h t t p : / / h i r o - 0 9 1 1 . b l o g s p o t . c o m



Having survived the airport bombing, Yoshida Ayane returns to Japan eight years later as big-time Chinese hotelier Lady Nu Huang and plots a fiery revenge against the Spectra Gang. The past tarnished her soul. Now, her fists crave for the perfect reprisal. Every debtor has to pay. The carnage in the blazing inferno is just the begining.

But what is the price of revenge? A heart that thrives on hate? Eyes that could shed no tears? What if the new Spectra leader turns out to be no other than her high school lover, Yamazaki Kosuke? What would she choose: revenge or love?

This is a story of chase, betrayal, vengeance, glow-in-the-dark stars, and lost love.


Fists and Lipsticks 2: The Silver Crescent
Copyright © 2012 by Mark Harold Larucea


All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

If you have not read Book 1 of Fists and Lipsticks yet, you might not be able to follow some scenes in Book 2. It is recommended that readers finish Book 1 prior to Book 2. Should you decide to start reading this story from here, however, feel free to e-mail the author for any questions or clarifications: .

Silent readers are welcomed. Plagiarists aren't.


This story is officially published ONLY in the following websites:

1. Wattpad (Story ID: 4515018)

2. FIctionpress (Story ID: 2537205)

3. Soompi Forums (Forum Topic: 228185)

4. MediaFire (File: b3ab1vpvxvvb4u9)


It is not a demand, but comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.





Dedicated to the brightest star on my ceiling –





Bullets are like lipsticks. They leave smears.


My homecoming was not meant to find the soul I lost – the soul that drifted away from my being until such time when I became oblivious to the very thing I sought. Such untainted soul born from compassion and gleeful smiles, with a heart once open to receive the greatest warmth of love, and an identity I never had the chance to unmask.

If finding this soul entailed a rewind to the past – back in the days when I was left with no other choice but to run, not fight. To the past when these fists would only bleed, not strike. To the past when I witnessed and touched death, only to feel my fingertips shudder in despair.

I'd rather not.

I swore to never again cry with tears of blood.

Eight years is such long wait for this sweet revenge.

I walked towards my closet, allowing the adjacent foggy mirrors to cast my 25-year old reflection. I graced the path wearing a pink evening gown from London. Shimmering diamonds dangled proudly on my ears, the exquisite glamor perfected by the Silver Crescent Necklace around my neck. My lustrous black hair was fashioned into voguish curls. My face was unblemished and tame like a harmless doll, yet strikes like a venomous snake in the still of the night. The vengeful fangs would sink through the flesh until bloodily satisfied – unforgiving, ruthless, but nevertheless still a doll.

As I pulled the double doors open, I was suddenly reminded of how my closet looked like back in high school. It contained my school uniforms, racing gears, cotton dresses, handkerchiefs, and memories. I was reminded of my home. After I left for Switzerland that fateful day eight years ago, these items were obliterated, pulverized to dust and carbon, blown away by the wind, washed away by the fierce rains, then forgotten. The place okaa-san and I called 'home' was erased in Tokyo's map that night in a massive fire started by the Spectra.

Just like how they set ablaze my every source of happiness.

And so, I came back with these hands calloused from wielding sharp blades. My eyesight had become like that of an eagle – could target with accuracy. I studied the wonders of gun powders and radars. I mastered the art of stealth and deceit. I learned how to dance to the tune of Death.

From my closet, I took out a gun, a belt of bullets, and a sharp knife. Hundreds of high-powered guns and weapons remained inside my storage, still untouched and unloaded. My collection was sinful, and I could not wait to use them all.

I closed the door and checked my reflection on the mirror. Something was missing on my face. My lips were too pale. I headed towards my dresser, placed the gun, bullets, and knife on top of it, and took out a small box from one of the shelves. I pulled out my pink lipstick and applied it on my lips. Then, I knew I looked perfect.

As I was about to reach for the cap of the lipstick, my gaze fell upon the belt of bullets. I reached for it and pulled out a piece. I held the lipstick on one hand and a bullet on the other. I was amazed of how similar they looked.

I reached for my gun and carefully loaded the bullets into the barrel. I readied my weapon until all it needed was a little pull to fire.

"Bullets are like lipsticks," I muttered. "They leave smears."

I came back with this new heart which thrives on hate.

Now, all that's left was to make them burn in my reprisal.

h t t p : / / h i r o - 0 9 1 1 . b l o g s p o t . c o m