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Akira Tsukihara was, on the surface, just another failed author, a name that never quite carved its place in the literary world. Her pen had crafted novels about love—perfect, idealistic love—those readers ate up with a hunger for sweetness. Love triangles, tearful confessions, and happily-ever-afters; Akira wrote them all, and yet, nothing ever caught fire. Her work was dismissed as predictable, clichéd, and mundane. Beneath this thin veil of romantic idealism, however, Akira harboured a dark, twisted soul. She loathed the genre that paid her bills. The saccharine sweetness of love stories felt like a personal insult, a mockery of everything that fuelled her true creativity: stories of raw power, manipulation, betrayal, and darkness.