Chapter Text
You stood still in the high-ceilinged chamber, cloak pulled tight across your shoulders, hood drawn low over your brow. The weight of the fabric, the silence of the room, the tailor’s hesitant breath—it all pressed around you like fog before the storm.
Across from you stood a human. A tailor. Barely taller than your calves. He was staring up at you with a nervous smile, measuring tape clutched like a lifeline in his hand. You hadn’t moved yet. Not because you were unsure. But because your mind had returned to him —just hours earlier.
Kaido.
Still in his throne, still grinning from ear to ear with sake sloshing down his beard. You could see him clearly, as if you stood before him again.
“What the hell are you wearin’, girl?” he’d said, squinting at your plain, practical clothes. “Those rags? That cloak?” He'd barked a laugh. “You look like a ghost. A pretty one—but still.” He'd swayed slightly as he downed half his jug and pointed the rim in your direction. “You want in this crew? Dress like it. Something fireproof. Sharp. Hell, pick anything. Whatever you want.”
No one had ever offered you anything like that before. And you had bowed your head—not because you feared him, but because for the first time, your voice had weight.
“Thank you,” you’d said. “Not just for this. For finding him. For saving…” You’d caught yourself. Corrected: “King.”
His gaze had darkened—not unkindly. You had lifted your chin, voice steady.
“If you hadn’t, I’d still be alone. And he might be gone. So my loyalty belongs to him—and to you.”
Kaido had stared at you for a moment. Then the laughter had returned in full, rich and wild.
“Wororororororoo! She speaks—and sounds like a damn siren while doin’ it!” He’d pointed at you, drunk and delighted. “That’s your name now. Siren. ” He took another big gulp. “Not just for the pretty face—but for the fire under it. Let her sing her song—and let the world fall in line.”
His words echoed through your chest now, not as memory, but as thunder still rolling through your bones.
You blinked back to the present, standing beneath the tailor’s measuring tape and tentative eyes.
"Miss?" he asked, voice thin. "What… would you like to wear?"
A simple question. But for the first time, you had the power to answer it freely. And your thoughts flicked to King . To the way he stood unbending in his leather armor, wrapped in shadows and fire. Untouchable. Iconic. Feared. The way the mask and suit hid everything—but never dulled the power of who he was.
The idea struck you cleanly. And when it did, it bloomed into joy.
Not vanity.
Not imitation.
But something closer to alignment.
“Black,” you said quietly. “Tight. Leather. Like his.”
The tailor looked up, nodding.
“Pants. A fitted jacket. A white blouse underneath.” You paused, eyes narrowing behind your hood. “And a full mask. Like his.”
A breath. Then softer: “But no spikes.”
The tailor scribbled furiously, stammering something about stitching and materials, and you stood still as stone, wings low, cloak tight.
~~~
When the suit was ready, you returned to the cave to dress.
The leather was stiff at first, but softened the moment it touched your skin—molding to your body like shadow given form. The pants clung to your legs with precision, hugging every line of muscle from thigh to calf. The blouse beneath was crisp and pale, the neckline open just enough to soften the edge of the jacket’s severity, creating contrast rather than weakness.
The way the cut cinched your waist, framed your chest, followed the curve of your hips—it didn’t hide you. It defined you.
Your breasts rose perfectly beneath the snug front, bold and firm. Your silhouette looked carved from something sleek and powerful, your thighs stretching the leather with every slow, deliberate step. Even the weight of the fabric felt good—secure, firm, chosen .
You pulled the gloves on last. Smooth. Tight. Seamless.
Not a single inch of skin remained visible. Your hands, your neck—everything was masked, armored, fire-hidden. The mask slid into place like it belonged there, sealing over your hair, your features, your identity.
And still, when you stretched your shoulders—
Your flames bloomed.
Controlled. Glorious. Free.
The suit had been made with care. Special design. A seam at the back parted when your heat flared, allowing your wings to spread without resistance. You felt the rush of flame pulse between your shoulder blades, the sacred fire of your people, alive.
And something in you lifted .
Yes, your face was hidden. Yes, the world wouldn’t see your eyes or your flame unless you allowed it. But that was power, too. And it wasn’t the kind of hiding you’d once known. This wasn’t survival through silence.
This was a different kind of freedom.
You looked at yourself one last time—masked, armored, flames curling behind you. Not nameless. Not lost. You were Siren now. And you had never felt more like yourself.
Then you stepped out into the firelight.
~~~
When you stepped into the cave, the light caught on the slick black leather, highlighting every contour of your form. Alber turned toward you the moment you crossed the threshold. He stilled. Utterly.
His body didn’t move—only his eyes, glowing red beneath the dark mask, followed your every step. Down the shape of your legs, up the curve of your hips, lingering at your waist where the jacket hugged you tight. Across your chest, where the white blouse beneath made the rise of your breasts all the more visible. Every inch of you was covered—but none of you was hidden.
And he felt it. Your flame. Your strength. Your bond.
You stopped a few paces in front of him, shoulders drawing in slightly, unsure.
“Is it…” you hesitated, your voice quiet behind your mask. “Is it okay that I took inspiration from you?” You touched your side, gloved fingers brushing the edge of your jacket. “I just… I wanted to match you,” you admitted softly.
The silence that followed was sharp. Heavy. Then Alber stepped forward. His boots moved soundlessly across the stone, his broad figure closing the distance between you like a tide. When he reached you, he didn’t speak. His gloved hands found your waist—slow, deliberate—and curled around it with quiet possession. His fingers flexed once, firm against your hips, the leather of his palms gliding over the leather of yours.
Still, no words. But your bond trembled.
The air between you grew thick, charged, your flames pulsing faintly behind your backs in perfect time. Then he looked into your eyes—mask to mask, flame to flame.
And you felt it. That raw, dark hunger.
Not just desire. Not just pride.
Claiming.
Your breath caught as the bond flared hot inside your chest, the want rolling off him like heat from a forge. Your thighs clenched instinctively, your lips parting just under the mask.
He didn’t speak. He burned.
But then—low and deep, almost a growl, from somewhere behind his mask: “It suits you.” Another pause. His thumbs stroked once along your sides, slow and reverent. “Too well.”
Your heart thundered behind the armor. Your fingers twitched at your sides, aching to touch him back, to close the last few centimeters between your masked faces. But you didn’t move. Neither did he. And still—you were closer than breath.
The fire behind you purred in time with his. The bond surged, warm and whole. You didn’t need to kiss. Not yet. Because you already knew:
In his eyes, you were fire made flesh. His equal. His mate.
And now that he’d seen you like this—standing strong, masked and burning— he would follow you into any storm.