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Fandom [ LOST DOGS ] — A Yakuza Story

Constant thoughts on where these smugglers might be keeping their drugs were interrupted with a swish. Ken admittedly hadn't been paying much mind to the brothers interacting behind him—frankly it wasn't his business—but the sound of a long blade of some breed swiping through the air caught his ear. He turned just in time to see the blade move away from a shockingly-unphased Kenta's face, and the blood momentarily drained from the redhead's already clammy and pale complexion. Oh God, was this some sort of betrayal? Did Imai decide that Kenta was too high-risk to keep now that he'd shown his—well—affiliations with the foreigner? Was he about to get the man killed? Was he next?

Kenta's hand hooking around the hilt of of the sword with enthusiasm was enough to shut those anxieties down, and Ken allowed himself to breathe again. Though, his heart rate refused to lower from that panicked state, and he found himself leaning on one of the crates trying to bring it back down manually. These men had strange ideas of fun, huh?

Ah, but there he was again. Kenneth watched with a wary smile as Kenta took the blade in both hands, taking a step back as he started swinging it around. The American had no experience with katanas personally, but if the ninja movies he'd watched were to be believed, they were unbelievably sharp. Sharp enough to behead a man in one swing and leave the head still resting on—though not connected to—the stump of a neck momentarily before sliding off. And here Kenta was swinging it around like a kid with a wooden sword at the renaissance faire. Ken would be upset at the lack of weapon discipline if the man wasn't so goddamn enthusiastic about it.

"I see that," he said, watching as Kenta sliced a corner off of one of the crates. Guess they were made of a light wood—or that sword was just ungodly sharp. "Not see katana in America very many time. Did not think it is not see very many time here..."

He quickly trailed off. Man, looking like an idiot in front of Kenta was one thing, but he could feel that paper-thin patience slicing little cuts into his skin. Best to just keep his mouth shut around Imainas much as he could.

While the one-eyed yakuza rummaged through the box of handguns, Ken finally allowed his mind to drift to its own personal desires. Like a coonhound tracking a rabbit, he ripped the lids from the boxes with a keen eye on the contents, pawing through the layers of illicit goods for his prey.

The first box he checked contained several spare pistol magazines and boxes of ammo spanning various calibers. He even found a box of .50 cal rounds. Yeah, he had seen a Desert Eagle in that box of handguns, hadn't he? As tempting as it was to own something with that much power, he knew how unreliable those guns were. Though, really, with firepower like that, you really only needed one good shot to make a point. Those things were head-poppers of the truest form.

The second box contained a top layer of counterfeit clothes, and Kenneth haphazardly dug past those, as he couldn't really care less about-

"Hamg"

That mess of a non-word froze Ken in his tracks for a bit, and he scooped up the offending shirt like a misbehaving cat. Yep, embroidered into that white t-shirt directly beneath a very roughly-stitched burger, fries, and soda. That got a chuckle out of him, and he decided to roll the shirt up and stuff it in his pocket. It looked a little big, but Ken being a more heavily-built guy figured that it just might fit anyways. The rest of the box contained chemicals of various levels of toxicity in glass vials. God, he hoped none of them were radioactive. He wasn't even going to try his luck sifting through that biohazard any further.

Then, a third crate. Beneath some forged legal papers, he found it. The goddamn jackpot. His eyes lit up as they rested on the bags of various pills and other street drugs. Despite his excitement, his entire body hitched from an all-over ache, and the gentle rocking of the boat on the river wasn't exactly doing wonders for that latent nausea either. He had to concede—he was that fucked up. Withdrawals were beating him down and the afternoon wasn't even over yet. God, maybe just one? He could dry-swallow a pill now, ride out the high at the hotel, then be awake in time for that fight, right? Nishitani wouldn't even notice!

But there was a catch. There was always a catch. The pills were in a Ziploc baggie labeled "Viocdin"—someone definitely wasn't familiar with their cargo. They may not have been entirely authentic. When it came to prescription meds like that, authenticity was highly prized, since that's how you knew it was entirely safe. Or, well, as safe as an opiate addiction gets. Sure enough, on closer inspection, these didn't have those same identifying marks as actual Vicodin did. Which meant that, even if his calculations were right and he would wake up sober in time for the fight, he might also be taking something laced and not wake up at all for the rest of the night. Hell, this whole lot might be a bust, and then he'd have to find a way to dispose of them that wouldn't alert authorities. He supposed flushing was always an option, but he didn't exactly have anyone to ask.

Clicking his tongue and letting out a small groan of discontent, he settled with taking a handful of pills and stuffing them into one of his pockets. And then another. If they were good, he wanted a damn good supply.

It was all interrupted by Imai startling him out of his thoughts again. Shit, had he seen that? Well, hopefully he was in the man's blind spot, because he wasn't acting like it. What was he saying? Find what go here? Oh, he had a magazine. Kenneth took the empty mag and studied it for a bit. It was a 9mm—small change compared to some of the rounds he'd seen fired from a handgun, but powerful enough to drop a man all the same. Plus, they just tended to be so reliable, that their usage in both offense and defense was kind of a no-brainer. That combined with the low recoil, the variety in the ammo, the accuracy—it was just a good all-rounder. It made sense why they were so popular on the streets of Atlanta.

With a dutiful nod, he returned to the box full of ammo and collected a few packs of 9mm Luger rounds. Nothing fancy, just something to get the job done. He also found one box of 9mm hollow points. Glancing up at Imai, he briefly wondered if he would even tell him about these. Then, it occurred to him that it wasn't his problem. However much damage that man decided to execute with those bullets would be on him. He'd just have to make sure he gave Kenta the regular rounds before the man got a nasty surprise. Digging further beneath the ammo, he also found a few silencers that looked like they might fit on the pistol. That would certainly help in the "not getting caught by the cops" department.

Once he gathered all of the metal he seemed necessary, he hefted the boxes of ammo and two silencers over to Imai. "I find this," he said, holding up the silencers. "Try put these on gun. Make gun make very many less sounds. Good for this work. Also, ah... These," he held up a box of the normal rounds. "Use these to fire at men," and then the box of hollow-points. "Use these to make men cry."
 
The dark eyes were glued onto the artillery weapon, running his fingers along the cold metal. It had been so long since he held one in his hands . . . the feelings was unnatural. He knew resting his finger around the trigger would lead only to disaster but placing it alongside the barrel would be even worse. He inspected every inch of the gun while Kenneth was away, noting the few defects it had. Not only were the sides of the barrel scuffed, but the rear sight was bent, mostly from rattling around in a crate across the ocean. The magazine was also jammed, a massive annoyance that caused the man to frown. The gun would be useful for taking out six targets, no five minimum before it became useless. A jammed magazine would be a hindrance on the field, but perhaps he could hand it over to the foreigner. If he knew of the bullets and different types of artillery, perhaps he knew how to fix the issue. For now, he simply slammed the end of the magazine against the crate until it slipped out.

Once said foreigner returned, Seiji arched a brow looking at the different pieces. So, a silencer, regular bullets, and . . . What were those again? Carefully, he picked up the bullet, examining the indent it had with a nod. “Make men cry,” he repeated before picking up the packs and shoving them inside his blazer. It made his jacket heavier, but they didn’t need anyone else knowing they were armed with guns, especially not the few police officers that lined the streets of Sotenbori. Picking up the silencer, he screwed it onto the end of the gun, using the busted rear sight to aim off into nothingness. Despite its name, the silencer only slightly muffled the sound of a bullet. If shot in a busy street, or bustling building, there were be more than one witness.

But, it was free. No point leaving it behind.

Finally, turning his gaze back to Kenneth, he gave the man a small nod before moving back to the ramp. Their business was done, no need to linger. If only his brother understood that. A sigh left the older man, staring at the katana.

“You can’t take that with you,”

“What? C’mon, why not?”

“Why not?” his hand came up to his temple, tapping it. “Think ya fuckin’ idiot, how the hell are you going to walk around the city with a damn sword in your hand? And how’re ya gonna explain how ya got it?”

“That I bought it, of course,” Kenta nonchalantly responded, stepping off the boat not only with the sharp-ended weapon but with his own prized 9mm. Seiji had been so worked up about getting one, but he didn’t understand the appeal. Guns were loud, extremely loud, and easily drew attention. There was no art behind making them either, simply massed produced for the war and then all confiscated. He clicked his tongue, hearing Seiji shuffle behind him.

“What type of shit ‘re ya trying to pull? You wanna get yourself thrown back in jail?” scolded Seiji.

“Now you’re just being an asshole,”

“You’re being careless!” his hand hooked around the handle, ripping it from Kenta’s hands as he threw it on the ground. “We got the guns let’s –”

“Fuck! I told you Yoshino should’ve waited on the boat!” shouted a frustrated man, running out the backdoor of the restaurant.

Immediately, the yakuza turned their attention to the other men, who rushed at them.

『 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐒 』​

With two yakuza and three smugglers, it was technically an uneven fight, but not for Seiji Imai. He brought his fists up, glaring at the man who charged at him empty-handed. With a swift punch to the face, he had the stranger stumbling back.

“Can ya actually use that thing?” he asked his sworn brother who, unfortunately, shook his head. “Goddammit, why’d I get you that book then?” he asked, pulling his gaze back to one of the smugglers. As the man’s fist got closer and closer, Seiji pulled his shoulders down, pulling back his arm before unleashing it into the other’s stomach. After a sudden gasp for air, he collapsed onto the floor, clutching his torso in pain. “Don’t you see a man’s talkin’ here?” he spat, slamming his foot down onto the man’s chest.

“Well the book just goes over the history of katanas, doesn’t actually give ya a guide on how to use them. For safety reasons, y’know?”

“Safety reasons my ass,” Seiji scoffed again, watching the first smuggler return head first. A failed shoulder charge lead to the one-eyed man grabbing him by the collar of his dirty shirt, whipping him around, and sending him over to his brother.

Dutifully, Kenta dropped the blade, allowing his fist instead to slam into the man’s face. The sudden impact caused not only the bones in the smuggler’s nose to break but red to spread across Kenta’s hand. With a small hiss, he pulled the man back in for another punch and then another before shoving him onto the ground.

And then the final smuggler. With a gun in hand, he trembled, slowly moving down the steps, eyes locked onto the yakuza. “D-Don’t fucking move,” he spoke, however, the language was foreign.

Carefully, Seiji brought his hands up, taking a step closer. “You’d be wise not to shoot in broad daylight,”

He didn’t respond, most likely not knowing any Japanese. Was this all some type of Mainland operation? One eye glanced up at the soft yellow sign, reading the kanji again. The Dragon & Tiger. He needed to return, under different circumstances, of course.

Circling around his fallen comrades, the man stepped onto the ramp, eyes still glued onto the criminals with a click of his tongue. “Give me back the katana.”

A puzzled looked formed on their faces.

“The sword.”

. . .

He huffed, gesturing at the blade while keeping the gun aimed at the one-eyed man.

“Fuck, I really gotta give it to him?” Kenta asked, begrudgingly, picking up the blade, and handing it over to the foreigner. Once he stepped a bit too close the Chinese man rammed the end of the magazine against his face, stunning the man.
 
Well, all good things had to come to an end. At least Kenneth was able to—hopefully—replenish his stash without any questions. He gave his jacket a quick shake to force the pills to settle to the bottom of his pockets, the little pieces of sunshine rustling around in there like Halloween candy in a kid's pillowcase. It was a damn shame he couldn't indulge now, especially with how bad his withdrawals were getting, but he couldn't risk fucking up this deal. At least he had something to look forward to after the fight—he was going to see if these things were laced the fun way.

Intentionally, he kept his distance from the brothers in arms, allowing them to exit the boat first. He wasn't sure if it would be considered rude or not for him to take the first departure, and he wasn't keen on finding out the hard way. Leaning against a crate, he tried to steady his aching muscles and spat onto the floor. The world swayed before him, and he wanted to light another cigarette to distract from the nausea, but he still wasn't entirely sure what was in that chemical crate. He wasn't trying to end his life with a bang just yet.

As awful as he felt, he was at least slightly grateful that the two yakuza we're bickering again. It gave him time to hang back in the boat and gain his bearings before trying to make his exit. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally stumble off of that ramp and into the frigid river below—he could only imagine how much that would suck. Plus, the bickering wasn't even the type to put him in edge. He had been witness to plenty of arguments in his life, but this one didn't feel like it was going to end in a brawl. It felt more like the play fighting of two brothers, or two friends mock arguing over something that hardly mattered. Now, if only this were a good time for that.

Just as Kenneth was about to shove off, another voice rang out. One of panicked anger. Shit, they were spotted. Still feeling a bit unstable, he stumbled over to the doorway and peered out. Shit, there were three of them. Sure, it looked like Imai had already managed to send one staggering with a good punch to the face, but this was definitely an uneven fight, and who knew what armaments they had taken with them from the boat? He had to pull it together. He had to help.

He had only taken one step out that door when he witnessed firsthand how outclassed he was.

That wasn't a parry. Well, by definition, yes, but most parries had an air of evasion. It was pure defense, nearing acrobatic in nature if the brawler was skilled enough. This was a parry done through sheer brute will refined through technique, grinding knuckles into the claws of a raging tiger. Imai only had to throw that one single gut punch to send his opponent to the ground like a missile, writhing and choking on his own air.

Holy shit.

That was enough to convince Kenneth of two things: that he was absolutely correct in his initial assessment of Imai's danger levels, and that these two did not need his help. Besides, he was still recovering from the brawl he'd gotten into while waiting for Ivan, and he had another coming up that night. With withdrawals kicking his ass as hard as they were, conserving energy was going to be key if he even wanted a chance. Fortunately, no one had seen him, so he slipped back into the boat a shade paler than he had been when he graced the midday sun and decided to make himself useful by raiding the ship for extra supplies.

He briefly considered grabbing more pills, but he probably had at least two months worth of doses in his pocket now. He'd be fine on that front. Of course, it would be easier to convince his brain of that were he actually able to sate his hunger. No time to lament—he had to make himself useful, or he'd be on the other end of that punch once the fight was over. He returned to the crate where the guns were kept and grabbed one of his own, sliding the magazine out and ensuring the safety was on before slipping it down the front of his pants. He'd find a better place for it before the fight—perhaps he'd just leave it at the hotel—but that American DNA couldn't help but register the cold metal against his happy trail as a comforting warmth. He didn't want to use it against another man, but he had an escape route now in case shit went sideways.

He then decided to grab some more ammunition. Unlike the choice he had given Imai, he went solely for hollow point rounds. Cruel, perhaps, but if he had to shoot a man, he wanted that man to stay down. Nothing tended to do that quite like the fanning shrapnel and gaping exit wounds these puppies left behind. His pockets were getting heavy at this point, but he'd manage. Not like he hadn't stolen more unwieldy things and gotten away with it before.

Then, he remembered something. A conversation back at the bar that he had only picked up pieces of. That knife that Kenta had lost before—he had been needing a replacement, right? It looked like he was too busy fucking around with that sword to grab that much-needed replacement. Or, perhaps, he just didn't want to. Ken sighed as he remembered that haunted look in the scarred man's eyes. It was just a blade. How was he going to handle a gun?

Still, even if he didn't want one, Ken figured he should probably grab a blade for the two as a gesture of good will, if nothing else. He had promised the guns. A decent dagger would be outside of the deal, but he couldn't see it being unwelcome. Walking over to the box of knives, he assessed his options, testing the sharpness of each against his fingerprint. Many had gotten dull in transit—or perhaps they just sucked to begin with. These guys really were amateurs. Still, eventually, he found one that passed his tests. It was a stiletto dagger. A bit scuffed along the handle, but it had a good weight and balance to it, and that guard around the base of the blade would absolutely come in handy for more than just keeping his hand from becoming a fillet. He spun it a few times in his hand, watching that black metal blade blur with the brown leather handle in a show that would have impressed his younger colleagues.

Then, his ear was caught by a silence. Was the fight over? No, it didn't feel like it. Something was wrong. Keeping the dagger low and behind his leg, he peered out of the cabin door again.

His heart hit the deck when he saw the light glint off the barrel of a gun.

Ken immediately dropped down to slink below the edge of the deck, clutching the handle of the dagger in his teeth. Shit, he knew this was too easy. Of course one of them would have a gun. They were amateur enough to leave their inventory unattended, of course they would be amateur enough to pinch guns off of their own supply. Dammit, if they had just gotten out a moment sooner, they could have avoided all of this. He peeked around the ramp, shaking with terror and anticipation as he realized the gunman set his sights on Imai. He was yelling for... Something. Ken couldn't recognize the language—it was definitely East Asian, but distant enough from Japanese that he couldn't recognize a damn word. He gestured towards the blade, though, and Ken got the picture. He wanted Kenta to disarm.

The redhead gritted his teeth, his lip twitching at the seam. As stupid as it was to disarm around these guys, it would be just as stupid not to follow the demands of the guy with the gun. Still, he hadn't been spotted. Maybe he could help this? It would be difficult from this angle, but it wouldn't be impossible for him to launch a surprise attack. After all, the gunman was focused intently on Imai. That tunnel vision may have given Ken enough of an opportunity to strike. He'd just have to wait for that gun to move away from the head of his new battle partner.

And then, it flew towards Kenta. Just as he had reluctantly handed over that blade, the smuggler pistol whipped him directly across the face.

Before Ken could think, he was already in motion. He didn't even realize he was off the ship until he grazed past Imai, the dagger dropping from his teeth to his empty hand as he ducked beneath Kenta's arm. He was in the yakuza's place as quickly as he had left it open, and the smuggler didn't have the time to react before Ken's nails had dug into his gun-holding arm. He tried to free himself, panic flooding his eyes as he saw the wildfire approaching, but it was too late. Ken had one goal: ensure that the danger was neutralized. And as he drove his dagger into the arm of his enemy, he made it clear that he wasn't about to involve mercy in his goals.

The gunman's arm was thin. Like a doll's. It was clear that he wasn't a brawler—why else would he bring a gun to a fistfight? All the same, it meant that the dagger pierced straight through to the other side. The scream of terror that was wrenched from the man's lips was quickly strangled by Ken's fist slamming into his throat, and the best he could do in retaliation was swing the sword blindly in Ken's direction. The first slash missed wide over the shorter man's head, but he knew to pull the dagger out so he could dodge around the side of the man and avoid the second strike that would have sliced him from head to toe. As the smuggler's wounded arm fell limp to his side, Ken stabbed through the top of his hand, pinning it to his thigh and forcing him to drop the gun.

But Ken wasn't through with him.

He kicked the side of the smuggler's knee, forcing it out from underneath him. He looked up from his position on the ground and tried to use the katana to shield himself, but Ken kicked the gun away and went in for the kill. He unhooked his bat and swung hard at the smuggler's arm. The katana caught the bat, but the smuggler wasn't strong enough to deflect the swing, and the blade was ripped away. It was over. The fight had ended.

But Ken wasn't finished.

He knelt over the cowering smuggler and ripped the dagger from his now-useless hand, those choked pleas for mercy flying straight over the American's head as he snarled down at the fellow foriegner. He didn't just want to disarm the man. He wanted to make sure he would never pull a stunt like that again. And he knew just how to do that. He brought the dagger up, hovering it dangerously close to those panicked eyes as they welled up with tears. He was going to blind the man. Without his eyes, he wouldn't be able to aim that damn gun at his friends. He was going to carve them out, then force those useless eyes down that loud mouth of his until he felt just as sick as he did. He would live, but he would wish he hadn't. Those pleas for death would fill Ken's ears with the sickly sweet sound. He would feel alive. He would feel so alive.

But he couldn't. He could feel the eyes of the two men behind him holding him in place, and his hands shook against the restraints. He couldn't be too ruthless. Not yet. He wasn't in the position to be yet. Casting the dagger to the side, he stood up and flipped the smuggler onto his stomach. Then, he took his injured arm and forced it across his back until he heard that sweet, sweet pop. Again. As the one working arm flailed uselessly in defense, Ken grabbed it and pulled it the same way, only needing a little more force than the first to achieve the same effect.

Now Ken was done.

He finally stepped away from his crime scene, spitting at the whimpering man before collecting the dropped weapons. The katana and dagger went into one hand, the gun into the other.

And with a smile as chipper as a Saturday morning cartoon, he offered all three to Imai.
 
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A familiar sharp sensation rang along Kenta’s face, forcing his eyes shut as a fire sparked underneath his skin. Right on the scar, the gun hit. A hiss then followed before his body crashed onto the floor, gripping at his jaw as the world spun. He found himself in the same position as the other smugglers, downed by a single blow to the face, however, he was still thankfully conscious.

Or unthankfully.

Although Kenta still had his grasp on reality – albeit now a painful grasp – it meant he had a front-row seat to the bold attack Kenneth unleashed. His eyes wouldn’t dare close, muscles clenching as the squelching sounds of skin piercing and bones snapping enveloped his whole body. Slowly, his body scooted across the dirt pathway, attempting to pull himself away but he was enthralled by the foreigner’s movements. It was all calculated – Kenneth didn’t even have to think about what he was doing, his body simply moved like a machine.

Even the attempt to shield himself was feeble as the American’s bat snatched the sword and then threw it across the dock. A small yelp left Kenta’s lips as his body moved to the side, narrowly avoiding the haphazardly thrown weapon.

It could have ended right there, but when Kenta brought his eyes back to Ken, he knew he wasn’t satisfied. It was the same look that lingered on Seiji’s face after a long fight. It was a need for more; a bloodlust that wasn’t satisfied until there was nothing left in their enemies.

However, when the yakuza turned to look over to his brother, he could only see the opposite reaction plastered across his face. With an illuminated eye and bastardly grin, Seiji watched on with anticipation, awaiting another step in Ken’s execution. However . . . as the knife point lingered dangerously close to the smuggler’s eye, his jaw clenched. Blinding a man wasn’t beneath any criminal. Humans had two eyes, after all, only one as needed for survival and it was a fitting punishment, yet a wave of anxiety brushed against him. Seiji moved in closer, eyes locked onto the unhinged man, waiting for any sort of movement. Would he shove the knife into the unfortunate smuggler’s eye, blinding him for life, or show him mercy?

And with a swift pop, Kenneth solidified his answer.

“Oi,” Seiji whistled over to his sworn brother, “Get up, we gotta get outta here ‘fore anyone else comes snooping around.”

“Right . . .” Kenta muttered back, nodding as he slowly pulled himself off the ground. He dusted the dirt off his maroon suit, watching the other two. How were they able to just smile something off like that? Did they feel nothing towards the men they hurt? Sure, Kenneth didn’t ram that knife into the man’s face, but he still dislocated both his arms and stabbed him through the hand. A hefty load of injuries with an equally hefty recovery period. It wasn’t like simply being punched in the fact that would clear in a few days. Kenta sucked in a quick breath, dismissing the katana Seiji held out to him.

“Ya sure, ya don’t want it?” he quirked a brow.

“No, you’re right, no way I’m walkin’ around anywhere with somethin’ like that. It’s too suspicious – I’ll hold out,”

A chuckle left the one-eyed man’s lips, “Finally you listen to. Great day for the Kijin!” he continued to laugh then offered the dagger. “Least take this. Think your friend grabbed it just for you.” Without a word, he tossed it over to Kenta who reluctantly caught the weapon. After a small huff, the blade was shoved into his pants alongside his own 9mm.

“So, we’re all ready for tomorrow then?”

“Let’s see if he survives Nishitani first ‘fore thinkin’ ‘bout tomorrow,” he gestured towards Kenneth before taking the final weapon, neatly tucking it into his own inventory. “I hold until you need,” explained Seiji in his broken English.

—————

Despite their total annihilation of the smugglers, the three criminals were . . . searching for a place to eat, something Seiji was insistent on. Running on nothing but a bowl of noodles ( that was eaten at 1 A.M. ), a pack of beer, half a cup of bad coffee, and more cigarettes than any doctor would recommend left the pair absolutely fatigued. Kenta didn’t even want to ask how Kenneth was feeling, knowing the man had most likely eaten nothing except for whatever that cheap excuse of a hotel offered for breakfast. If they even offered anything at all, and by that same fatigued look in his eye, Kenta guessed there was nothing.

“Let’s go here,” Seiji announced, waiting for no one as he entered the restaurant.

“Dammit, we always eat here. I’m pretty sure they know ours names ‘lready,” said the younger man, following after.

“And that’s a bad thing? Yer the one that always wants spicy noodles,” he shook his head, sitting down at one of the tables. “Shit wait, the hell‘re we gonna get him? Is he gonna like anything here?”

Kenta glanced at Ken then quickly back to the menu with a shrug. “Dunno.”
 
Kenta's piercing silence didn't go unnoticed by the foriegner by his side. Sure, he had engaged in some brief discussion on their walk—if Imai insisting they get food and Kenta relenting counted as a discussion—but it didn't hold a candle to his earlier chattiness. A pit of self-aware dread opened in Ken's gut, and he found himself fixating on that harsh quiet. Why was he being so distant? Maybe it was because he got one punch dropped, maybe it was because the butt of that pistol had cracked him right across that scar, but if that were the case, then wouldn't he seem indignant rather than on edge?

Ken kept his head down as the two brothers bickered over Imai's choice in restaurant. Sure, the older brother had seemed more than satisfied with the performance he gave back at the riverbed, but Kenta wasn't built the same, was he? When the foriegner had locked eyes with Imai, he saw himself in the reflected glimmer. He was in high spirits, he was laughing, he was relishing in the thrill of a good, bloody scrap. His thoughts wandered back to the fight they had gotten into with those gangsters earlier in the day. Kenta was pumped from the fight, sure, but he seemed at odds with it. His hands were shaking, his eyes stern, a cigarette in his lips as soon as the coast was clear.

To Kenta, a fight was business. To Imai and Kenneth, it was pleasure.

Despite his endless concern over the state of his personal relations, it all seemed to ment away like the winter cold as he stepped into the restaurant. Damn, he hadn't realized how starving he really was. As hard as he'd been rationing his budget and fighting for his life, he found himself eating nothing but cheap instant noodles most nights, maybe a bento—if anything at all. He hadn't eaten anything prior to being drug out of the hotel by Kenta, and he had the distinct feeling that he may have thrown up what little he had eaten the night before. The more he considered it, the more he realized that withdrawals may not have been entirely to blame for his creeping nausea and stomach pains. Maybe he was just that hungry.

As quickly as one stressor left, it was replaced with another. The two yakuza decided to sit at a table—which wouldn't have been so bad, except this table was far more like a standard diner table than the one they had sat around at the bar. Two chairs on either side. And they decided to sit across from each other. This left Ken with a question that didn't seem to have any good answers: who was he going to sit next to?

From body language and ear-ringing silence, he could tell that Kenta wanted nothing to do with him right now. Sure, he was the friendlier face between the two, and he had hoped that they at least had some understanding of "we're in this together," but it seemed that Kenneth's spur-of-the-moment brutality had left him shaken enough to rethink what fragments of trust Ken had managed to form. It ripped at his heart to witness. Dammit, why couldn't he just be angry like he was at the bar? It wasn't fun being drug around by the neck, but it was quick. It was familiar. It was what he was used to, and it was so much easier to work past than this goddamn silent treatment.

But, on the other end, there was Imai. He may have been pleased by the redhead's bloody rampage, but they weren't friends. They were acquaintances at best, business partners more likely. He wasn't even on a first name basis with the guy. It wasn't even that long ago that he was giving Ken that glare of contempt—disappointment at the state of the fighter. Maybe he wasn't as disappointed now, but he was still on a hair trigger so far as Ken was concerned, and sitting next to him might push the needle back over to the side of contempt. Not to mention he really didn't want Imai observing him too closely. That man didn't need to know him any more than he had to for the sake of the deal.

Ultimately, he decided to sit next to Kenta, keeping a respectable space between them and trying not to look at him too much—a feat easier said than done. Part of him wished Kenta would take the opportunity to stab him under the table, but it didn't happen.

At least he had a distraction: an academic challenge. Kanji, his developing nemesis. At least restaurant menus were perfectly within the scope of a traveler's dictionary. Like the good student he failed to be, he took out his notebook and dictionary and immediately got to translating, writing the sentences that he planned to say beneath some incredibly botched attempts at recreating the kanji on the menu. Through shaking hands and inexperience, he managed, but barely. It was legible enough for him to read, that was all that mattered.

As he murmured the sentences to himself, reciting his lines with all the grace of a B movie actor, he glanced up at Kenta and found his words caught in his throat. Damn, he got hit hard. His face was now stained with bruises—one on each side, one clearly more painful than the other. Perhaps the concern was strange coming from the man whose face had been sliced open, but those bruises just didn't seem to belong on that face like they did on his. Not to mention the fact that the fresher one was directly over that scar. He drew his hand slightly closer to his body, thinking about the deep scar that ran from his shoulder to his hip. When he wasn't numbed up, any contact on that scar hurt like hell. It burned, it sent lightning and fire across its length, spidering unholy memories across his eyes.

This wasn't a problem he could punch away. He already tried to do that, tried to show Kenta what would happen to anyone who dared do that to him. All it did was drive him away. And yet...

"Goddammit, man..."

He couldn't do it. He knew he should have just left it alone, that Kenta didn't want to speak to him, but he couldn't just leave him in that misery. He flipped to a blank page in his notebook, as well as a new page in his dictionary. Unfortunately, the words he had overheard wouldn't help him in this endeavor. He'd have to pull solely from the book and the questionably-drawn kanji in his notes. He didn't care. He needed to at least extend the olive branch, seeing as he was the one to break it. Carefully, trying not to draw too much attention from the yakuza across from him, he copied down some kanji as best as he could. Then, he quietly tore the page out, folded it in half, and brought it under the table, nudging Kenta's hand with it while keeping his eyes forward.

It was awkward. Schoolboy-esque, really. He hadn't passed a note since he was in his freshman year of college, and yet, here he was, brought to desperation just from a little silent treatment. He could only hope that what he wrote made enough sense to convey his intent.
 
Watching the stranger bring up the traveler's book, and studying the kanji across the menu was a comedic sight. They didn't get many tourists, especially not Americans since they all decided Japanese was far too difficult of a language to learn. Which . . . it sort of was. Even to this day, he still watched Kenta occasionally fumble in conversations with more formal tones. More than once he had to remind the man of his place and switch not only his words but his tone. How did he expect to get anywhere by treating everyone like his friend? The man simply shook his head, returning to the menu before sliding it across the table.

Despite how normally chatty Kenta was, the three were simply in silence for the time being. Having already decided on his meal of choice, simple gyudon as he always ordered, Seiji reached into his pocket. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife, the same knife Kenneth hoped Kenta would stab him with. He wasn't surprised by Kenta's behavior, however. It always seemed to happen at least once on assignments together. He wanted to be a yakuza so badly, stating how it was his only option left after obtaining a criminal record, yet didn't have the mental instability to carry out anything more than a quick beating or sway a business owner into handing over suitcase loads of cash to them. That was definitely a part of being a criminal, but what happens on the day Seiji isn't there? When no one is there to guide the now bruised man?

Will Kenta choke when faced against that rumored massive man? Even if he didn't, what toll would that have on him? Seiji understood too well Kenta was not capable of taking a life -- yet, at least. He hoped one day that fear would change, as it did in every other yakuza.

"Good afternoon!" a chirpy broke the silence. "What will you be having today?"

"Let me get a gyudon with a poached egg," he spoke, handing over the menu. "And for these two --"

"Tan Tan Ramen."

The waitress nodded, "And for . . ." The end of her pen gestured to the red-haired foreigner who was evidently struggling with the menu. Having to continuously glance between it and the traveler's guide, hoping to match up the characters with those on the plastic menu. It seemed nothing made sense to the man who hadn't asked a single question about the food.

"Give him the fried chicken," Seiji moved forward, prying the plastic sheet away from Kenneth and handing it over to the waitress who jotted down their orders before walking away. "Me order you," he attempted to speak English once more but shook his head. He might understand what the foreigner is going through now. "Eh . . ." his hand made a gesture, attempting to remember how the word was pronounced in English, but simply gave up after a few seconds. Instead, Seiji shrugged finally pulling out the box of cigarettes. Kenneth would find out what the food was soon enough.

For now, as they waited, a Golden Bat cigarette rested in between his lips, and eyes glued onto Kenta. Not a single word other than his order. Maybe he should commit more unwarranted acts like that just to shut the man's mouth. But, the silence was also killing him. Speaking with the foreigner was damn near impossible, so what could he do other than smoke a cigarette and wait for his food?

Kenta was far more concerned with the note he had been passed under the table, staring at it as inconspicuous as he could. However, that meant dark eyes consistently darting up and down from his lap to the menu and back to Seiji. It sent mixed signals before ultimately deciding to simply read what was on the paper. "痛みます?"

'Why did he . . .' Kenta thought to himself. It was a statement formed as a question, he assumed. The man's hand gently trailed down the bruise, hissing slightly as the pain mixed in with the stinging from his scar. Although the wound was now a few years old, the marking would stay with him forever. A symbol of the consequences of his youth. A frown wrinkled his face as he sighed. Two fights in one day and both left a mark on him, what a way to start the week. "I am fine," he merely spoke, handing the paper back to Kenneth. "I felt worse." Evident by the split skin scaling from his cheek to his jaw. While the blows ached, the pain would simply pass with the meal.

Clicking his tongue, he turned to his brother. "You didn't order us anything to drink,"

"Oops."

Rolling his eyes, the younger man sat back in his seat.
 
Lost in in thought, Ken didn't notice Seiji's hand approaching until the feeling of that laminated menu slipping from beneath his batting gloves jolted him from his thoughts and forced those small fingers to curl. Shit, he really needed to stay focused. What if that was a test of reflexes and he just failed? Sure, he'd already proven his grit, but what if it wasn't enough? He couldn't be spacing out like this, it could cost him a finger—maybe more.

And then, Imai broke the silence between them. It was... Certainly a sentence. Ken forced back bewilderment with a glance up at the waitress and—ah, now he got it. He had taken too long, and now his—accomplice? Acquaintance? Whatever Imai was, he had to take the reins and order for him. The redhead couldn't help but feel embarrassment dragging his shoulders down. Was he really that bad? He thought he would at least have an advantage here since this was a traveler's dictionary, but the characters seemed different from what was written. Was it the regional dialect or something? Maybe these were specialty dishes? Or was it like those small diners in America that sold pancakes—except they were never pancakes, they were the rooty-tooty-fruity-shooty or some shit like that.

With a quiet sigh of defeat, he relented to the reality that he'd have to learn later. Besides, he wasn't the only one who was struggling—Imai couldn't even tell him what he had ordered. Despite the man's utter incoherence, Ken's eyes still remained as gentle as they had with Kenta while he was struggling to speak to him back at the bar. The fact that this guy—who clearly wasn't as friendly—still made an effort to communicate with a foriegner in his native language was confusing. Not unwelcome, but why the mercy? What had he done to earn that olive branch so soon? After all, the older yakuza had been making this effort even before the fight—before the guns were even secured!

He couldn't understand, but he wasn't about to press the issue.

"Ah, thank you very much, Imai-san," he said, attempting the tongue he had just failed to speak. He offered a slight bow of his head, though it was given more out of sheepishness than respect. "I am very sorry for... Slow. I do not want make problems for you."

Next to him, he felt Kenta take the note from his hand. This time, the sudden feeling of something being snatched away didn't cause him to tense. Not because he knew it would happen, but because he was hoping it would. The fact that he took the note meant he was at least willing to communicate non-verbally. That was a start. He put his notebook and dictionary away and went for his cigarettes—shit. Seemed he had accidentally buried them under that pilfered shirt. Well, he wasn't about to whip out those stolen goods in public, so he just opted for fidgeting with his gloves. As another bout of muscle pain wracked his body, he could barely stifle a wince, gripping his fingers as he rode it out. God, he hoped these were just hunger pangs. Early withdrawals weren't usually this bad.

Then, his eyes caught the folded lined paper as it was passed back to him—though Kenta had chosen to respond with speech rather than handwriting. That was another pleasant surprise, and the pain on Ken's face melted into a warm smile. It wasn't much, but he had chosen to speak again. He could have just crumpled the note and tossed it, he could have ignored it, he could have broken the foreigner's wrist under the table. Instead, he actually stepped out of his haze for a brief moment just to make sure he knew that he would be okay. Hell, he even had enough gusto in him to take another potshot at his brother—something about drinks? Ken wasn't entirely sure what that was about, but he could tell a remark when he heard it, and it left a deep crack in the tension.

And yet, the table fell silent again. Seems there wasn't much else to be said between the bros, and Ken was obviously not the best conversationalist yet. Still, he couldn't bear the silence. Small restaurants like this always had equal levels of chatter and jukebox music, maybe a child screaming somewhere in the corner or a daydrinker slurring his woes into the corkboard tables. The silence across their table was enough to make Kenneth's head spin. Or maybe that was the withdrawals. Or the hunger. He still couldn't tell.

Well, he knew he wouldn't understand a word of what was to come, but he had to make an attempt. With his mind slightly at ease, he gathered some words and rested his arms on the table, tilting his head at Imai.

"How you did that... Uh..." he pantomimed a punch, trying to remember how Imai's shoulders were positioned. "Back at boat... I never see that before. Very many not often you see man fall to only one of those. What was that?"
 
The dead air was unbearable, near suffocating as Seiji's fingers slipped into the collar of his suit. Although there were a few other occupied tables, all murmuring to themselves, nothing left the men's lips. Again, Kenta usually always spoke, always managing to pull something out to discuss; from potential clients to current events, or the potential rise of taxes. Kenta was well-versed for someone who had only recently rejoined society ( regardless of the reading material Seiji snuck in for him.) However, the man simply tapped his fingers on the wooden table, attempting to decode the cipher he had been given. It seemed the traveler's guide gave instructions in both kanji and hiragana, leading to Ken writing a strange sentence in a mixture of both which clashed in his head, and the strange question mark.

He could at the very least give him a break. Pulling his eyes away from the door that led to the kitchen, he stared at the ginger beside him with an arched brow. With wide eyes and stiffy clammy hands, Kenneth appeared like an animal caught in headlights. Despite the leather jacket around his shoulders, the man continued to tremble as his head swayed. There was an attempt in starting the conversation, however, Seiji merely kicked his leg up to the free chair beside him.

"Oh you're talking about the Tiger Drop," he responded, chuckling a bit at the thought. Although not every person went down in one hit, that technique was a surefire way to scare any enemies.

Kenta loved to mention techniques from the infamous Art of War -- which he now regretted ever giving him -- but all those techniques paled in comparison. Why worry about fear tactics and starving your enemies of supplies when a simple raw intense gut-wrenching blow was enough to send any enemies to the floor crying, begging for mercy? Seiji couldn't even count the number of times he heard men yell out his name, pleading for pity. It was a pathetic sight, but having felt the same pain as those men, he understood why none of them wanted to feel it again.

It was as if getting your insides shredded by a tiger, claws digging through your intensities, and the harder the punch, the further the pain sprawled through your skin. The man shoved any remembrance of that feeling down into the corners of his head again as he leaned forward.

"It's an extremely difficult technique to pull off," he spoke. "Ya look at it and think 'Ah yer just punching a guy.' Wrong!" He shook his head, "Ya gotta time it correctly or you're going to shatter your fuckin' hand against his arm or skull. Gotta do it," he realized Kenneth may have a difficult time understanding everything, so his fingers came up tracing his torso and then gently pressed his fist to it. "Only here," he rambled, sitting up correctly.

Although he explained the essentials of his most powerful technique, it was merely that, the essentials. A rough punch to someone's stomach, but it was far deeper than that. However, Seiji wouldn't reveal that to even his brother, let alone a stranger who was already dangerously capable of taking down multiple men without breaking a sweat.

"That's all there is to it?" perked up Kenta, resting his head o the palm of his hand, wincing slightly as he applied pressure to the fresh bruise.

The older man laughed at the other's curiosity. "Don't even think 'bout trying it. No way you can pull it off."

A scoff. "Didn't it take you years to do it properly? C'mon, why don't you t --"

"Why don't you stab a man first and then we'll talk?" Seiji dismissed the offer, turning his attention instead to the waitress who approached the table with their dishes. She placed down the older man's plate, then bruised man's, and then the foreigner's. She lingered a bit, giving the three a strange look. Most of the customers were suit-wearing businessmen or college students looking for a cheap bite to eat, then there were these three who stood out like . . . The waitress merely backed away and then disappeared into the kitchen once more.
 
Yeah, it was like he suspected: Ken didn't comprehend the better half of what Imai was saying. He was able to pick up the words "tiger drop"—that must have been what he called the move. Beyond that, he could only catch scattered words, the language barrier clashing harder than he wanted to admit with that heavy Kansai accent. However, despite the lack of understanding... He understood. He understood, and he was enthralled, leaning in with a morbid curiosity in his wild eyes. Sure, he wasn't exactly getting all the details, but some things didn't need language. That passion in his voice, the plentiful gesturing, the glimmer behind those shades—it all spoke of a warrior who lived for the screams of his downed enemies. A man whose name he would paint and repaint in blood.

Ken still had no idea how one punch was able to drop a man, but he could understand how the man was able to master such a skill. Maybe he'd be able to convince him to share that knowledge in full someday.

Someday.

That word caught in the foriegner's head like a fishing hook, dragging him back down into his seat slightly. He didn't have intentions to stay, did he? Yeah, Ivan had advised against returning to the states just yet, but realistically, was Japan the right choice either? He couldn't speak the language, he stuck out like a sore thumb, and the lawful and lawless alike gave him sideways glares. The only thing keeping him safe was a deal with a crime syndicate—and he knew just how quickly those could go sideways. He could escape to a country where he could blend better, he just needed some fake papers and a sliver of luck with interpol. Surely, Nishitani knew a forger. If Ken played his cards right, he could have a ticket out before the end of the week.

But he found his gaze drifting between the two brothers. Imai, who shared in his passion for battle in a way he hadn't found amongst the ranks of RED, and... Kenta. A man who didn't seem to be able to handle his worst traits, but continued to look at him with care regardless. A man who cared about him—that in itself wasn't exactly common. Each touch Kenta had left on the redhead's skin flickered in his nerves like a ghost. Would anyone else ever want to run their fingers through his hair so gently? Would anyone else treat him like someone to be kept alive and cared for?

If he left Kenta, would he ever stop feeling that regret?

The food arrived just in time to break him free from his thoughts. It looked like Imai had gotten some sort of rice dish—nothing he had ever seen stateside. Kenta got some ramen, though it looked far better than the instant stuff that Ken had been living on himself. And speaking of himself, Imai had decided that he would want... Fried chicken. Damn. That got a chuckle out of Ken. The older crook might not have known much English, but he definitely had a few preconceptions about the American diet. The worst part was, he wasn't even wrong. Ken could feel warmth pool in his soul and saliva pool in his mouth at the sight and scent of the fried meat. No matter how hard he tried to reject his past, he was still southern at heart.

He thanked the waitress—somewhat embarrassed that he had to be the one to do that—and then turned back to his food, confident that it would give him the boost he'd need to feel better by the time he had to fight.

----

It didn't. Goddamn, it really didn't. Sure, he felt better for a while, his hunger sated with the best meal he had eaten in a long time—despite the fact that he had to eat it with a certain degree of caution thanks to the fresh stitches. However, no amount of good food could cure that damn itch. Ken's entire being felt like it was crawling, his mind preoccupied with the sole thought of how the few pills he'd brought with him weighed down the pocket of his biker pants. God, he just wanted one. Just one pill to soothe the aches, to calm his racing heart. He could feel the passing seconds gouge his brain just as his fingernails gouged the skin beneath his shirt collar, sucking ragged breaths through the flaming, unfiltered tobacco of a Lucky Strike as he approached Kijin HQ. Before he even stepped into the gates of hell, his torment had already begun.

At least he wasn't cold. He had taken the opportunity after he had parted ways with his tentative allies to pick up a needle and thread—red thread. He wanted those scars to show, and show they did. The smiley face that he had painted on the front of his jacket had been bisected by the slash Nishitani had inflicted the previous night, stitched together like a patchwork monster. He had also picked up a square of dark red fabric to use as a bandanna to cover his mauled lips, but it sat tied around his neck for the time being, identity concealment and weather protection taking a backseat to his overwhelming desire to get some relief from what he knew he wouldn't be able to fix until after this damn fight.

A growl escaped him as he blew the final puff of smoke the cigarette had to offer, and he glared into the concrete of that building as though it would crumble before his gaze. Despite his malevolent presence being enough to drive civilians to walk past a little faster, he couldn't help but feel fear tug at his nerves. Did he want to do this? No, not really. More than anything, he wanted to turn around, go back to that shitty hotel room, and get so high that he wouldn't even feel the bugs crawling over him. No use being a pussy about it, though. He had made his bed, and even if it was made of nails, he was going to lie in it. Besides, every time he had considered bailing out, something coiled its claws around his mind and pulled him back towards his fate. One of the scant vivid memories from the night before: those devil's eyes ripping through him.

His mind felt torn in two. One side laid curled up on the ground, clutching tightly to itself, crying out for its pain to be soothed. The other side clawed forward, teeth bared, towards a pain so great that all else would cease to matter.

The useless cigarette was tossed to the streets and ground out with the heel of a spiked leather boot. His bat was unhooked from his belt loop and slung over his shoulder. With a final deep breath, he kicked the door open.

That definitely got the attention of the grunts inside, more than a few startled exclamations filling the air at the aggression of this strange man. One particularly battered grunt locked eyes with Ken for a moment, then immediately bowed his head in fear. Good. Seemed people still had the capacity to learn. Scanning the room for any signs of immediate hostility, Ken stalked in like a prowling animal, seeking his mark through bloodshot void-brown eyes. "Where is that bastard," he growled to himself through yellowed teeth, disregarding the incomprehensible questions thrown his way. "C'mon, let's get this over with, now. Ain't gotta drag things out..."

Some of that aggression faded as he spotted two familiar faces in the sea of startled criminals. Kenta and Imai. Seemed the two had been anticipating Kenneth's arrival, and despite everything, that still got a lopsided smile from the southerner. Maybe they just showed up to watch him die, but he didn't have to look at it like that. So instead, he chose to see their presence as an act of genuine interest, confidence, maybe even a sliver of care for his life. It made it far easier to approach them as friends if he thought of their intent in that way.

"Good to see you, friends," he said, that growl lingering in the back of his throat despite his switch to Japanese. "It is time, yes? Where is he? Not want to make him wait..."
 
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For a few hours, the office desks were quiet. Kenta had fallen silent again, tapping his fingers away at the wood, trailing through the grains as he stared at the few papers in front of him. Seiji had taken the liberty of completing his work while he spent the morning with Kenneth. It was a wonder why any yakuza had to do any paperwork, but, apparently, they still did a few things above board. Mostly construction permits and records of collections. Of course, it was more so a list that needed to be ticked off more than anything official. If the cops suddenly decided to barge into the headquarters they would have a complete list of their dealings, so everything was kept brief. No numbers were mentioned, simply if someone had visited, someone had yet to, or more men were needed. For the most part, everyone handed over their share, and the wheel continued. But, none of that mattered to Kenta, at the moment. He already turned in his collections to Nishitani earlier, which landed him a scar across his arm and a gash across Kenneth’s face. Gingerly, the fingers drifted up from the wooden desk to the now ripped maroon suit. He hated having to wear something so unprofessional, but it was dealing with the rip or going back to wearing an all-black suit. Fingertips trailed away the hole, attempting to tug the ends back together with a soft huff.

“Don’t worry,” Seiji spoke up, finally allowing the pen to fall. “Next assignment yer gonna be able to get a new one.”

“That’s if I don’t get my neck wrung first,”

Seiji pulled himself forward, uncrossing his legs as his body turned to face the man. “Look. Even if he don’t win, that don’t mean yer going after him.”

“Easy for you to say,” he sighed, again. “You didn’t vouch for him. Look I – I don’t wanna get into it, but we’re on the same ship, alright? If he ain’t up to the boss’ standards then both‘re heads are gonna be served on plates.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re overexaggerating. And, not putting enough faith in your friend.” The man reached into his blazer, pulling out the carton of Lucky Bats again. “He got his face and torso ripped open and is gonna go in fer a round two,” he slipped a stick between his lips, shaking another one out. Kenta stared at the cigarette, huffing slightly as he slowly slid it out. The senior lighted his first, allowing smoke to flood the space before tossing the cheap lighter to his subordinate. “Take it from me. He’s not gonna die. Ya can stop worrying now.”

Even with his sworn brother’s assurance, guilt settled in the pit of Kenta’s stomach. If only he had just . . . gone home that night, or straight to Nishitani’s office instead of deciding to kill time. If only he kept his mouth shut about his profession. If only he hadn’t been so nosy. If only Kenneth had kept his ass at the bar and not followed him. Fuck, none of this would be happening. But, he wouldn’t have gotten a chance to bond with him. To meet someone that – for once – made his heart beat fast with no ulterior motive. Now, he had to watch the same person potentially be killed if Nishitani went too far. It wasn’t uncommon either. He was known for being too rough in fights, always going to extreme lengths merely to get what he wanted. Be it blood, or something more.
A small cough left the man’s lips, allowing his body to lean back into the creaking chair. The smoke that engulfed his head was much like their future: dark, grey, and endless foul effluvia.


———

A gentle foot tapped along with the big hand of the clock. Tick, tock. Tick tock. Why were there suddenly so many people in the office? Is everyone coming back? Is everyone getting ready to “clock out?” Dark eyes darted around the red-lined walls, bouncing through the different tired men who walked back and forth. With his back to the window, it was impossible not to hear all the scuffling footsteps behind him. Fingers hooked on the collar, tugging at the material as his eyes closed.

“Five thousand yen says he faints the second he sees the boss,” spoke another subordinate causing the other to laugh.

“Ten thousand says he doesn’t even show up,”

Teeth sunk into the cigarette filter, attempting to hold back any words. They didn’t even believe in the foreigner. They fully believed the man would fold under any pressure from Nishitani. Kenta couldn’t help but scoff as he tossed the stick into the trash can, pulling himself off the chair.

“Twenty thousand says the foreigner wins,” spoke the one-eyed man, garnering more laughter.

“Twenty thousand? You’re betting that much against your boss?” one spoke, pushing past his friend as he moved in closer. “Isn’t that a sign of disrespect?”

“Disrespect?” he cocked a brow, resting his arm on the back of the chair as he thought. After staring up at Kenta – who dawned a disgruntled face – he shook his head. “Not if it’s a good gamble. How ‘bout it boys?” He flashed two ten thousand bills with a grin.

“You’re on old man!” the subordinate before receiving an arched brow. He quickly straightened himself out. “M-Mr. Imai, s-sir!”

––––

The sudden clashing of the door and wall announced the short man’s presence, pulling all eyes toward him. Although some of the foot soldiers had yet to be filled in, they knew better than to pick a fight with an armed man. Although Kenneth turned over his weapons to Seiji – who had placed them in “safe” storage – the nail-decorated bat stayed at his side. A swing of that was enough to not only leave bruises but a few cuts along Nishitani’s tan skin.

The room parted, revealing the two brothers as their friend called out to them. With a cautious breath, a smile formed on Kenta’s face, arms up and spread as he welcomed the outsider. This was incredibly taboo. If any other family heard they allowed a foreign ‘civilian’ to waltz into their halls and pick a fight with the patriarch . . . Well, Nishitani would be buried right alongside Kenneth and anyone else involved. With a heavy heart, he ushered the ginger along the headquarters, careful not to linger too often in any hallways or rooms. The walls were lavishly decorated with designs and filled with vases, plants, and a few windows juniors would stand around and smoke at. It was small, nowhere near as big as the main Omi base, but it sufficed for the family’s members. Some would say Nishitani went a bit overboard designing the base, but that was simply his nature.

No matter how nice the inside was, they continued their way outside which was larger than expected. The front of the headquarters was – well, a front. A normal grey building with no signs and a simple glass door and elevator up. Completely different than the inside and outside. Although still considered a back alley, it was clean. Save for a bit of dried blood yet to be cleaned. It was away from prying eyes, and nicely illuminated with minor greenery, and at the center of it all: Nishitani Homare.

“I told ya he wouldn’t disappoint you!” Kenta called out, patting the shorter man’s shoulder, allowing his gentle hold to linger.

The demon patiently awaited his next soul all night and was now grinning ear to ear at the sight of it. “I heard ‘bout what you did earlier today,” he spoke now only to Kenneth. “Can you answer me something? I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day, really,” he gestured to both Kojima and Imai. “You were surrounded by guns on that boat. Why the hell didn’t you kill these clowns and run?”
 
Despite the heavy air of danger around him, Kenneth took solace beneath the shroud of Kenta's arm. It cooled his soul to a simmer, allowing him to disregard the prying eyes around him and follow his new allies further into the devil's den. If this was hell, then at least he was in good company. Though, he had to admit, hell was far more quaint than he had expected it to be. As his eyes worked fervently to capture all possible details, he couldn't help but feel unsettled by how ordinary it was. Sure, the decor was far more lavish, and he didn't even want to think about how much of the water bill must have gone to those plants, but it really did just feel like a slightly upscale office.

Wandering eyes accidentally met with one of the family men, who had been leaning out the window with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. As if he had already been shot, he snapped his gaze back forward. Despite all outward appearances, he had to remember that he was trapped in a hornet's nest, and he didn't want to kick it from the inside. Who knows how much blood had to be bleached from that tile?

As that final door opened into what seemed to be some sort of alleyway-made-courtyard, cold air forced Ken's eyes into a squint. Though he was momentarily distracted by the ostentatious decor, his narrowed gaze quickly found its mark. Muscle aches and dreadful thoughts seemed to evaporate entirely as the sole thought of violent assault filled his mind. His head cocked slightly to the right as Kenta rang the dinner bell, lips parting in a twitching grin as he locked on to his target. The way he was feeling, he wanted to cut the formalities. His grip on the bat tightened as he fantasized about rushing that demon down, ripping into his flesh and being ripped open in turn. His mind raced with the thought of not knowing whose blood would be feeding the earth more by the end of it, who would be pinned beneath whose heel. Trembling hands betrayed a coyote frothing at the bit, teeth pressed against a tearing muzzle in fervent delight. He had fought so many fights, but it was rare that he was ever presented with such a tempting challenge.

A hand squeezing his shoulder brought momentary reprieve, the muscle beneath those rough, tanned fingers seeming to melt as the redhead's malice faltered. Now really wasn't the time for it, but he couldn't bring himself to push Kenta away. Not after he had just warmed up again. Not when that touch kept that warmth pulsing through his veins.

Despite himself, he found himself caving ever so slightly to that gentle hand.

Still, nothing could have quenched his bloodlust. The man before them had the foriegner under his spell, and no amount of distraction could have pulled those wild eyes away. Nishitani spoke straight past his own men and seemed to zero in on Ken in turn, catching his ear with that surprisingly fluent English. Right, so he hadn't been imagining it. The one man in all of Sotenbori—swindling foriegners and informants aside—who could hold a fluent conversation with Ken was the one man who actively wanted him to writhe in his own spilled guts. Go figure. The redhead wasn't surprised to hear that information about his misdeeds had already made it to the devil's ears, much less that those misdeeds only seemed to deepen that sadistic smile. What did catch him off guard was the question that followed.

It was an odd question, but one that immediately put Ken's brain into overdrive. Why didn't he just kill Kenta and Imai? Well, the answer was simple enough: he didn't want to. He wasn't a killer, and even if he was, neither of his new allies had given him a reason to turn his teeth against them. Still, he knew better than to offer that answer outright. He was in the company of a true sadist—more than that, a patriarch. If he gave an answer like that, it would immediately mark him as weak. He didn't have a brother in arms who could shield him, or even a safe escape route out of the city. Weakness wasn't a luxury he could spare to a man like this.

So, instead, he tilted his head back, his lip curling between amusement and annoyance. "Same reason you haven't put a knife through your boss's head, I reckon," he scoffed, tapping his bat against the tip of his boot. "Not only're they helpin' me out here—keepin' me alive n' well n' all—but I got some manner of respect and more than half a brain. I ain't weak, and I promise I'll prove that shit right here if I ain't made my case already, but I already got the whole of Kanto pissed off at me. Only so many places a fella like me can escape to on an island nation."

He brought his bat up, inspecting the nails and metal shards. A low chuckle escaped his sliced lips as he zeroed in on something. "Besides," he remarked, plucking a piece of bloodstained burgundy fabric from the base of a nail and holding it between his fingers. His voice dropped as a deadly conviction overtook him, a growl hiding in the back of his throat. "Do you really think so little of me that you think I'd miss a round two like this? Can't say I remember a whole lot of last night, but the body always remembers a good fight, and you've put up the best damn fight I've had in a long time."

Then, as quickly as it came, it left, and that laid-back trill leaked back in as he brought his bat back down in front of Kenta's legs. "Real shame we had to cut it short, wouldn't ya say?"
 
Most Kijin men had already left, knowing the fight wouldn't last more than a few punches. Most of the men said the same, "The guy just got lucky." Was that the case? Even under the influence of drugs or sheer adrenaline, was it enough to escape the jaws of death? Maybe once, but definitely not twice. The few soldiers that remained, eagerly watched from the sidelines, exchanging bills amongst themselves. At the center of it all, Imai Seiji, hoping to gain a hefty stack of cash by the end of the night. It was wrong to bet against Nishitani, if he so wanted to, the boss could see it as treason and Seiji could receive a grave punishment, yet he continued on. If it were sheer luck, Kenneth would have taken his winnings and split the second he got a chance, but he persisted. Involved with the yakuza or not, he could have left the country . . . somewhat unscathed, however, he was determined to fight Nishitani again, even helping them in acquiring guns.

A strange helping hand, especially in the underworld. What had Kenta done to him?

"So, you're smarter than you look," the patriarch responded, continuing to dawn his smirk. Knowing when to strike down someone that extends assistance is a tricky skill, especially in a completely different environment. Who could be trusted and who was waiting for the perfect opportunity to stab you in the back? Kaminsky made his choice, putting his faith in the sworn brothers as the devil stared back at him. "You're right about that," a cackle left the man's lips. "You would have had major balls to show up here after killing two of my men," his hand slowly slid back his dark red suit, giving Ken a glimpse of his weapon. "But then this would've been one helluva fight."

A battle to the death instead of a test of strength.

Unless Kenneth refused to bow, then it would be to the death.

But, with an unmistable growl in the back of his throat, Nishitani knew that wasn't the case.

"Real damn shame," he responded, glancing over to his subordinate. He didn't know whether to thank or scold Kenta for his previous actions. With only a few more blows, Kenneth would have been knocked out of the ring, painting the office walls in red; however, if the patriarch killed him that night, they wouldn't be having another fight now. One potentially better than the last. The mere thought caused his shoulders to loosen, slowly finding himself in a fighting position. As interested as it was to study the mind of the foreigner, they could converse when Kenneth was laying near unconscious on the floor.

"I'll make sure none of my associates here interrupt us," slowly, his hand reached into his blazer, gripping the handle of his handle. "Fair warning," likewise, a low growl hung in the back of the man's throat. "I have no idea what they'll do if ya kill me. Still sure ya wanna go through with this?"
 
Good, good. That answer seemed to sate the devil's curiosity. Kenneth stepped a bit closer as Nishitani teased the sight of that dagger, keeping their eyes locked and his head steady as the sheen of sharpened steel flickered in his peripheral vision. He was used to people trying to pick his brain—something about his nature made people feel inclined to study him like a caged animal in a lab. Yet, with the hunger pulling at his mind, the distinct ache pulling at his tensed muscles, he found his patience slowly being ripped apart. His bat swung by his ankles like a lashing tail, and the corner of his mouth twitched as aggression pulled the stitches taut.

This was all formality for the sake of professionalism. Formality that would quickly become meaningless the moment their blood began to mix.

This was a far more open space than their last battleground, he noted. It was a strange limbo between a back alley lot and a claimed and maintained battleground, with a quaint amount of greenery framing a packed gravel lot still stained with the blood of previous sacrifices. Ken kicked the toe of his boot across the surface. It was firm, stable, but the top layer was somewhat loose. A familiar, yet far more unforgiving texture than he had hoped for. This would hurt like a motherfucker, but it would work.

At the mention of the "associates", Ken finally broke eye contact to glance over his shoulder. Imai probably wouldn't stop him, and the foriegner had his suspicions that none of the other foot soldiers making wagers on his life would want to intervene. The patriarch may have been vague, but there was no doubt of what he meant. Those darkened eyes rested firmly on Kenta. The worry in those gentle eyes almost hurt worse than the aches and pains, but Ken still gave him a nod and a smile. Sure, the reassurance was meaningless—he wouldn't be able to prove to the guy that both himself and the boss would be living this night until he actually finished out the clash. Still, he had to do something. He had to give him something before charging into the abyss.

The warning caught Ken's ear, wrenching a dark chuckle from those lips as his gaze returned to the patriarch. He had no intent on murdering anyone tonight, especially not a man who wouldn't go down alone. All the same...

"Cute that you think death's the worst I can do."

The stage was set. Ken slipped seamlessly from a casual posture to an aggressive, low stance, teeth bared and grip tightening as he stalked somewhat to the left, getting into position for a strike. There was only one thing left to do. Drawing his bat back, he tapped the metal against his shoulder as he allowed the wild fervor to overtake him, adrenaline replacing humanity. "C'mon now," he snarled, dilated eyes locked on his target. "Let's see how much blood's in ya!"

『 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈 』​

The redhead charged forward, his grip on the bat tightening as he drew back to prepare for a swing.

Except, he never swung.

Instead, he dropped into a slide, grazing past Nishitani's leg . Even through the thick leather biker pants that guarded his skin from the merciless gravel, he still found himself gritting his teeth as he made harsh contact with the pavement below. He could worry about the bruise that would leave later. For now, he had the element of surprise. Using the momentum from the slide, he sprung up behind the patriarch and brought his bat down directly over his right shoulder, the shards of glass and metal whistling through the air between them like a tortured soul.
 
Blood, blood, blood. As the dagger spun in the patriarch's hand, it was the only thing on his mind. How much could he get out of the foreigner, how much would he bleed before collapsing on the floor? With slouched shoulders, he patiently waited, half-lidded eyes glued on the other man's footwork. The bat was a mere distraction as Kenneth instead dropped to the gravel-covered floor and slid past him, slicing through the wind to arrive behind him.

In just a pinch, Nishitani managed to sling back his shoulder, however, his arm was still vulnerable. Teeth sunk into his cracked lips, biting back a sound as shards of glass pierced through his skin. Despite the sharp stinging sensation, it didn't stop the man's movements. With his other hand, he brought down the dagger, using the short distance against Kenneth. The dagger shot down, slicing through not only the leather but the man's skin as well. The moment blood spewed out, he pulled himself away and slouched back down as he jumped away. Using the sharp end of the dagger, he brushed off pieces of the glass, slowly pacing as he awaited his prey's move.

What will he do next? The patriarch's head rolled as his arm waved across, taunting the man to make another bold move.
 
Contact, blood, a splash of pure ecstacy. It wasn't exactly what Kenneth was aiming for—he wanted to break Nishitani's shoulder if not just bruise it to the point of uselessness—but he would take the collision with his arm, glass and metal ripping through pinstriped burgundy to leave flesh and fabric in tatters. Crimson bloomed through the ragged wound like a bouquet of agony, and Ken could practically see the bruises begin to form against that roughened tan skin. Despite not being as good of a hit as he would have liked, most men would have cried out, reluctant to use that arm again lest the glass dig in deeper.

With one swift motion, the patriarch proved that he wasn't most men.

Ken caught a glimpse of steel. That was the only warning he had before he felt something hook into the leather just beneath his shoulder pad. He tried to pull forward, tried to slide the dagger out without damage to his skin, but it seemed that his opponent had expected that, and like a fishing hook, it caught his shoulder on the backswing. Now it was the foreigner's turn to bite back his own pain as blood poured from the new slice on the back of his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, breathing unsteady as he brought his hand up to the wound. However, he caught himself before he could put his hand on it, instead returning it to the handle of his bat as fervent eyes returned to his target.

The pain was more real than it had been in a long time. Without the smokescreens of alcohol or opium in the way, he was able to feel that burning in his flesh as clear as day, the fresh blood quickly becoming sticky against the fabric. He hadn't felt anything with such clarity since...

Now was no time to go down memory lane.

With a froth beginning to form on his snarling lips, he once again charged forward at the patriarch. This time, there was less finesse involved. He simply brought his bat out in a wide arc in front of him, aiming to shatter a rib if not just give the older man an incentive to keep distance. At the end of his swing, he let go with one hand, bringing the other hand to the inside of his jacket. If his opponent got the hint and stayed back, it would simply be there to protect his vitals.

If not, then it would be wrapped around a little shard of hope, ready to deploy at the push of a button.
 
Shades of red mixed in, one of his own and the other of the tattered suit. The pinstripes faded as the threads snagged on the man's bat, taking a chunk of cloth on the ends of the nails. His hand came down to the injury, clutching it as he stared at the other man. Shuffling like a dancing cat, patiently he awaited another move. And, having already been alert to the predictable swing, it was easily dodged, forcing more distance between the two. A small huff left his lips as he opened and closed his hand. Although the limb itself was fine, the burning gaping hole in his forearm traveled down to small ligaments. A sharp breath followed as the knife switched positions. Underestimating the blow originally, it forced Nishitani to change his battle tactics. Continuing the fight was no issue, but the shards sunk further than his adrenaline let on.

The numb hand now gripped the blade as tight as he was able. Dark eyes traced over the short frame, continuing to circle the arena, carefully eyeing those sneaky hands. What did his subordinates allow the foreigner to equip? What weapons did he dawn underneath that leather jacket? Were they so stupid to allow him a gun?

. . .

No.

The distinct use of the melee weapon proved Kaminsky was here for a battle, a showdown, not an assassination. Several bullets would stunt the enjoyment either man could potentially feel, and, quite frankly if the foreigner pulled out a pistol, it would alert not only every Kijin member in the immediate area but the rest of the Omi. A bold, reckless decision the patriarch was glad he didn't indulge. Instead, Kaminsky merely fumbled with what he could only assume was a pocket blade of sorts. An extra defense measure if the distance called for it. Now, that sparked his curiosity. Dimming his eyes, the patriarch rolled his shoulders, licking his lips as those dark eyes locked onto his target.

In the blink of an eye, Nishitani flung his body forward, spinning across the distance like a tornado. One end wielding a sharp blade and the other a powerful kick, the distance closed once more. Now at the animal's footsteps, he took another wild swing, hoping any part of the dagger would connect to any part of the opponent's skin.
 
A raging fire ripped through Kenneth's shoulder as the bat completed its arc, putting a slight stagger into his step. It hadn't been properly stabbed, but the slice still protested against the flexing muscle, and it felt as though his arm might shear off from the strain. His breath hitched as his free arm stayed tucked inside of his jacket, bloodshot eyes continuing to track his target.

A smirk played on those twitching lips when he saw how Nishitani clutched his wound.

He hadn't won. He was still so, so far from anything that could even be remotely considered a victory. Yet, there was no doubt in his mind that he was clawing closer. The wounds from the previous night were compounding with the fresh glass. Those tanned fingers gripped the blade a little too tight. The devil was limping.

However, so was the coyote.

The only warnings he got from his opponent were those of a wild cat: a lick of the lips, rolling shoulders, and the dimming and dilating of those dark eyes. None of these things could have prepared him for what was about to unfold. The patriarch shot forward like a screwball aimed straight for the foriegner's head, and that smirk quickly dropped as Ken's legs shot out from under him, trying to propel him to the side and into a roll.

The dagger caught on his jacket again.

He dropped his bat and grabbed his blade, then let his arms go limp as the blade ripped through the leather and fabric covering his back. Like a snake shedding its skin, he slipped from the loose-fitting leather, shedding that one layer of protection in exchange for the blade mauling the fabric rather than his spine. It had carved through the jacket and left a gash in the shirt below, but it has only barely grazed his back, leaving a deep scratch rather than anything worthy of stitches.

Unfortunately, the rough dodge came at cost. Wild eyes shot wide open as he felt one of those staples tear away, blood staining the front of his shirt as overexertion took its toll. He staggered to his feet from the roll, his numerous injuries now on full display for the lingering crowd. Arms covered in purple and black, crimson red flesh peeking from tears in dark fabric.

On his back, glaring into the crowd through a freshly-ripped shirt, was a coyote mid-fall, eyes soulless and white.

Ken forced himself upright, clutching the reopened wound on his body as sheer adrenaline forced him to keep his eyes on his opponent. Pulling his hand away to stare at the blood soaking his batting glove, he came to the grim realization that attacking outright was going to get him killed. He was outmatched. Even feigning left openings that he couldn't control, and his shoulder was laying the price for his reckless charge. His eyes quickly darted back up to his opponent, and the hand gripping the switchblade rested uneasy on the button to deploy it. There was no hiding that he had it now. He had lost the element of surprise.

But what if he could create that element? What if he could control the openings?

With an idea brewing in his head, a wide, twitching grin formed on those tattered lips, and he found himself adopting a slackened stance. "Well, ain't that some flashy shit?" he chuckled, pacing around the patriarch. "You do a great job of fuckin' around, y'know that? You're into this shit. But don'tcha think you've denied yourself long enough, now?"

With a tilt of his head, he brought his bloodied thumb up to the unstitched side of his mouth and took a taste of his own blood before dragging it across his cheek. A red streak marked a mirror image of the slice he had been given the night before.

"C'mon. Try and complete me."
 
A hitch-pitched hiss left the demon's lips, legs harshly landing back onto the concrete. Despite the show, the attack barely managed to break through the surface, instead hooking onto the leather fabric. Granted, the blade tore through the material, however, he needed to see more blood pouring through the man's skin. The crimson plasma dripping down the corner of Kenneth's mouth wasn't enough.

But, as his eyes darted over the target, steps beginning to circle around, his brow cocked.

Did he see that correctly? His attack failed to connect, meaning underneath the dark fabric laid ink. The longer he continued to stare, the more apparent the image became. He was staring into the soulless eyes of an animal mauling at its own skin. A black silhouette slowly came together in the shape of a coyote, smaller than a wolf yet carrying the same tenacity and strength.

'So, he's got ink of his own,' the man chuckled to himself, straightening his body. The foreigner previously said he had his own criminal affiliations, but as far as Nishitani knew, other groups didn't enforce an ink policy. It implied Kenneth either received the ink within concrete prison walls or of his own volition. If he spent time behind bars, it all made perfect sense. The absolute refusal to go down despite blood gushing from his skin. Although Nishitani knew better than to strike first, Kenneth's words were so tempting. "Complete me." It rang through his head like a chant, as if Ken needed another blow, another bruise, another open wound. Should he risk the close distance? With a simple wrong step, it would leave him open to not only a bat swing but a swift knife slash.

Slowly circling around the man, again, his eyes shifted between the subordinates and the foreigner. If this continued, everyone would win their bet, but it would mean the loss of potential resources and the continued acquisition of weapons.

"I'm afraid if I do that, you might end up dead," the man let out a taunting cackle, and in an instant closed the gap between the two. Hoping his knife would once again connect, he was stunned when the other man boldly parried and sent his weapon into the air. Sharp eyes locked onto Kenneth for a second before moving to the blade, reaching out to grab it. As his fingertips brushed against the wooden handle, he suddenly felt immense pressure on the side of his body. His jaw slacked, losing his balance as the other man came careening forward onto him. The sudden shot paired with the sudden weight slamming onto him sent the patriarch onto the floor, bones slamming onto the concrete rubble with a rough groan. However, the pain didn't end there. Repeatedly, the foreigner slammed the blunt end of his weapon across the man's body, breaking blood vessels all across his body. Blood gushed from his nose, dripping down to his mouth where his lips slowly turned upward. A weak chuckle morphed into a cackle, clutching his fists as his shoulders arched.

And then, the cherry on top. Oxygen whirred into his skin, burning as the layers split to reveal more of the crimson liquid. Nishitani took another slash, and then another before prying his own fingers apart. While Kenneth was distracted, making a canvas out of his body, the patriarch retrieved his own weapon, clutching it tightly as the metallic blade rammed into the other man's leg, through the leather pants, through the layers of skin, and through the leg muscles. He held it there for a moment, knuckles going white from his grasp before inevitably shoving him off.

With space now between them, Nishitani took in a large gasp of air, chest heaving as his eyes lulled.

What a night. What a struggle. What . . . aggression. No one had been able to give him a taste of such raw and unfiltered power in such a short amount of time. A final hoorah before eventually falling back down . . .
 
Through blurring vision and gritted teeth, Kenneth tracked his mark, fangs bared in the face of his laughter. Despite his taunts, it was becoming harder and harder to stand by the minute. It felt like his guts were squeezing out of his body through the new gap in his staples, each movement bringing him closer to a day he would rather not repeat. His scars burned, and his flesh burned brighter. Nishitani was right—if he didn't end this soon, he knew this would be where he died. He wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't let that happen.

The devil charged forward, aiming for the target Ken had painted for him. His pupils dilated, his grip on the blade going white-knuckled as he moved into position. He had one shot.

All it took was one well-timed swipe to deflect the blade and send it flying from that weakened grip. As his eyes locked with the patriarch's, his lips split into a wide, twitching grin. It worked. Holy shit, it actually worked. The trap he'd laid was sprung, the devil was left ensnared and disarmed. For a split second, he took in the startled desperation as that tanned hand reached skyward, stretching towards the weapon that had careened over their heads. It was impressive how high one man could jump when his life depended on it. It was even more impressive how quickly he'd forget his own fragility in the heat of the moment.

As soon as the opening was made, the coyote lunged, and his fist slammed directly into Nishitani's liver. Not one to waste momentum, the rest of his body followed suit, and the tackle brought both men to the floor. Another staple had popped. He didn't care. The blood soaking through the front of his shirt, the pain ripping through his gut, the itching and burning and the wrought iron taste on his tongue, it was all worth it to have the devil himself pinned beneath him. He leaned back for a moment, straddling the older man's waist as he groaned and writhed in a haze of pain against the dirt below. Such divine torment—it was artistry in motion.

Ken could feel the same chains from earlier pull at his wrists once more. He couldn't cause too much harm—certainly not death, though it was never his intent. His new allies wouldn't exactly be appreciative of that. Yet, as he locked eyes with his opponent once more, he knew they shared the same thoughts: they needed to indulge in that torment.

Who was he to deny him the pain he desired? Who was he to apply the tourniquet?

And so, he let himself loose. Sparing some mercy by using the handle rather than the blade, he used one hand to gain leverage as the other painted bruises into that tanned skin. His heart raced in his ears as his vision tunnelled, bone and metal crashing down on the man below him as blood sprayed against their skin. And he was laughing. That bastard was laughing.

As Kenneth flipped the blade in his hands, ready to fully discard mercy, he found himself joining in those discordant howls.

Madness and iron swirled in the air around them. Fabric tore as easily as the skin beneath it. A small hand bruised and peppered with cuts and scrapes gripped and pulled against a violet tie. In that moment, they were nothing but animals, reveling in the true art of war.

Ken should've known that a man like that would be able to launch an attack through the constant onslaught. Yet, he didn't even remember the dagger existed until it was buried to the hilt in his thigh. His mania was interrupted by a sharp cry, his arm locking up as he was drug back to reality and forced to confront the agony that crushed him in its grip. Paralyzed from the bolts of pain that ripped across every inch of his body, he couldn't land any further attacks before he was sent to the floor, gripping his stomach and leg as though he was about to fall apart.

His breathing ran ragged as his eyes trailed back over to Nishitani. Seemed neither of them were getting up. Good. Hopefully this was enough blood to satisfy the man. He couldn't even pretend that he had it in him for a round three right now.

...

What was he supposed to do? Ask him how he did? If he enjoyed it? If he'd be allowed to live, or if he was just supposed to lay there and bleed for his enjoyment? Truthfully, he had never been in a fight quite like this before. There was no bluff, no cowardice, no firearm interrupting the good time. Just a pure, mutual malice that blossomed into crimson petals across the battlefield. A beast and a devil sharing in their pain. It was... Dare he say worth toeing death's doorstep for?

Taking his shaking hands away from his wounds, he decided on lighting a cigarette. It took a few seconds to light—his blood had dampened the paper and tobacco—but eventually he was able to take a long drag, and the smoke from his lungs only further obscured the lights of heaven from his view.
 
Quick steps banged against the metal stairs, clangs echoing against the walls. The other men turned their heads in concern; however, none dared to stop the leader-in-training. With blood puddled on the concrete floor, he decided to fight and went on long enough. It was time to intervene before one of the men did something they may regret.

"Boss, I'm calling the fight," he spoke despite Nishitani's resistance. The patriarch attempted to pull himself off the ground, insisting he had the energy for a round three, but the second his head left the ground, gravity pulled it back down. He panted, instead shifting his weight onto the side of his body, holding his head up with an injured arm.

"You're messin' up our fun, Imai," the man weakly teased.

"You can have more fun 'nother day," he responded, raising his hand and calling over two other men. "Right now, we gotta make sure you ain't gonna bleed out." Once the subordinates joined his side, he instructed the pair to assist Nishitani and make sure he received medical attention. Unfortunately, their boss had a bad habit of letting himself revel in his own injuries, wanting to stretch out the feeling of pain. It was a strange and dangerous habit, but they all knew there was no stopping Nishitani. The least they could do was care for him after any fights and tend to his wounds. Those who had been around longer knew the man had begun getting restless. Although it was commonplace for lower criminals to fight with their bare bloody hands for what they wanted, Nishitani was a patriarch. The head of his own family and his actions carried heavier consequences than any lowly street thug. If he went around picking a fight with anyone that would have it, their Clan could quickly become a sinking ship.

Luckily, the foreigner had no real connections, and this fight, overall, had little "political" consequences.

As for physical consequences, both men were badly wounded with gashes and cuts all over. However, the foreigner lived to see another day. Better than most that have fought the patriarch. The taller man squatted down, stifling back a laugh once he caught a glimpse of Kenneth's face. Smoke slowly blew out, slightly covering the man's pained expression. After taking a beating like that, it was a miracle he was conscious at all.

"So, alive still?" he cocked his head, reaching down to the man's leg. With a dagger still rammed into his leg, Seiji wondered how they were going to get him anywhere. While removing the weapon was an option, it was not a smart decision. Removing it was a surefire way to ensure the man would not only lose consciousness but potentially his life. "Going to pick up," he nodded, slowly tugging Ken up and off the concrete floor. However, getting Kenneth off the ground was not possible. Despite Seiji's height, the redhead carried more weight, causing his knee to buckle after a feeble attempt. Clicking his tongue, the yakuza stood up straight, still holding onto Ken's arm as he turned back to the stairwell.

"Kenta!" he yelled out, "Get your sorry ass down here!" he scolded. God, the only reason why this fight happened was because of Kenta and he was off standing, staring, stalling until he cleaned up his mess.

---

With fingertips firmly pressed into his face, Kenta stared off to the overgrown greenery. They needed to call someone to trim the plants; however, everyone seemed to be too occupied with the sudden task thrust upon them. Finding that man and getting their hands on that lot, and all for the sake of what? Why the hell did Nishitani want it so bad? As the fight continued on, the man's thoughts wandered quite a bit, only ever disturbed by another member accidentally bumping into him.

The man laughed a bit, excusing himself before noting Kenta's distracted glance. "What's wrong, Kojima? Didn't expect your guy to get his ass kicked?" he laughed again.

Shaking his head, he pushed himself off the rusted metal railing and onto the building wall. There was no reason to continue viewing with the men's continuous chatter.

"Ah, shit, that slide's gotta hurt," one spoke.

"Tore through those fancy pants in a second,"

It was a pointless fight that Kenta regretted not talking his new friend out of. The previous fight at least served a purpose, to protect him and his stupidity, but this? This was a simple battle for pleasure and nothing more. Kenneth already handed over the weapons he promised and showed his potential as an ally. Why was this necessary? With a light head, he slowly slid down until he sat on one of the stairs. As the fight progressed, he lost himself in his own thoughts which mostly consisted of planning for the next day. Their search would continue on, and with the name and weapons already under their belt it was only a matter of time until they found Makimura Makoto. Which meant the gun currently digging into his side would have to be used without hesitation. The only people he had ever seen use a gun were policemen in TV dramas and now he was tasked to use one with no issue. Fists were an option, but wanting to waste no time meant they needed a lethal weapon.

With a stir in his stomach, he grimaced. Why couldn't Seiji do it? He was always good at using weapons?

Before his flurry of thoughts could continue, the crowd went silent. Pulling his eyes up, the yakuza cocked a brow at the sound of his name. Was it over? Getting to his feet, Kenta peered over the edge before moving down to the ground floor. 'Oh thank god, he's still kicking!' he thought, kneeling down.

"You should've intervened earlier," he spoke, wrapping his arms around Kenneth's torso. "Breath deep," he warned in English, beginning to tug him up.

"And risk getting a mouthful from the boss? Yeah, sure," Seiji spat back, lifting until the redhead was back on his feet.

"Just sayin' that 'cause you scammed all those guys outta their paycheck."

He scoffed, "Didn't see you trynna stop me or them, so let's just get him to that bitch 'fore he dies, alright?"
 
Through blurry vision and a haze of tobacco, Kenneth saw Imai leaning over him, the lights behind him casting him as a living silhouette. An unreadable void with two blank screens for eyes. With how injured the redhead was, it wouldn't take much to finish him off. One bullet between the eyes—a knife across the throat if he wanted to be quiet about it. Yet, instead, he only offered a simple question: alive still?

It was a question that drug a weak grin across Ken's battered face, the stitches stretched and bloody as the corner of his mouth twitched in defiance. Pain may have wracked him from every corner, left him on his back and hardly able to move without his vision dimming and losing clarity, but he knew he would survive this. He had survived far worse before. He had survived—thrived—from events that would leave lesser men begging for a swift and quiet end. Of course he was still alive. He wasn't about to die until he was good and damn ready to. All he had needed was a reminder.

He slipped that cigarette back between his lips, his eyes finding their way back to the lights above as he fell into his thoughts again. Did Kenta know how much he owed him?

Though he appreciated the warning, the foriegner still drew in a sharp hiss as Imai tried to pick him up, his breath leaving him in a weak growl as he tried his best to stand with the new support. No dice. His head was spinning from pain and blood loss, his arm felt like it was going to shear off around Imai's shoulder, and his leg—that bastard really had to stab the same leg he slid on, huh? With the dagger still buried deep in there, each movement felt like it brought the blade closer to his bone. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't even provide the strength to assist Imai in getting him upright, a quiet groan escaping him as his head slumped forward. The best he could do was dig his nails into the older man's arm, his own shaking as he tried to keep himself from collapsing back to the ground.

Through his flickering consciousness, he felt another set of hands on him. Snapping back to reality, he looked up to see a familiar, comforting face. He couldn't help but smile despite it all. The poor guy looked so worried —a smile was the least the downed redhead could offer. Though what did he say? It sounded like instructions, but Kenneth couldn't quite understand him.

As soon as Kenta began lifting him, he realized it was a warning.

Staggering his feet, he gasped and snarled as pressure was put on his injured leg. He had to fight back the side of himself that wanted to thrash free. This wasn't an apprehension, this wasn't an interrogation. They were just trying to get him to the help he so clearly needed. Still, his eyes wandered back to the downed patriarch. Nishitani clearly wasn't getting up—despite his apparent insistence—but at least he looked... Pleased? Perhaps the usual consequences that came with beating the shit out of a crime lord wouldn't apply? Though, a few of the subordinates still gave him side-eyes. Was it fear? Respect? Hatred? He couldn't tell. All he could feel were the stares.

Why did he only ever worry about these things after he was in too deep?

His gaze returned to Kenta, and his head slumped into his exposed chest. The warmth provided a sense of relief, though only mentally. It was enough to keep him standing.

--

The trip to that street doctor—her name failed him—it didn't matter. The whole trip might have taken five minutes or five hours. As Ken tried to fight through pain more vivid than he had faced in over a year, he staggered in and out of consciousness, his mind pushing him forward on sheer adrenaline and determination independent of a consciousness. He felt everything—the slice on the back of his shoulder, the dagger in his leg that threatened to pierce his bruised bones, the staples that had ripped open, the burning, bleeding scratch down his back, the flesh of his cheek ripping apart, every muscle ache from the withdrawals—it all compounded with his older injuries and his mental anguish in a way that he had grown used to being able to simply shut off. He still had painkillers in his pocket, but with the blood oozing from his thigh, he wondered if the pills were now soaked and ruined like the cigarette that hung loose and useless from his lips.

The transition from the cold winter air to the warmth of the indoors only further exacerbated his pain, and he found himself nearly losing his balance. There was chatter around him, and he doubted he could have understood it even if it was in a tongue he had any fluency in. It was simply too much to process. All he could do was shut down and guard his ever-depleting sanity.

Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted and placed on something cold and metal. A table, probably. It smelled so sterile in there compared to the backlot, it was giving him a headache. Though, the way over had mostly been marked by a strong scent of high-end cologne and cigarettes. Despite his struggles maintaining consciousness, he had still tried to keep a close proximity to Kenta, grounding himself in the safety he provided. Maybe Seiji wouldn't kill him, but he knew Kenta wouldn't hurt him. That heart bled through far too much. He hadn't even watched the fight, had he? Probably couldn't bring himself to look.

When he tried to pull away, give the doctor room to work, the foriegner could only respond by latching on tighter, a silent cry for company digging through the burgundy fabric.
 
Taking a taxi was not an option. Even if they paid the driver to look the other way, they would be leaving blood everywhere for the police to collect. No one needed to know about what happened tonight except those partaking in the fight and those witnessing it. What would anyone else say? Although Nishitani won, he still allowed a foreigner onto their territory, allowed a foreigner to threaten his life, and then allowed the foreigner to leave with his life in hand. Granted, it was a bloody hand that couldn't even close properly as it desperately trembled, clinging to Kenta's red fabric.

Instead, they took the back roads, stumbling through dark alleys where no civilian nor family men would disturb them. It was a bit of a longer walk, but considering Kenneth could barely keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, he didn't seem to mind the extra steps.

Once they arrived on the doctor's doorstep, Seiji pulled away, rushing to the door, banging on the metal. Only one of the lights remained, a stark green washed over them, flicking as he banged on the metal again, and again, and again, until finally, the door cracked open. With her purse in hand and dressed in normal clothing, the doctor glared at the trio with harsh daggers.

"Do you think you can show up here at any time you want? I'm leaving already," the woman huffed her chest, threatening to close the door.

Immediately, the criminal clutched the edge of the door, prying it open for her to see the bloodied man. "We're fuckin' payin' you and you're going to make sure he lives," he spat through the opposition, nearly shoving her back inside as he gestured Kenta to follow. Struggling to get the heavier man inside without further injuring him, all his movements were slow. They were already at Matsui's clinic, he couldn't die right outside her care, right? She could give him a few shots of morphine to ease his pain and then stitch him back up like she did the previous night. Gently heaving the man up, he put the ginger down on the operating station, having to carefully move his leg up so as not to skin the knife in even deeper.

"Coming into my clinic at goddamn midnight," the doctor continued to mutter to herself, slipping the white coat back on as she went through her inventory. "At least get him undressed," she barked out.

Rolling his eyes, Kenta followed along, working with Ken's nearly limp body to rid him of the garments. First, was the dirty and grimy jacket stained with not only his red blood but all the enemies he had fought since stepping foot in Japan. Folding the leather garment, he set it aside, moving onto the shirt. Rinse and repeat, the same process of contorting his limbs until his gravely marked body was exposed for all to see.

At the very least, the large gash running across his stomach remained closed. The only exposed major injuries were the ones from the night before and the fresh slice, dripping blood beneath him.

"Hold him still," Matsui walked over with a small glass vial, holding a needle in one hand as it pulled morphine out. A gloved hand grabbed the foreign man's trembling muscle, pressing the needle in and injecting the painkiller. Although it felt barbaric to simply inject his muscle until the adrenaline wore off, there was no way she could inject his veins. As the medicine rushed into Kenneth's body, slowly his muscles relaxed allowing her to continue with the procedure. New stitches needed to be placed along his shoulder, mouth, and take care of the forming bruises across his skin. Not to mention the blatant knife stick out of his thigh, calling for her attention.

Shifting her focus, Matsui ordered the yakuza to once again sit, however, he stood in her way.

"He won't let go," he gestured to the tight grip on his sleeve jacket.

A heavy sigh left her annoyed lips, why did she have to get stuck with these two scumbags? Why couldn't they simply take their collections and move on? Why did they always have to be subject to her care and attention at odd hours of the night? Why couldn't they find someone else to leech off of? Taking her gloves off for a moment, Matsui undid the black leather pants, shimming them down until the fabric bunched over the knife. Now, she slowly pulled the piercing weapon out, immediately pulling the fabric over and down his legs exposing the entire puncture wound. All she could do was wonder what sort of activities were they doing to warrant this. Why did they always resort to violence to solve their issues? Was that simply how men were? Since the dawn of time, it seemed men were more interested in showing off their new weapons and proven techniques to win during fights and wars; they never stopped to think about the effect it had on everyone else, or themselves.

Was it worth it? Was the rush of fleeting adrenaline worth receiving an entire knife to the thigh and for one's body to turn into a plate of sashimi? The previous patchwork made it apparent this wasn't the man's first time in the ring, but it also meant it wouldn't be the last. Matsui knew of their types, never satisfied with life unless they were walking the edge of a knife.

After switching her gloves, the doctor gently patted the wound clean of blood, applying a bit more pressure before switching to the sutures.

What caused people to behave like this? Was it simply in their nature to seek violence?

Carefully looping the stitches through the skin, she seamed together the skin with black thread. Perhaps the stark contrast against Kenneth's skin would serve as a reminder he was an injured man. Placing a large surgical bandage against his thigh, she pulled herself up, letting go of a deep breath.

Despite her distaste for the two men beside her, Matsui had no choice but to excel in her work. If their friend died while in her care, they would have to dig two graves.

"Turn him onto his back," she instructed, with a calm tone.

After a few tugs, Kenta managed to pry himself away, hooking his hands underneath Kenneth's torso, gingerly flipping him onto his stomach, exposing the shoulder wound. Although he knew the other wouldn't feel it, he gently rubbed his hand along his stiff bones, hoping to somewhat ease the pain. Maybe his presence could be comforting? Kenneth would know he wasn't alone while getting patched up, so eventually, he would want to wake.

When the surgeon began operating again, he stood at the head of the table, sinking his fingers into the knotted red hair. It was difficult to run his fingers anywhere in the mess, but his fingertips made it to Ken's scalp.

"Are you sure he's going to be fine?"

"None of the wounds are life-threatening so, theoretically, he should be okay. I'll give him some medication to deal with the pain, but if he keeps going like this," she shook her head. After a brief silence, she cocked a brow, "Did you put him up to this? Who was he fighting because of you?"

"Because of me?" the man scoffed, "No one told him to go fight, he wanted to do it. Right, Seiji?"

As Seiji leaned against the wall, he simply shrugged in response. "I guess yeah. No one really told him to fight Nishitani. I guess he felt the need to, y'know, probably 'cause he was scared and thought provin' himself would be an insurance policy. Y'know how he is, when he likes people he can cave in,"

As the criminal rambled, Matsui paused in her work, daggers once again glaring through Kenta's skin. "You just let him fight your boss? What the hell is wrong with either of you? You're lucky he's even breathing right now!"

“You said nothing was life-threatening! What does it matter?”

“Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have happened! You know how Nishitani—“ Then, she felt it. The immense penetrating one-eyed from behind her.

“I’d choose your next words carefully,” he warned. “Or, better yet, shut the fuck up and get back to work.”

Slowly, Matsui sat back down, fingers shaking as she gripped the needle again. Silence filled the densely tense air, nearly suffocating the poor woman as she rushed through the job. Tick-tock. A blaring reminder of time passing as the injuries were diligently closed. By the time she finished, both the metal table and her plastic gloves were stained with blood; however, she forced down a grimace. Any more complaints and she would be out of business.

“He probably won’t be able to move for a few days. At least, try to stop him from moving and opening any of those stitches again.” Handing over a small plastic bottle, “Give him one of these if he’s feeling immense pain. Okay? Be sparing.”

. . .

With a voice barely above a whisper, she asked, “Can I go home now?”

————

What was worse, dragging Kenneth’s near lifeless body to the clinic, or dragging Kenneth’s morphine-filled body to the apartment? Both were a tiresome hassle that left both criminals exhausted.

Dropping the foreigner onto the futon, Kenta followed, collapsing onto the wood floor. “Hope you got your money’s worth,”

“You fuckin’ bet. I made a fortune off ‘em bozos. Just gotta make sure he wakes up tomorrow.”
 
There were words swirling around Kenneth's head, words and phrases he couldn't even hope to understand. He couldn't even feel those muscles that spasmed of their own accord. The pain all blurred together, filling his whole body with criss-cross burns and a deep ache that threatened to peel muscle from bone. He couldn't even see. He had squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the mist that threatened to reveal the weakness behind the snarling teeth. It was all he could do to hold onto the only source of warmth in the room—to retreat further into Kenta's protective arms.

It was getting colder around him. Kenta hadn't pried away completely, but he had backed off some. Ken could feel it. Opening his eyes a crack to peer up at the yakuza, he realized that he was missing a few layers of clothing. Why? What were they doing? What was he doing? What was happening? He couldn't remember, sense fleeting as pain overrode conscious thought. His eyes snapped open as he realized his increasing vulnerability, Matsui's hand pressing into his thigh enough to send him into flight. He tried to thrash, tried to claw his way to safety—and for a brief moment, he found it. Kenta wrapped him in his arms and calmed his wild soul. For that brief moment, skin pressed against skin, he was able to find a stillness in his mind.

The needle stabbing into his twitching muscle threw a rock into those still waters, and he immediately whipped around to attack Matsui on sheer impulse. He didn't get very far, though. Whatever was in that needle was quick to take hold, shrunken wild pupils dilating as he slumped back down. The pain in his leg was switched with an otherworldly warmth, the removal of the knife sending a strange tingling through the penetrated muscle. It tickled a bit. Then there was nothing.

He couldn't even feel his own arms anymore. The grip he had on Kenta's sleeve was purely instinctual. That wildfire in his gaze had been quenched, replaced by the dull haze of an opium high. Yet, he didn't want to fall asleep. He couldn't. What if he woke up, not to the warmth of those arms, but to the incinerating fires of hell?

Through his hazy vision, he saw Kenta pull away, and did his best to will his numbed-up hand to grip tighter. Unfortunately, by this point, his weight was the only thing really keeping Kenta in place. His arm slid away too easily, his muscles barely responding as he was flipped onto his stomach, his jaw slack and breathing heavy like a sedated dog. Not quite awake, not quite asleep, he stared lifelessly ahead as skin and muscle was pulled together without his knowledge. His vision blurred and swam with flickers of color and muffled sound as he floated above his own bones, a heartbeat felt somewhere just below.

He didn't feel Kenta's roaming hands, but as that tanned hand wove into his tangled hair, he shut his eyes and finally allowed himself to rest under those trusted fingertips.

---

Heavy eyelids finally forced themselves open to a strange new world of haze and warmth. It smelled familiar enough at least—the cigarette smoke, the high-end cologne, it was all distinctly Kenta's. Was this his apartment, then? He had never seen this place before, but it looked like someone lived here. It was nice, clearly the accomodations of someone with some cash to spare. Far, far beyond anything Kenneth was familiar with. The unfamiliarity gnawed at him, but he found himself settled by the scent of someone warm and dear.

That, and the copious amounts of morphine in his system. It had to be morphine. The last time he got hit by a high that hard, he was being carted off to the hospital. He wasn't sure how long it had been since the fight, but damn, he felt good. There was a vague throbbing in his leg, shoulder, and stomach, but that was okay. He could deal with that.

Pushing himself upright, he ran his fingers through his hair as his head threatened to pull him back to the futon below. It didn't succeed, though. It was overtaken by a firm weight on his chest—one that forced him back to the ground with a startle. Shit, was he overdosing? That would suck. As he tried to reach over to check his pulse, his hand came in contact with a completely different arm. That's when he began to register sounds—words, warnings—all in a soothingly familiar voice. The redhead tracked that arm across his body back to its very worried owner, a smile spreading crookedly across his face as he found the man it belonged to.

Kenta. This was his apartment—and he was here! By Ken's side, right where the battle-scarred foriegner remembered him being. He never left. That fight with Nishitani was likely enough to conclude his usefulness to the clan, but that curly-haired cutie just didn't care. He still stayed, and that filled Ken's heart to the brim with warmth.

He was also telling him to keep still—in English, just to make sure he understood. Cute, smart, loyal—did he really just stumble into the whole package? All the way out here? No wonder he'd been having a hard time staying alive. His sparse luck all fell on this one man's presence. "Kenta... You stayed?" he drawled, not having the presence of mind to switch to Japanese. "You stayed... Ain't you just the sweetest lil' thing? You're so sweet, and nice, and, and..."

A bubbly giggle escaped his marred lips, and he clung to the arm that had been used to keep him down. What was he even saying? He didn't care. It felt right. It felt good. He felt good. He felt so damn good, and now he had Kenta here with him. It was gonna be alright—he knew that just by staring up into those gentle brown eyes. "You're so worried 'bout me... It's cute. Anyone ever called you cute before? Because I... You're cute. And warm, and cute..."

As his muttering slowly became incoherent, his hands wandered further up Kenta's arm, and he began trying to pull him in closer independent of conscious thought. Or was he trying to anchor himself to the yakuza so he wouldn't completely float away? He couldn't tell. Either way, he just felt so damn good.
 
The sound of shuffling alerted the now tipsy yakuza. Maybe it was unwise to have a few beers while having to care for someone after surgery, but how else was he supposed to relax after the hell this week has been? Even before meeting Kenneth things were becoming stressful with their shift and focus on the Empty Lot. At the end of the day, it was simply a way to ruin the Tojo Clan's expansion plans, so why are they stressing it so hard? All they had to do was find one person in a city they ran and . . . Hey, what were they going to do with that Makimura Makoto? The man's hazy thoughts drifted slightly as his sluggish body turned to face the futon.

"Be still," he warned, in English, gently keeping his arms hovering by Ken's body. He needed to make sure the ginger wouldn't go crashing down onto the futon and potentially hurt himself. Nodding as he heard the -- what Kenta could only assume to be -- soothing words from the man. Kenneth looked happy; he wore an ear-to-ear grin and clung to his hand while speaking. What was he saying? Something cute? Ah, was Kenneth calling him cute? A faint spread of color came across the criminal's tanned skin, chuckling slightly as he stabilized the foreigner. Fingers gently ran up and down, hoping to soothe any after-effects of the surgery. Although the morphine was enough to kill any immediate pain and keep the patient delirious for a few hours, it was well beyond midnight now.

Was he alright? Did Matsui give him too much? As the ginger's body came forward, Kenta leaned in to catch him, leaving his chest to press against the man's heavy head.

"Don't move too much," he warned, again, now trailing his fingers through the red-knotted locks.

Damn, who knew he could act like this? Even when they first got drunk together, Kenneth proved himself to be dangerous and reckless, albeit warm when they shared their first drink together. It was somewhat comforting to know he was relaxed -- or could relax because of the sedatives. Throughout the days he seemed to become increasingly on edge and become more aggressive in the acts and fights they carried. Kenta was afraid to even touch the faint bruise across his face, knowing if he did, all he would see was Kenneth nearly gauging out someone's eye.

Of course, this was nothing new in their occupation. Men did things like that all the time, especially their boss in his youth -- as those in the family have been told. Yet, it elicited stirs in his chest and stomach. Was he going to become like the men around him? As the days continued, would he become more comfortable with a blade in his hand? Or even firing a weapon like Seiji? As Kenta's thoughts swirled through his drunken mind, the apartment door creaked open.

"I'm back," the other criminal announced, stepping inside, and tossing the keys on the table. "He still out?"

Kenta shrugged and gestured to the sedated foreigner who eagerly clung to his body. He could feel the other's smaller hands clinging to his shirt, nuzzling further into his skin. "Don't really know, but he is actin' like a cat," the yakuza teased. "Does morphine do that?"

"Kinda, it's like a happy drug so he's actin' like he's on regular drugs," Seiji cracked a small joke as he rummaged through the bag. "Think he's in the mood for soup?"

Shrugging, Kenta turned his attention to the smaller man, "Can you eat?" he slowly asked, trying his best not to slur his words. Maybe he had one too many beers. "Got soup for you," he grinned, hoping a meal would return the other's strength.
 
It took a few seconds for Kenta's question to even register to Kenneth, the smaller man entirely lost in the warmth of that tanned chest and the rhythmic heartbeat just beneath the muscle. The gentle hand running through his hair was almost enough to put him back to sleep, his breathing slowing to a heavy crawl as he sighed in complete and utter bliss. It was all so warm, so tender, so unfamiliar and yet all at once like home. It felt like nothing in the world could hurt him, and for once, he didn't feel like inviting that pain in for a challenge.

Eventually, Kenta's words did register, and he peeked up from between Kenta's pecs with one hazy eye. Soup? He was offering soup. What kind of soup was a mystery, but Ken's mind immediately drifted to суп с Фрикадельками—a chicken meatball soup his grandmother would make for him. His fingers clenched a bit against Kenta's chest as he started to think of the life he left behind. Damn, he had been trying so hard not to let it get to him, but now his mind was full of the past.

She was the only one who provided warmth to that outcast young pup, taking Ken in with zero heads up and doing her best to heal the wounds he arrived with. Fleeting winters were spent in front of a space heater with a thick blanket and a bowl of soup, the smell of parsley almost enough to cover the smell of burning dust. Gentle words hummed over the sound of the clicking metal, soothing the feral beast, assuring him that nothing would hurt him so long as he was with her.

She tried so hard, sacrificed so much. And for what?

Ken blinked back the mist in his eyes, nodding as his body attempted to tense despite the morphine still flooding it. He really, really did want some soup. Some soup and, perhaps, a second chance.

"Yeah... Yeah I could eat a soup... I could..."

He tried to string together a Japanese sentence for Kenta's sake. Tried, being the key word. It became a disjointed ramble as Ken tried to remember the words required to construct the sentence, the structure of the sentence, the pronounciation and tone—what came out was a slew of gibberish that could hardly be considered a coherent thought, capped off with a few stray Russian words as his mind kept wandering in the halls of the past.

When did his life become this? Curled up in the arms of a criminal after fighting himself half to death, hiding from the law and the lawless, hoping to survive one more day, painting his will to live into the streets? When did he become so cruel? He couldn't remember. The roots were too deep to track.

Dammit, he could feel the throbbing slowly becoming an ache again. It would only be a matter of time before this warmth left him, and he'd be alone in the winter air once more. It wouldn't stop him from enjoying the tenderness while it was there, but it did make him tuck himself away just a little more.
 
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