesitation; the inconvenient, unbidden awareness of her body. That was his burden to control.

“Alright,” he said, his voice lower, more serious, “If that is what you want. But understand, Rei. If you ask for this, I will not hold back. I will push you to your limits. It will hurt. You will have real bruises. You will be sore. Are you sure?” A slow, determined smile touched Rei’s lips. It wasn’t a happy smile, but one of grim satisfaction, “I’ve been sore and bruised my whole life, Aoto. At least this way, it will mean I’m getting stronger.” Aoto gave a single, sharp nod, “Then we start now. No more warnings.” He shifted his stance, his whole demeanor changing. The hesitant trainer was gone, replaced by the formidable fighter, “Guard up.”

Rei raised her hands, her expression shifting to one of pure focus. Aoto moved forward, his first strike a testing jab, but faster and harder than anything he’d thrown before. Rei blocked it, the impact stinging her forearm. She flinched but adjusted her stance, her eyes locked on his, ready for the next blow. In the quiet of the dojo, the real training had finally begun. “Again,” he said, his voice calm, a teacher’s patience layered over a fighter’s instinct. Rei didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, driving a straight punch toward his solar plexus. It was faster than her attempts from weeks ago, her form cleaner. But it was still a textbook move, telegraphed. Aoto didn’t block it. Instead, he flowed to the side, his left forearm redirecting her punch downward with a sharp smack. At the same time, his right foot hooked behind her lead ankle.

Rei’s balance evaporated. She crashed onto the mat with a grunt, the air punching from her lungs. The fluorescent tube light swam above her, “You’re thinking about the punch,” Aoto said, not gloating, just stating a fact. He didn’t offer a hand. Karasu’s rule: you get up yourself, “You’re not thinking about me. What my body is doing.” Gritting her teeth, Rei pushed herself up onto her elbows. “It was a dead punch. It had no future. It only had one purpose. In here”, he tapped his temple, “you need to plan three moves ahead. The strike, the counter you know is coming, and your answer to that counter.”

He resumed his stance, “Your father was a brawler. Power and augments. You don’t have that. You have speed. You have a small frame. Use it. Slip in, strike where it hurts, disappear. Again.” Rei rose, a fresh bruise already blooming on her forearm from the block. Her black eyes narrowed, the frustration hardening into cold focus. She remembered watching her father’s fights on grainy underground feeds; the overwhelming, brute-force charges of ‘The Ox’. That wasn’t her. That was a path to a bloodied slump against a side alley wall.

This time, she circled Aoto. Her feet whispered on the mat. She watched the set of his shoulders, the slight shift of his weight onto his back foot. Rei feinted another jab. Aoto’s hands came up slightly to parry. It was what she’d hoped for. Pivoting on her front foot, she dropped low and whipped her right leg in a sweeping kick aimed at his supporting knee. It was a good move. Aoto had to skip back to avoid it, a flicker of surprise on his face. But his recovery was instantaneous. As her leg retracted, he closed the distance she’d created. His movement was a blur; a grab for her wrist, a hip thrown into her center of gravity. He used her own momentum against her, flipping her over his hip. She landed on her back again, harder this time, the world jarring around her.

For a second, they just looked at each other. Rei, flat on her back, seething with a mixture of pain and admiration. Aoto, standing over her, a faint smile touching his lips. His eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat, taking in her determined expression, the new strength in her form, her breasts, before he quickly looked away, the professional mask snapping back into place.

“Better,” he said, his voice slightly huskier than before. He cleared his throat. “The feint was smart. But you committed everything to the sweep. You left yourself open. A fight isn’t about winning one exchange. It’s about surviving all of them.” Rei sat up, rubbing her lower back, “How do you see it all? The counters to the counters?” Aoto finally offered a hand, bending Karasu’s rules for her. She took it, his grip strong, and he pulled her to her feet with effortless strength.

“You don’t see it,” he said, not letting go of her hand immediately, “You feel it. It’s in the tension of their muscles, the look in their eyes, the way they breathe. It’s a dance. A violent dance.” He seemed to realize he was still holding her hand and dropped it quickly, turning to pick up a water bottle. He tossed it to her, “My father taught me. And his father taught him. It’s in our blood. For you… you have to learn it from scratch. You have to want it more.” Rei caught the bottle, drinking deeply. The water was tepid but felt like heaven. “I want it,” she said, the words simple and absolute.“I know,” Aoto said quietly. He watched her drink, the line of her throat, the determined set of her mouth. The flickering neon caught the sweat on her skin, making her seem like a statue carved from living luminosity and shade. He looked away, focusing on the heavy punching bag in the corner of the room, “Again. But this time, don’t try to hit me. Try to touch me. A fingertip on the shoulder. A palm on the chest. Get in, make contact, get out. Don’t get caught.”

Rei nodded, capping the bottle and setting it down. The previous frustration was gone, replaced by a new, sharp understanding. This wasn’t about power. It was about presence. It was about the same thing the book about physical tells and hostesses talked about; reading the subtle reveals, understanding space and intention, getting close without getting in danger.

She settled back into her stance, but it was different now. Lighter. More fluid. Her eyes weren’t just looking at Aoto; they were reading him. Rei moved. It wasn’t a lunge, but a glide. She feinted with her gaze, drawing his guard high, then dropped and darted forward. Her fingers, quick as a snake’s strike, brushed against his ribcage before she was already spinning away, out of reach. Aoto blinked, looking down at the spot she’d touched. A genuine, broad smile broke across his face, transforming his serious features, “Yes. Like that. Exactly like that.” For the next hour, they continued the dance under the flickering light. Strike and flow. Contact and retreat. The air filled with the sound of their breathing, the slap of contact, the scuff of feet on mats. Rei’s movements became less rigid, more intuitive. She was learning the language of combat, and Aoto was a patient, if demanding, teacher.

He was also, despite his best efforts, utterly captivated by the hungry and rapidly blossoming girl he was tasked with protecting. And in the fractured, blue-green light, every time she evaded him or landed a touch, he saw not just a student learning, but a woman. And it was a terrifyingly beautiful thing to witness.