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Fandom [ LOST DOGS ] — A Yakuza Story

Bloodshot eyes followed shaky hands as Kenta fumbled for his lighter, earning a slight cock of the brow from Kenneth. That seemed a little too desperate to just be a man going for a casual smoke. Well, maybe it was just the adrenaline. Ken was fully willing to admit that he tended to handle fights a lot more casually than most people, feeling far more okay with the world when his knuckles collided with teeth and jaws. Even amongst the underworld, that seemed to be a rarity. These people loved to fight, of course. If you didn't have some affinity for violence, you wouldn't make it in a small street gang, let alone a more powerful syndicate. Still, Ken found fighting to be a far more natural part of life than most others he had met.

Kenta was desperate for a hit to calm down. Ken was only just getting warmed up.

That broken English slipped once more through clouds of cigarette smoke, the tone a lot more even than those shaking hands let on. Perhaps it was just the fight, but he would still make a note of it. Unfortunately, those menthol-slicked words confirmed his suspicions—firearms we're in fact illegal here. He drew a quiet hiss in through his teeth, cursing under his breath as his fingers absent-mindedly found themselves tracing the stitches on his face. He was going to get a lot more of those if he couldn't deliver on his end of the deal, but would Ivan be able to help him? The order he had taken was starting to look taller and taller by the minute.

Looking back up at his comrade, he was at least a little comforted to see him boxing the air while trying to explain his fighting prowess. Yep, still had his humanity, at least. Even though he was mimicking moves that had knocked his opponent on his ass moments before, there was still definitely a playfulness about it that kept Ken from registering it all as a threat. He couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the display, but it quickly trailed off when he noticed the shift in his expression.

He hadn't fully understood what Japanese Kenta had spoken, but it sounded a lot like a memory. It was the same tone Ken would have used when talking about the friends he made in high school who now seemed too distant to ever reach again, the tone he had heard from an associate in Red ATL as he shared a story about him and his siblings exploring a cave shortly before his youngest sister passed of cancer. It was less like he was being spoken to and more like he was the third party in a bitter conversation with father time. They couldn't ever return to that distant land known as the past. They just had to accept that it was gone.

Still, he just seemed so troubled. It was yet another glimpse into something vulnerable beyond the layers of sleaze that he wore, and it was something that Ken would continue to hold on to. His eyes scanned the troubled criminal from head to toe, fixating on his loose hand for a moment. Maybe he just needed...

The sudden return of eyes on him as well as the too-toothy grin snapped him out of his thoughts. Shit, no, he couldn't do that. Definitely not in public, and what would he think of it? He was a pretty casual guy, but not that casual. What was he saying?

Ah, they were back to talking about Ken's criminal record.

He rubbed his neck, trying to think of what details to include. He was pretty comfortable talking about beating the shit out of debtors, but there were other things he had done that were far grislier. Things that lingered in his subconscious for months after, occasionally sinking into his dreams and staining his morality. How much of that did Kenta truly want to know? Well, maybe that didn't have to be the focus. Kenta seemed to be under the impression that his foreign friend was wealthy.

That got another laugh out of Ken—he was, in fact, the exact opposite. He was currently surviving off of the spending money that the higher-ups had given him in order to seem less suspicious. It wouldn't raise any alarms for a foreigner to spend a bit of money at one of Kamurocho's many restaurants and nightlife hotspots, even if that foreigner seemed a bit high-strung and clueless. Yet, that money was only meant to last him for his layover. He didn't have much yen to his name now, especially not in comparison to the family man by his side.

"Ah, no very money," he chuckled, rubbing his neck. "Work for a year to give money back... Had to do work or, ah... Give body."

He traced a few lines across the base of his fingers. Worker's comp would have paid them back what they were owed had he taken up the job at one of their front companies, but man, did he not want to lose any more of his digits. "Maybe they let me make money after give work long time... Do not know anymore..."

He trailed off. Yeah, he really didn't know anymore. With Red ATL all but completely dissolved, his debts may have been forgotten. However, that still left him with other problems. Who would hire him? He wasn't exactly a respectable-looking man, and even if he was, he had a record now. Despite his skills and education, if anyone found out about his previous employment, he was fucked. That wasn't even going into his more innate traits—things that weren't wrong, that he couldn't help, but still fucked him over at every turn. Even if he made it home, he would likely be stuck in poverty and debt for the rest of his life.

Like Kenta, though, he forced that back with a crooked grin. "It is what I have to do, you know? I help with this, ah... Empty lot, if I can too. You do very much for me, would be uh... Not good to not do very much for you."
 
"Work or give body?!" the man repeated, eyes widening at the thought.

How much money did Kenneth owe? If his organization wanted a body in exchange he would only have to assume hundreds of thousands of dollars. One functioning in tact kidney could sell for roughly 40,000,000 yen! Or maybe he was thinking of this too literally. Taking a human life was a tremendous deal that could not always measure in material wealth. Perhaps they held that over Kenneth's head, knowing he wouldn't dare go so far. Yet . . .

Wide eyes trailed back to the scene, knowing that wasn't the case. If he wasn't there to reign Kenneth in what would've happened? He looked too pleased to throw punches around, unbothered by the blood that stained his face.

"Right," he responded, having to pry his eyes off the other man.

Through his drunken haziness, Kenta didn't quite realize who or what this stranger might be. At first glance, he looked like some lost foreigner who mimicked the rockstars he saw on TV, but the more time they spent together, Kenta saw how wrong he was.

Who really was the bigger danger here?

Some would say Kenta with his endless connections and title, and strength with a blade, but Kenneth proved to be a formidable foe on his own. Just who did he pick up at that bar?

"If you want to help," his hand laid once more on the other's shoulder, bringing him in closer. "I need help with my bro's plan. "Know -- ehh," his tongue switched to English. "You cannot speak my tongue very well, but I need some help -- looking for someone. Person owns lot," he spoke. "Name is Makimura Makoto. Need spread out to find,"

His words could be pieced together, right? Ah, times like these he wished he went to class more often. Or, focused more on Ritsuko's words than her pretty face. She always spoke English in such a concise way, it amazed him. He always imagined her being a sort of actress with the way she looked and carried herself. But, there was no point imagining about her, they had someone to find. Makimura Makoto.

Shit, he should've told Seiji to look through the records before hanging out . . . He clicked his tongue, deciding to continue forth anyway. "Runs a . . ." he struggled to remember the word, opting to merely speak it in Japanese. "Prostitution ring."

"Grab young girl and sell their body," he returned to English. "You guys have that, right? I think you maybe deal with that too in -- Red ALT," he spoke every letter of the organization with a shrug. "We make good starting at public place."
 
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Kenta's startled panic over Kenneth's employment terms earned him a slight jump and a frantic "calm down" hand gesture from the foreigner, his pupils shrinking in fear as his eyes darted around at the eyes now glued to the pair. Even if the few passersby couldn't understand the English he had just blurted out, the sight of panic from a member of the yakuza was enough to draw a few stares. "Hey, hey, chill out!" he hissed, breaking into a sweat when he realized how suspicious all of this looked. "It's not that big a deal, jeez... Don't they cut fingers off all the time over here?"

Fortunately, Kenta seemed to be able to rein it in, and the bystanders continued on their way—whether it was because they felt reassured or because because they wanted to stay out of whatever madness they thought Ken was capable of, he didn't want to know. He breathed a sigh of relief, straightening his stance and looking back up at the man.

And that's when the hand came down on his shoulder.

This would have been more than enough to fluster the shorter man, but then Kenta brought him closer to tell him the sensitive information about the lot's owner, and it took every ounce of restraint to not just continue leaning further and further in until he was pressed between the gap of Kenta's open shirt. He held it together of course—this was business, these were serious matters. Yet, he still felt the tips of his ears start to burn. What did he want to tell him? He heard that word again: kee-oh-die. Again, he found himself completely unfamiliar with it, so he had no idea what it was or how he was going to be helping it, but this wasn't the right time to be asking vocab questions. Besides, the switch to English provided some clarity—they needed to gather some intel on a Makimura Makoto. Huh, same sounds in the given and surname. That definitely made things easier to remember, at least. He found himself wondering how common that sort of thing was here.

But he had to regain focus. And what better way to rip him out of his own thoughts than to just casually bring up kidnapping innocent young girls and—well, it was either murder or forced prostitution, either one was pretty awful in comparison to insurance fraud. Ken's eyes snapped directly to Kenta's, flustered aversion replaced with bewilderment as he tried to parse exactly what he was saying. "This guy does what now?" he blurted out in English, clearing his throat before trying to wrangle Japanese from his throat. "You worry I give body and he take body from girls? Take girls body from girls and sell? Fuck, Kenta, that is... Many more bad where I am from."

He found himself looking around again, checking for any stares. Fortunately, their voices seemed low enough and the foot traffic light enough that they didn't draw any attention. At the same time, he didn't know if he was supporting that by being an associate of Red ATL. He knew that they operated at least one strip club in the area in order to launder money, but would they stop that low? He already knew for a fact that people were killed on their behalf, so it wasn't too far out of the question, but things like this always felt on another level to him. The people who were killed usually posed some sort of threat to the organization. With things like this, however...

He felt his hands get a bit clammy and tried to discreetly wipe the sweat from his face. He didn't even think about this. He had no time, no authorization to even consider thinking about it. "I... I do not know if Red ATL ever... I do not... I not know, I never see, I never help with..."

God, he didn't want to think about this. He was already stained enough as it was, he didn't need this perched atop his conscience too. Just the thought of him unintentionally allowing something like that to propagate made his stomach turn, and Kenta was just casually waving it off like this was just a thing that happened. Yet, if this was the world he had landed in, then he had no choice than to bite his tongue back and accept the conditions. After all, what could he do about it? He was locked in the jaws of the Kijin now, and if they wanted this Makimura guy, then it wasn't like he could go off the rails and just...

Deep breaths. He had to hold it together, despite his growing discomfort.

"When we find this... Makimura Makoto... What we do?" he managed to say, words quieted by a heavy mind. "What Nishitani want... Do you know? If see him walk by me, what do I do?"
 
Fingers? He had misunderstood Kenneth? Was 'give body' . . . did he mean it literally? Give pieces of his own body to the organization? Well, that wasn't underheard of, but it still begged the question of how much he owed these people.

"Wait wait," he spoke. "He no -- well," he shrugged a bit. "I no really know, but know he not ehh . . ."

Shit, why was English so difficult? Why were there so many words for things and why couldn't he just cut to the chase?

He shook his head. "He take young girl, eh college and have them work, for money. No sell. Me think,"

The usually suave Kenta, who was able to squeeze himself out of police searches with just a few sentences, was stumbling over himself in another language. He hated it. He needed to teach Kenneth Japanese immediately. He couldn't keep doing this, having to force himself to recall words he barely was able to pronounce let alone string together.

"But you really never do it?" he cocked a brow.

Prostitution was an extremely common and easy way to make money. Take a girl that had no other options and put her to sell herself. It was a distasteful crime, earning nothing but dirty money, but it paid everything off. There was an endless supply and demand for girls and horny men willing to pay for any of them. It was disgusting. He couldn't blame Kenneth for clamming up at the thought. His own stomach churned at the thought of being used for his body, something he knew too much about, but it was . . . how things were. Kenta couldn't think of a single shady organization that didn't dabble in some type of sex work.

"That is strange," he muttered. "I mean! Me don't do it either. Not like to hurt women like that," he shook his head, attempting to ease the man a bit.

There were a lot of crimes Kenta was willing to commit, and had committed. Theft, robbery, assault, breaking and entering, trespassing, selling of weapons, but dehumanizing someone like that? It was a line he refused to cross.

"If we find, we need to . . ." he trailed off with an extended pause.

What did Nishitani want? Wouldn't it be easier to kill him and save everyone else the pain? Take a scum off the street and allow them to make a move on the Lot with no interruptions? But how could they get their hands on it then? If the owner turned up dead, the police would bury themselves deeper into the case. First, a man gets murdered in a small corner of Kamurocho and a few days later the owner of that plot also turns up dead. It would reek of suspicion and none of the families would be able to make a move.

"Tell me. I have to deal with it,"

It was his head on the line after all. "But I do not think we can make move yet, else planning by Mr. Nishitani," he nodded. "We tail and get place he at and wait for signal."

It very well could be they did need to kill him, but not until Nishitani gave the okay, which should be any hour by now.

"We could maybe ehh, wear down," he threw a quick punch, attempting to emphasize his words. "Prolly hold him until we get information need."
 
Kenneth allowed himself to relax once Kenta made his motives clear—he wasn't about to stoop that low. Good. They were honestly getting along so well, Ken didn't want to have to turn on him.

That thought caught him for a moment. He had known Kenta for only a day, yet not only was he willing to commit so much violence on his behalf that it frightened the yakuza, but he also wasn't sure if he could turn that violence back onto the man even if a betrayal was imminent. That was strange. Usually, burning bridges was something that came naturally to him. Was it the fact that the guy had saved his life? Was it the fact that he was the only one in this country who had stuck with him? Or was it something else? Something entirely separate from their codependency, something that he hadn't even been able to parse yet. It wasn't just physical attraction, he knew that much—otherwise Oscar still would have had a full set of teeth. So, what made this man so special?

He let out a quiet huff in self-frustration. He'd have to chalk it up to that unending pool of charisma and mercy, or maybe something in that hazy night that he couldn't recall. Even though those hadn't saved peers of his before, that was all he had to go on.

Ah, understand, understand," he said, scratching at his face absent-mindedly. The stress was starting to override that quarter-dose just enough to be annoying. "No fight until tell you... Oh, man you talk to back there. We see him? Tell him too?"

Fuck, his Japanese was clunky as hell. The itching didn't help, but it wasn't like it was much better before. He was starting to lament losing that traveler's dictionary, even if it wouldn't have contained a section on how to converse about criminal matters. Maybe he could teach Kenta some more English? Of course, learning Japanese fluently would be a must on his end, but having a second language to communicate in was often a saving grace in the American underworld. Russian in particular was not a common tongue in the American South, and it was rare that anyone at the station actually trusted the translations due to many of the senior officers and detectives living through the Red Scare. He still got called a dirty commie on the regular back home whenever people learned of his heritage. Even if they were wiretapped, the cases often got thrown out simply because no one actually knew if they were saying illegal things.

Still, he could make Kenta an omniglot overnight and it wouldn't change the fact that his own Japanese sucked. This was going to make things much harder.

... Unless the same rules applied?

Ken looked back up at Kenta, a light going off behind his eyes. Maybe he could be more useful than he thought. "You know many foreign people here? In America, foreign people often, ah... Alive close? Speak close," he tried to explain, making a gesture like he was squeezing a dodgeball. "Maybe I know more words of their speak, learn thing Japanese not know..."
 
Man you talk back there?

Oh! The man he spoke to previously. Imai Seiji.

"Ah, yes should tell him too," he nodded, pulling out his pager. Although the pair had barely started on their journey to finding Makimura, it would be best to send an alert to his brother. He inputted his number into the screen followed by a quick message.

On the search. Get info.

Quick message for a busy guy. Although for a large majority of high school Kenta envied his older counterpart, now that they were in the same situation, he realized how much the man's life sucked. He was in higher ranking with the Kijin, finally having moved up when he secured himself an oath brother, but that just meant more cleaning up. Kenta mostly handled errands or whatever brute whatever no one else bothered taking on, but Seiji had to tirelessly work around the clock making sure everything and everyone was in order. If a delivery went awry, he had to figure it out. If a new schmuck thought he was slick skimming a bit off the top, it was Seiji's job to deal with him. Whatever the higher-ups needed, Seiji was usually one of the men they called.

He couldn't help but sigh a bit, realizing one day he may also be in that position, cleaning up messes he wasn't responsible for.

Was that how it was being an adult?

The man pulled the cigarette from his own lips, dropping it to the floor and crushing it with his shoe. "I not know many Americans," he shrugged. "I know small Chinese part of town, but . . ." he hummed slightly, tracing his fingers over his mustache as he looked through the lit city. With the sun fully shining, it was hard to miss the remnants of the night before. Drunks passed out on the floor, groups finally being kicked out of clubs, and call girls rushing out of love hotels, hoping to return home before anyone spotted them.

"Ehh . . ." he trailed off again before his finger snapped. "Oh wait I do!" he spoke in Japanese, chuckling after. "Shit I'm a damn genius," his hand moved from the shorter man's shoulder, going along his arm until his hand clasped over Kenneth's hand. "There's this guy in that little neighborhood, he can speak both pretty well," he continued on his tangent in Japanese. "Oh, shit there's a parlor there too -- ah, I should check in there too and see if I can do some snooping around," he grinned at the thought, pulling the other along, guiding him a bit through the busy streets. Apart from the remnants of the nightlife, there were now honest people, on their way to work who still congested the streets. Kenta's pace quickened, a bit giddy over his own brilliant plan.

That and the fact he got an excuse to hold the foreigner's hand, even if it was a bit clammy.
 
The light in Ken's eyes filled the rest of his face in a beaming smile when he realized that his idea not only worked, but it was also communicated with enough clarity for Kenta to devise a whole plan with it. He may not have understood every word of Japanese that the man had said—the excitement causing his accent to jam words together a bit harder than usual—but he could tell excitement when he heard it. Man, it was contagious, too. It sent a warmth through his chest, straight down his arm and into one of his hands-

Wait.

He glanced down to see that Kenta had done what he had only briefly considered doing and grabbed hold of his hand, nearly smashing straight through that calm facade that Ken had been trying so hard to maintain. His cheeks and ears felt like he had faceplanted on a highway in the summertime, his heart pounded in his fingers—shit, could Kenta notice? Ken couldn't even parse the rest of his excited rambling past the cacophony of noise in his head. The yakuza could have already called him every slur in the book in that moment and then gone on to invent new ones and the foreigner would not have even noticed through his thoughts and the mingling scents of cheap hotel soap and cigarette smoke.

The only things he could bring himself to be aware of were the intricacies of Kenta's grip. For starters, there was a size difference that absolutely could not be ignored. While Ken's hands were small and bony, often cold to the touch, Kenta's hand felt like gripping a cooked steak. It all but enveloped Ken's in its warmth. It was a little rough, with the majority of that roughness being in his palm. Beyond the normal roughness of a working man, the two men seemed to share the same callouses at the base of their fingers. Ken had gotten his from using crappy batting gloves, blistering his hands until they bled. What stories did Kenta's roughness hold, he wondered. He wanted to trace every rough patch and line and feel out the tales behind his eyes. At the same time, he wondered if Kenta could feel the stories in his own battered hand.

Before he could completely lose himself in the moment, he found himself being pulled along through the ever-increasing morning crowd of hungover businessmen and high school flunkies. Normally, this sort of thing would make him deeply uncomfortable. He hated being forced around like this—being grabbed and dragged brought back memories he would rather keep buried.

Yet, with a soft smile, he realized that this wasn't force. This was just how things were meant to be. They were meant to exist as two rather than one, a pair of hands clasped in a morning run rather than two terrified souls scrambling for meaning in a warzone. In that brief moment, everything began to make sense. In that brief moment, everything felt okay again.

He could only hope Kenta felt the same.
 
Was this too much?

It was one thing casually touching someone, putting his hand on their shoulder, giving them a fist bump or a high-five, even just standing close to them, but for once he was holding someone's hand. No, he was holding a man's hand. This -- had to be different. Although his excitement kept his fingers around the other's hand, it crept up from the back of his mind.

What did Kenneth think? With his eyes locked in front of them, and all the forward momentum, he didn't get a chance to look back and gauge his reaction. Kenta knew if he did this with anyone else in his life -- even Ema -- they'd give him a strange look and promptly break away but Kenneth was different.

Kenneth was different in more ways than one.

In their short time, he already made such a grand impression on him. Someone who was damn near fearless, bordering on brainless, but he respected him. Who else would follow after and charge into his boss' office and then proceed to defend him? Who else would give him a pleasant conversation that didn't revolve around business and work? Even with Seiji it always devolved into their shared organization. Even if communication with the foreigner was difficult . . . maybe it was worthwhile?

His chest tightened a bit, resisting the urge to squeeze the other's hand a bit. He felt with enough pressure he might accidentally snap one of the bony fingers.

Bony fingers . . .

All of Kenneth was bony, he was so small compared to him, Kenta practically towered over him, yet despite that the American proved himself to be a bigger threat than himself. It was . . . it tugged at his chest a bit. He had never met someone with such sheer will, someone that despite their having their back nearly to the gates of hell, kept trying to claw their way out. It was admirable, if not attractive.

His eyes finally shot back, glancing at Ken, feeling as if the short glance lasted minutes. He took the brief moment to take in the other's reaction, a grip spreading across his face as he saw no malice. Underneath the messy long hair, Kenta swore he spotted a bit of red spreading down and onto his face, causing him to chuckle slightly.

Maybe things would be okay . . . all things considered.

They were both criminals at the end of the day, but maybe they could at least protect each other?

If Kenneth wanted, of course.

-------


Despite his enjoyment of holding the other's hand, he eventually had to break it off. Now they were in uncharted territory and in public, he couldn't risk being seen in such a position. Nonetheless, he still pulled the man in close and off the street, letting himself examine the surroundings. There were people that immediately caught onto the fact they didn't belong there. There were strangers in their own city, but he pushed past, mirroring a glare he received from a man walking down the street.

"Be careful here," he said, opening the door to the parlor. Hopefully, the man he spoke of was here.
 
Of course, all good things must come to an end. Kenta's hand slipped away from Ken's as they closed in on wherever he had been dragging the foreigner to, leaving it open to the cold once more. Though, at least it didn't leave him with that same bitter heartache he had vaguely remembered feeling in the doctor's office the night before. Of course he would rather be closer, but he wasn't being pushed away as soon as Kenta released his hand. In fact, he was still being guided—guarded, almost—by other means even after they had reached the location.

And boy, was it something. A little further away from the city's center, it was a small, knotted mess of side streets and living spaces stacked atop storefronts. It was like a monkey's fist of concrete, glass, and steel. Scents of spices completely alien to Ken's palate wove in gusts through vents and alleys, signs and graffiti of multiple different east Asian languages speckled the walls—though there weren't any he could read yet. All he needed was one guy who spoke English or Russian, then he would be set to investigate on his own, despite his unfamiliarity with the area. He knew this. Yet, the architecture made him feel somewhat trapped, and his earlier euphoria was slowly melting back into an anxious tremor.

He wondered if he could scale these buildings if he needed to. Maybe. There were enough bars, A/C units, and ledges to allow someone with enough experience to just climb straight up. However, he was more of a runner than a climber. If that was his only option in a pinch, then he may have to make a scene. He really didn't want to do that. Yet, with all the glares he was getting, he knew he might have to fight his way out. He was an invader here, and he was bringing trouble. No doubt they didn't take kindly to the yakuza here.

Looking back up at Kenta, he felt flooded with peace and worry. There was no doubt in Ken's mind that his new friend could defend himself if he needed to, but this felt like an unnecessary danger. He didn't know what was going on behind the door of the building he had chosen to stop at, all he knew was that they likely wouldn't be hospitable once the two men entered. "Understand," he said, his voice low and soft as he peeked into the building. Best to at least maintain a calm front in a place like this.

Inside, there were a bunch of tables, the men sitting around them playing a game with tiles that he recognized as mahjong tiles—he had seen them being used in a computer game that one of the drug dealers on campus owned. Yet, despite the familiarity of the tiles, he had no idea what game was being played with them. The computer game had the tiles in a large pile, whereas these guys were using them almost like playing cards. There were clatters and chatters filling every inch of the room when they walked in.

And then the first man spotted them.

No one got up to attack, thank god. Yet, the room still fell noticably quieter, and all eyes were on the two intruders. Loud conversations turned to murmurs and whispers, and even the ones who kept playing moved just a little quieter. The entire room felt like a mousetrap, and Kenneth knew that one wrong breath could set it off. Kenta probably wouldn't even need to breathe. Several glares had already found their way to his pinned comrade, and he saw a few men scanning the room for anything they could use as a weapon. Ken may not have been much safer, especially given he was still affiliated with the yakuza now, but at least he had the advantage of foreign comraderie on his side.

He looked back up at Kenta, keeping his hands firmly by his sides as worry crinkled his brow. The last thing he wanted was for one of these guys to think he was reaching for a weapon. "Not good for you here," he whispered, keeping one eye out for any signs of an attack. "Tell me where man is, then go. Will be okay, I promise. I go back at bar where we meet in... Eh, two hour, most. Not back by then... I have problem. Okay?"
 
There was no question Yakuza were unwelcomed here. It was the only place in the city where the Omi's reach hadn't poisoned it, and the residents intended on keeping it that way. The tension in the air was thick, it felt as if Kenta couldn't take a single step without someone glaring at him. The once loud parlor turned quite upon their entry. The normal clacking of the tiles came to a halt as the men waited for the strangers to do anything.

Any wrong move and they could both land in a back alley covered in blood.

Nonetheless, Kenta took in a slow breath, scanning the room for the man. When they first met, he was a glaring foreigner, with blond hair and fair skin and bright green eyes that pierced through Kenta whenever they spoke, but these days he usually wore a disguise. It was hard to tell him through the crowd -- maybe the disguise worked a bit too well.

"Good idea," he whispered back with a nod. Although he wanted to stay and keep a close eye on Kenneth, he knew his presence would merely agitate the other patrons, regardless of his charms. It annoyed him quite a bit, but he knew he had no control over the situation. Completely turning his back on his old life, branding himself as a criminal would lead to situations like this, unfortunately. Being banned from certain spaces was a regular occurrence, no matter how much money he threw at the owners.

Once again, he was tempted to fling money their way, hoping to buy himself a seat at the tables, but knew he would only put more strain on the whole situation. Even if he could sit down, it didn't guarantee the men would speak to either of them or even let them get close to the friendly foreigner. It was all a giant gamble that they didn't need. Kenta could go out and collect his own information while Kenneth dealt with his own manners.

"Look," his head guested to one of the tables beside the window. "Man with the hat and fur coat," he explained, continuing in English. "Tell him friend of Kojima Kenta. He will help. Good man. Live for years, good tongue for American," he nodded, pulling his eyes to the brunett. "I will see what can find on street,"

With a final glance at the hostile men, he slowly stepped back out into the city.

----

FIND MAKIMURA MAKOTO​

For two long hours, Kenta didn't stumble over a single word. Everything was clear cut, stringing girls along, giving them exactly what they wanted to hear as he got more and more details. Now, most of them had no actual idea who Makimura was, mostly wanting to go out and have Kenta buy them a drink, but he couldn't be distracted. He simply gave them his pager number and then hung up the phone.

Something that deeply hurt him, a lot of those girls sounded really cute . . .

But, he couldn't allow himself to get distracted, even if all he was doing was standing around in a phone booth, watching people pass by.

As time ticked on, he switched from chatting to call girls to talking with real girls on the street. It garnered him a lot more details, even if it did run him about eight-thousand-yen. Why did he choose Ema of all girls? She always wanted more and more before she could talk, even at the club.

"Jeez Kojima, I don't know -- you're making me put my neck on the line here, I think I deserve some dinner for that."

It started off with dinner and then escalated.

"I still don't know, how about a new bracelet? You'll get it for me, right? I am giving up a lot for you,"

And she would throw those sweet fluttering eyes at him . . . Shit, he was slipping down old habits again. Why couldn't he say no? Was it the way she clung to his arm? Her sweet lips that she always denied him the pleasure of kissing? Pretty soon, the pair were off talking about something completely unrelated, droning on about the latest music releases.

"Kojima, what're you doing after this?"

"After? Well, I was hoping I could --" he caught himself in the act. Shit, he was about to ask her to come back to his place, as if he wasn't supposed to meet Kenneth back at the bar. He blinked, pulling himself from the siren's trance, and looking down at his watch. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," he cursed to himself, breaking free his arm. "I -- I have to go, I'll -- see you later tonight! I'll call you!"

Shit, it had been a whole three hours since he left Kenneth at the parlor. What if something happened? How was he supposed to know? What if arrived at the bar and he wasn't there? What if he was in trouble? If Kenneth wasn't at the bar then . . . Kenta would have to pay the parlor a second visit with Seiji at his side.
 
As Kenta left the area, the air only lost a sliver of its tension. Kenneth still had his work cut out for him, it seemed. He clenched his teeth, resisting the burning desire to scratch at his neck. Again, this was not the time for sudden moves. A few of the patrons at least seemed comfortable going back to their games, a soft clatter once again filling the room as the foreigner tried to find his own. He certainly stood out with his fur coat, bowler cap, and steely glare. He hadn't seemed to mind when the rest of the room fell quiet, but now that the focus was on him, he was immediately on the defensive.

How distinctly American.

Ken couldn't help but crack a smile—nerves and amusement overriding his sense. It was at least nice to see that familiar spirit again, even if it seemed to want him dead. Taking a few steps back towards the door, he kept one hand up as the other slowly worked the bat out of his belt loop. This roused a few people from their tables, but they seemed to settle down as the weapon was propped against the door and left behind. Fear was becoming overridden by curiosity. Who was this man, and if his purpose here wasn't to fight, then what was it?

With the room somewhat defused, he slowly made his way towards the table, yet again ensuring that his hands were in view. A few people hissed words at him that he couldn't understand—not that ne needed to. The tone was enough to tell him the intent. By the time he had made it to the table, he could feel dozens of eyes in his back like needles. He had to make this quick.

"Pardon me, sir. This seat taken?"

The heavily-accented English was enough to catch the ear of his ally, earning him a raised eyebrow and a bemused smirk. He gestured broadly to the empty seat across from him, and Ken sat down and tried to pretend he knew what he was doing with those tiles. "Long way from home, aren't you, cowpoke?" the man scoffed, standing a few of the tiles up and prompting Kenneth to do the same—albeit blindly. His accent was distinctly American, but less placable than Ken's southeastern drawl. Maybe somewhere in the midwest? "So, what business does a man like you have in this part of town? And with an Omi man no less... Do you even have the slightest idea what you're stirring up over here?"

"More than you're thinking, I'd reckon," Ken sneered, giving up on trying to follow with the tiles. "'Preciate you cutting to the chase with me, though. I'm looking for a Makoto Makimura. From what I'm hearing, he runs a prostitution ring 'round these parts. Real sketchy one, too. I just need the fella's whereabouts, and I'll be out of y'all's hair. Cross my heart."

"Better not be hoping to die on that."

The air between them hung heavy for a moment, Ken staring the fellow American down as he stared down at the tiles in front of him.

"... Ever played mahjong?"

"What? No, look, I appreciate your attempts at a mentorship here, but I have really got to-"

"You want your info, right? I'm not the best player in this parlor. I've been on a bit of a losing streak, actually. So, let me show you how to play, let me have my fun, and I'll give you what you want. Sound fair?"

Ken finally let himself scratch that itch on his neck, hissing quietly as he stared down at the tiles. He could tell there was money involved with these games—money he didn't have. Yet, if this was his only option...

Well, he didn't want to take option two just yet.

"You drive a hard bargain there, sir," he said, tapping his fingers on the back of his neck. "But alright. Show me how it's done."

--

Three hours later...

Well, that could have gone better.

Ken had taken quite the loss in mahjong. No matter how hard he had tried, he just couldn't comprehend the ruleset. Now he was down ¥10,000 yen and a fair chunk of his dignity seeing as a few of the regulars had crowded around just to witness his witless struggle. To top it off, while he was searching for more leads, someone had beaned him in the head with a can, leaving him with a goose's egg and a thin layer of patience that he was slowly scratching away at.

"Just like Texas Hold 'Em my ass," he grumbled, flinging a dart with deadly precision. At least he could still earn money with this. Just like in college, he had a very simple strategy: find the most overconfident daydrinkers, challenge them to a betting match of darts, humiliate them, get the money, repeat ad infinitum. Of course, pickings were slim at this hour, but he was still able to make back a couple thousand yen.

He hesitated with his next throw, earning an embittered slew of profanity from his opponent. It took a fair amount of restraint to not lodge that dart directly between his eyes. Still, he managed to tune out the noise and throw at the target instead. 25 points. Dammit, he was losing focus.

Well, how couldn't he? By the time he had made it there, there were only fifteen minutes remaining until their agreed-upon meeting time. There was no way he should have been able to make this much before Kenta returned. Yet, here they were, an hour past, and Kenta was still nowhere in sight. Where the hell was he? He did make it out of Little Asia, right? Ken hadn't heard any fights break out while he was in the parlor, and that area was pretty cramped. He would have heard something. So, what gives?

He looked down at his empty hand, flexing it a few times as he waited for his opponent to make his move. It felt so empty now. Where was he? Surely he hadn't left, right? He hadn't just abandoned the foreigner after learning what he wanted to learn, right? Or worse, was he in trouble? He hadn't asked where the yakuza was going to be doing his rounds. What if he was getting his ass kicked somewhere in the city with no way to contact help?

A mixture of agitation, worry, and fear swirled in Ken's mind as he scooped up his next round of darts. Where was that man?
 
The cool neon lights flashed above his head, clashing against his burgundy suit. He stared at the wooden door for minutes now, gnawing at the thought of going in. What if Kenneth wasn't in there and he wasted his time coming here? Even worse, what if he was in there? What if all this worrying was for nothing and the American was patiently waiting at the bar for his arrival? It tugged at his chest, imagining Kenneth in the same position when they first met.

But what if he wasn't dejected, what if he was angry? Kenta was confident in his skills against any regular low-life thug, but Kenneth had who knows how many years of experience under his belt, how was he supposed to compete with that? His jaw clenched, imagining a swift punch straight to it if he walked into that bar. So many possibilities, so many outcomes, what should he choose?

His eyes darted between the door and the street. Door and street. The black abyss versus the bright luminescent lights. His teeth slammed down on his lip before inevitably giving him. The wooden door opened, revealing himself to all the patrons inside. Some of them looked his way, giving Kenta a quick glance before returning to their business. Others clutched their belongings and shuffled further into their booth, understanding What he was.

A yakuza that very well might be walking into a trap.

"Didn't know you played," Kenta spoke, joining the other man's side. While he personally was never good at the game, Seiji always managed to wrangle him into a good time. He himself was more of a billiards man, but he wouldn't force the switch of games.

"Have room for another?" he continued, shinning his grin, hoping his late arrival could be glossed over. If not, he could very well see Kenneth taking the end of the dart and . . .

He forced his thoughts from the grim place, turning to the board.

"I managed to get some information, a good bit that'll help us out," his finger ran along the metallic edge. "How about you?" he then blinked, realizing he had been speaking Japanese the entire time.

"Eh, better know of Japanese?" he asked. "I can help with tips, eh build on what Rowan told you, okay?"

Maybe if Kenneth had drunk, then he would've forgotten Kenta's late arrival and they could carry on with their mission with no unnecessary fighting.
 
Still trapped in a haze of his own thoughts, Kenneth didn't notice that it was his turn to go until his opponent was once again yelling in his face, snapping his fingers and hissing out words that, though largely unknown, definitely sounded unfriendly. He tried to remember these—they might come in handy for quite a few immediate situations. A bar brawl—though he'd rather not with the upcoming fight—another encounter with that pompadour kid, maybe he could even fire a few off at that Nishitani guy if he felt confident enough.

Eh, better not. Ken's memory was still hazy as ever, but he was probably the kind of man who knew insults that hadn't even been invented yet. He'd at least have to clear the meanings of what he was hearing with Kenta first before mouthing off to a patriarch in his mother tongue on his homeland.

Of course, that was assuming the guy was still breathing. As the foreigner lined up his next shot, his mind wandered to all of the gruesome possibilities. They were in some deep shit, he knew that much. That on top of what he had learned meant that... Well, a certain someone could show up and absolutely take Kenta out. His body might already be floating down the river, or hung to drain in a warehouse somewhere that reeked of iron and bleach. Depending on how quick these boys worked, he might already be hacked to bits, packed in ice, and hauled off to the countryside. He grimaced at the thought—that friendly face mutilated and dumped unceremoniously in a vertical grave beneath a dead dog.

Ken grit his teeth, hoping he wouldn't go like that. He didn't deserve to go like that. God, he didn't have to go like that!

Then, that velvet voice broke through his morbid daymares.

Ken's eyes snapped up to his new companion. He was... Fine. More than fine, he seemed to be in an entirely pleasant mood. He wore that same cocky grin that he had at the start of their earlier brawl, and he seemed to be making small talk. Ken couldn't quite make out the better half of it, but he seemed to be making some sort of remark on his current game of choice. As though he were trying to take him back to his apartment for the night, Kenta had strolled up to the board and began tracing his finger along it, eliciting an impatient—yet silent—glare from his daydrinking opponent. Seems he was intimidated by that pin.

Meanwhile, Ken was feeling such a flurry of emotions that he couldn't even focus on the criminal status. There was relief—he was alive, thank God. There was confusion—why had he taken so long? What was he doing that required that extra hour?

Prevailing over all was the seething rage of a man stood up without explanation.

Ken started into Kenta's eyes, his pupils shrinking as the anger took hold. Oh, he was interested in how he threw darts, huh? Well, he could lodge all three in his dumbass head with little issue, but he wasn't about to make him bleed when he still needed his help.

He would, however, show him that he could.

Ken ripped his gaze from Kenta to glare directly at the dartboard, locking on and cocking his hand back. He had three darts, time to make each one of them count.

One. Outer bull.

Two. Outer bull.

Three. Inner bull.

In just a few short seconds, Ken had pulled off a hat trick. Maybe it intimidated the yakuza standing next to the board, maybe it didn't. It sure scared the shit out of the barfly who had challenged him—the realization that this man was willing to show a display of dominance like that to a criminal a foot taller than him was enough to have him scrambling for the cash he owed. He didn't even check to see if it was the right amount, just tossed it in the general direction of the enraged American and booked it. Ken didn't even glance at the money. His gaze had returned strictly to Kenta's eyes.

And then he approached. With an indignant weight to his step, he walked right up to the yakuza and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him down to eye level. Time to try out those insults. He'd figure out if they made sense or not later.

"Where the shit you been, shorty bastard!?" he snarled, that drawl infiltrating his Japanese. "Do you know how long I wait here!? Dumb coward!? You..." he began to stammer and trail off. He hadn't remembered that many insults. Shit, time to switch to English. "I've been waiting here for a whole ass hour wondering where you were! I ain't got the damn patience for this! I lost ¥10,000 thanks to your weasely-ass pal back there, I got hit in the head with a goddamn can of coffee, I've been treated like a rotten cow pile by everyone in this piece of shit city just trying to help your sorry ass out, and you ain't even sorry for leaving me in the dark like that!?"

He then launched into a string of Russian that, though incomprehensible to everyone in the bar, would have been greatly regrettable to anyone who had heard it for what it was. It would have made the director of an adult film writhe in flustered embarassment, or the cameraman of a snuff film keel over heaving. Despite his increasing anger, his rage hitting its peak, his voice also betrayed a certain desperation. His grip on Kenta was white-knuckle, but he didn't go any further than where he had gone. He wasn't fighting. He was baying, barking, snarling like an agitated feral dog. And yet, he didn't end in Russian. He ended in Japanese.

"I think you was kill, you idiot fuck!"

Ken stood there for what felt like an hour, teeth bared, panting from his tirade. His face was completely flushed red, and there was a haziness to his eyes. He was tired. He was angry. He was so, so glad to see that moron's face again. After a few seconds, he sighed, looking away as his grip loosened. His fingers slid down the smooth fabric of Kenta's shirt before breaking away to rub his face. It was hopeless—he really couldn't stay mad at the guy.

"Deepest apologies, Kenta," he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse from the outburst. "I am sure you doing your best..."
 
The metal darts ripping through the air nearly caused Kenta to flinch. Nearly.

It was an impressive feat, but nothing he hadn't seen before. He once met a man that could pull off the same trick with his eyes closed, only focusing on the breeze in the air and shooting. If Kenneth had done something like that, maybe his body would have moved.

However, it actually the foreigner that moved first, quickly closing their gap. Before the man could even part his lips an insult was hurled straight at his head. 'Shorty?' Who the hell did Kenneth think he was talking to? He couldn't even get a word in, the man was speaking so fast all the words slurred together into one long sentence.

Something about losing money, Kenta being late, and getting treated like . . . 'rotten cow pile.' Whatever the hell that meant.

The yakuza raised his hands in defense, also attempting to block any incoming attacks the man might throw his way. Intoxicated or not, with the amount of anger running through the brunett's body, he was sure something was bound to be unleashed. His eyes dimmed a bit, watching Kenneth intensely as he continued to spout more curses, insults, and vulgarity through another language.

Carefully, he watched the hand grip his open shirt, closing the gap between their bodies. He was pulled forced, shoulders shaking as his head rocked forward as his jaw clenched.

If it was anyone else. If it was anyone else . . .

Kenta's hand gripped Kenneth's small wrist, with any more pressure he could've snapped the bone. It constituted as an attack on a Kijin member, even if his hand grabbed his shirt for barely a minute. He couldn't roll over and take something like that, even if Kenneth had only been concerned at the end of the day.

The other man thought he was dead, a frightful thought Kenta could understand, but to be publically humiliated like that? By some -- foreigner that could barely speak his tongue? Kenta's fingers came up, adjusting his now wrinkled shirt as he stared him down.

"Do not do that again," he clearly spoke. "I know you are worried, but --"

The immense weight of the stranger's stares weighed heavy on his conscious. If they saw a yakuza allow something like that, what would they think? Yakuzas were ruthless by nature, always coming into places causing a ruckus until they got what they wanted. To roll over like a dog just because someone threw around a few cheap insults would be cowardly and an offense to the rest of his clan.

His breath hitched, unsure of how to act. On one end, his jas was clenched, itching to merely give the man a good smack across the face -- just like he would when he was younger, but the other end urged him to stay calm. What would his new friend think if he hit him just for expressing his concern? But why the fuck did he stoop so low and speak such vile things?

"If you did that to anyone else you would be lying 6 feet under,"

Not the best warning to give with a dark glare. Forcefully, he reached out to the other man, squeezing the back of Kenneth's neck as he pulled him along to the bar, away from the other customers. Haphazardly he guided him, practically tossing him against the surface as he sat himself down.

The man behind the counter held a cautious and frightened look in his eyes. His hand stopped wiping the glass, taking a quick step back as he couldn't bring himself to hold the man's gaze. "Wh-what can I get you, sir?"

"Two Sapporo Premium and hurry the fuck up," he spat, turning his attention to Kenneth. "If you're done with your temper tantrum can we speak like men now?"
 
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Kenneth didn't stand down when Kenta showed his anger—he had expected it. Even when he grabbed his wrist, despite the pressure being enough to cut the blood flow to his hand, he didn't stand down until he was finished. He didn't care if Kenta was angry. He had to say his piece, he had to say something. The pressure had been building in his head for too long.

Contrarywise, when he was finished, he simply allowed Kenta's subtle anger to play out. He wasn't going to attack. If he was going to do that, he would have already done so. Besides, he did have a point—had he done that to anyone else, it would have ended in a fight. He wouldn't allow it to end in his death, but it definitely would have ended in potentially lethal danger for the foriegner. He didn't fight this, he wasn't going to fight the truth.

However, his patience was still fractured, and In the scarce moments that he allowed his guard to fall, Kenneth found himself being grabbed by the neck. In an instant, his hand shot to the inside of his jacket, his pulse roared in his ears, and his earlier considerations of nonviolence were forcibly discarded. In Atlanta, it would have been a gun. In his home, it would have been whatever sharp object he could smuggle—a long nail, a dull paring knife, anything. Here, it was a switchblade, and Kenta's chest lay bare behind him with a beating heart for a bullseye.

If it were anyone else, Ken's hand wouldn't have froze once it touched the handle of his blade.

Before he could break through his own hesitance, he found himself thrown against the bar, the arm that had forced him to his weapon found itself pinned against the wood as he clumsily caught himself. He couldn't hear Kenta's anger anymore. He couldn't hear much of anything past the blood and instincts flooding his head. As the yakuza spoke to the bartender, the foreigner tried to subtly, slowly, remember how to breathe. Instead of his switchblade, he pulled his lighter, flicking it flamelessly as he tried desperately to rid the shaking from his hands.

Right. Organized crime. As his brain forced him through recollection, he realized that he had forgotten their rules. These types—Kenta and his cohorts—they cared more about appearances and reputations than life itself. If someone made them look weak, humiliated them, or even just tried to stand on equal footing with them, they were put back in line one way or another. Sometimes it was quick, a gunshot to the back of the head. Other times, they brought them to the brink of death over and over until they pled for mercy—casting complete disregard to the cost so long as it would make the pain go away. Sometimes the cost was blood—theirs or another's. Other times it was simpler: money, possessions, material things. Other times...

Was Kenta saying something?

Ken tried to fight through a haze of the past and present, his body distant and slow to respond as he tried to force himself to make eye contact. Everything was dulled, but Kenta's lips were definitely moving. He just couldn't make out what those sounds were. Were they English? Maybe? No, they were spoken with too much confidence for that. At any rate, the meaning flew straight through him. He could only hope to read Kenta's expression for answers. It was... Well, the anger was still definitely there. That much made sense. Everything else just confused him further.

Well, shit. He had to act normal, but he didn't know what was being said—not even remotely. He had to say something. How long had it been since Kenta spoke? Shit, were people looking at him? "I, ah. I didn't catch that, uh..." he stammered, his tone faraway as he struggled to meet eyes. Oh, that was English. Right, gotta fix that. "I am sorry, sir. I do not understand."

It was stilted, devoid of life, and ripped straight from a textbook, but it would have to do. He just hoped that it wouldn't instigate the man any further. He wasn't sure if he could deal with any more grabbing for a while.
 
"You don't understand?" the man cocked his head before forcing his eyes down onto Kenneth.

Dark eyes fell onto the other man and . . . it forced Kenta to take in a sharp breath. Shit, what did he do?

Anger filled the man's body. To be yelled at like that, especially by someone he considered to be on his side snapped something inside him . . . Maybe Kenneth was too bold, maybe he was too stupid, maybe Kenta was too trusting to believe something like this wouldn't happen.

In his old group, his 'friends' did whatever he asked with little complaints. Of course, there was the usual slip of the tongue.

"I'm tired, can't we go home?" or the obligatory, "He's always late . . ." Most likely due to the amount of care Kenta put into making sure he was always presentable. While no formal attire was enforced, hell most of the guys just grabbed whatever clothes they had on the floor and left, he couldn't bring himself to that level. What type of man willingly walked around with the same shirt for three days? The comments were unwarranted, but none of them exploded on Kenta. They knew their place.

Kojima was at the top, he was the leader, he called the shots, he rode first, and he escaped first. Everyone else came second.

But he didn't want a repeat of that.

Standing alone, outside of prison with his bag haphazardly thrown over his shoulder, staring into the empty day-lit street made him realize his reign of terror was over. Nothing that belonged to that era existed anymore. His connections to his friends were gone, most likely because of how he treated them. They were lackeys, not comrades, they only complied with his orders, too afraid to say anything to upset him. That was no way to live life, no matter how fondly he looked back on those memories.

It was fear that drove Kenneth's concerns and vile words. It was all mixed together in a heavy, confusing spiel the man barely comprehended but when he stared into those weary lost eyes he understood this was the right choice.

If he treated Kenneth the same, threatened him the same, and gone as far as to assault him, he would have been consumed with regret the moment his anger subsided. He had the option to push away his new acquaintance, further burying himself in his lonesome hole, but he didn't want that.

Ruling with fear was one of the first tactics employed by the yakuza. No wonder everyone hated them.

"Did you learn anything at the parlor?" he spoke slower, still in Japanese, hoping Kenneth had gauged some of what Rowan taught him. "I found out where Makimura is hiding. Apparently, he's a massage therapist by day," he continued, his words no longer clashing together. His shoulders loosened as he leaned against the bar, reaching into his pocket. The infamous Seven Star cigarettes appeared once more in his hand, pulling out a stick.

"While I was gone, did you find your book?"
 
The slower words began to filter through as Kenneth did his best to fight through the haze. Fortunately, though the American at the parlor—Rowan, he recalled—did practically steal that ¥10,000 from him at tilepoint, he did give him a few things in return. Namely, a few words to use. For the brief period he had been in Japan for, he had been essentially teaching himself the language. Apart from a few corrections made in impatience and necessity, he hadn't had any mentorship. The moment that Rowan caught ear of his butcher's pronunciation, he immediately took a moment to give him a basic crash course in Japanese.

Surprisingly enough, once someone actually helped explain the pronunciation to him, it began to make more sense. In a way, it was similar to Russian. Similar vowel sounds, similar inotations, it all seemed to line up once it was all spelled out. Sure, there were still a few pronunciations that he had trouble with, but for now, he could adapt by just switching from his English brain to his Russian brain when he spoke.

Part of him wondered if his grandmother would be proud of him.

Now wasn't the time to be thinking about that, though. He was also asking about the Makimura hunt—and even sharing info no less. Apparently the guy was a massage therapist. Yeah, that was a welcome clarification, because he had been told that the guy was an acupuncturist. Maybe he was both? If Kenta had a location, he supposed that they would learn in due time.

As a matter of fact, he had learned a lot about their mutual friend. Though, the more he learned, the more uneasy he grew about the whole operation. Trying to pull himself back into the moment, he tried to focus on Kenta's movements. He was going for a cigarette, it seemed. Right, you could smoke indoors here. It just seemed rude to the foreigner, so he opted not to. All things considered, he could really use a drag or two himself. Instead, he set his lighter down in front of Kenta, knowing his hands were way too unsteady to actually operate the damn thing.

Then, a question that gave him pause: did he find his book? Well, yeah. He had. But why did Kenta care all of a sudden? It did a fair bit to jolt him back into the moment, at least. Blinking away his confusion, he reached into his pocket and produced the small, beat-up traveller's dictionary. Every other page seemed to have a tab or a dog ear, and it has been stained with water, booze, and a bit of blood. It had been through hell, but the pages were still legible as ever. "Yes, I found my book," he said, his words slowed from the fog. "I, uh. I learned some things. Yes. This man... You are sure he is right man?"

Ken tilted his head, concern beginning to lace his words. He set the book down in front of him, absent-mindedly thumbing the pages, but not actually searching for anything. "You said he is... Bad man. Works girls for money, hurts them in this way. I do not hear this. I hear from girl—he is ah... Kind? Kind man. Yes, girls work for him, but it is... They want to. He does not hurt them, he help them."

As it turned out, the prostitution wasn't forced. From what he had learned from his lead-chasing frenzy, the man they were looking for was a gentle giant. He was a protector to these girls, not a tormentor. If his life didn't depend on it, Ken would have prayed for his info to be bad, just so he wouldn't have to harm a saint.

He went to brush his hair back out of his face, flinching as his hand grazed his wound. That kid had one hell of an arm—and stellar aim to match. He hoped they would use it for sport rather than violence as they aged.

"I hear too that Makimura does, uh..." Shit, he didn't know that word. Picking up his dictionary, he flipped through it for answers and... Nothing. He was going to need to get creative. Frantic, he thumbed through the pages, searching for the right links. "... Needle... Skin... Massage. Yes."

It would have to do. At least this book could fill in some gaps.

"He has... Assistant. She does massage too. Young woman, do not know her name. Need to be careful, do not want her to... See what we do."

And then there was... That piece of information. Somehow, the thought of involving yet another innocent civilian in his dealings wasn't the heaviest one that tangle of concrete and glass had given him. It was the question of how much he should reveal. In the world of organized crime, information was just as dangerous as a bullet. If he didn't choose his words carefully, he could end up shooting himself in the head. Locking eyes with Kenta, he found himself caught in between heart and mind. He wanted to tell him the whole truth, he really did. But he just couldn't trust him with it. Not yet.

"There is... One more thing," he said, his voice dropping lower as he leaned in somewhat. "There are... Talks about Tojo eyes in Sotenbori. May want to find Makimura too. Do not know who, do not know where, do not know family. Only know this is bad. Need to be fast now."

And as he leaned back, the other half of the truth fit neatly in his pocket.
 
The Seven Star cigarette neatly sat between his lips, flicking the lighter until the end was lit. He inhaled, taking a few puffs before letting his arm rest on the wooden bar. Kenta heard the exact truth about this Makimura Makoto. Instead of being this vile man that forced women into his bidding, hoping to make tremendous profits off their bodies, the man was the opposite. A saint, really. He gave these girls protection, so they could safely go out without the threat of being taken advantage of. He gave them security, so if any punk went too far, he got what he deserved. He helped those that couldn't help themselves, yet . . .

Another drag was taken, letting more smoke leave his lips. It surrounded him, moving towards Kenneth as his hand made a gesture.

"Whether man is good or bad, we must kill," he spoke in English, hoping the message would stick inside his head. The yakuza didn't care who they were murdering ( apart from civilians ) as long as they got their end of the deal. In most cases, it was petty, mainly consisting of money or territory disputes. Although every family was under the Omi Alliance, everyone wanted a large piece, every family wanted more, their greed insatiable. Kenta feared the Omi may one day collapse due to its own greed. While the clans were on separate ends of the island, he could one day see the borders between Omi and Tojo Clan territory blur. No one would know where it would start or end -- maybe one may overtake the other.

But, that was in the distant future.

At the moment, there was another issue that required his attention.

"That is our way. I must listen or I take his place," he continued in English. It was . . . difficult. He was unsure of how he would ever bring himself to look a man in the eye and watch the light fade out until there was nothing more than a husk. Fights were common -- required, really -- to be a part of the yakuza. Everyone needed to know how to throw a punch or they would not survive long, however a murder? Everyone man needed to be capable of it, but was it a requirement?

Kenta often pondered the question. He heard horror stories from Seiji, of men who lost their minds after taking someone else's life, yet equally of men losing themselves over taking's someone life. It was an extremely fine line, one he didn't think he would have to cross so early into his career.

"But I won't harm that woman,"

It was new information, yet to be expected. Of course, one man couldn't do everything. Who would answer the phones? Who would clean the beds? Who would gather all the supplies? What if Makimura was out for the day? There had to be others at the center.

"No, no I will be careful," he nodded to himself, taking another long drag.

His brow then cocked. Slowly, his gaze moved towards Kenneth, head moving after as he slowly registered the information.

"Tojo eyes in Sotenbori?" he quickly switched back to his native tongue. He quickly adjusted in his seat, adjusting himself as he banged his hand on the bar. "Goddammit, you've gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Then we really have to act fast . . . they can't know what the boss is planning," he spoke, muttering the second half to himself.

Dark eyes fell onto the bartender, scowling a bit as the man laid out the coasters and then the beer. "Here you are, sirs."

Kenta's fingers immediately hooked around the glass neck, bringing the glass in close until his ear quirked. A door clicked, sudden shuffling, and then soft steps. A heel clack, and then . .

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​

"So, I take it you handled Makimura already?"

With an eyepatch and long black hair pulled back revealing an undercut, no one seemed to pay attention to the man except the bartender. "Mr. Imai! I didn't expect to see you tonight!"

His hand came up, making a dismissive gesture. "Surprise appearance," he let out a dry joke, eliciting no laughs as he turned to the younger yakuza and . . . The Foreigner. Only known by the name 'Kenneth,' the man had a hard time believing he was real. What a strange set of events and coincidences that all led up to this moment.

"About that . . ." Kenta trailed off.

"You called me two hours ago and you have done nothing?" Imai reached forward, taking the bottle from the other man's hands. Setting the bottle behind the counter, his eyes darted towards Kenneth and then to Kenta, raising a brow. "He's shorter than I expected."

"Yeah, but he's the whole package deal!" the yakuza reached over to his new friend, patting his shoulder as he pulled himself closer to Kenneth. "Should saw him earlier! Took out -- eh?" blurted out in English, "Wait -- how many do you knock out? Like, six?"

"Can't you take out six, Kenta?" he responded, raising a brow. "Are you saying he's better than you?"
 
Whether good or bad, huh?

Kenneth turned his gaze back to the wood grain beneath his arms, wishing he could fish a solution to that dilemma out of the timber river's ripples. He didn't want this and, despite his front, the foreigner knew that Kenta didn't want it either. They weren't ready to murder, not really. They were just two new bloods in way over their heads, who were they do decide what a life was worth? But the laws still stood, and they still had to follow them—to the letter or to their deaths.

Ironic, really.

At least he agreed to not harm the assistant. Though Ken knew that this was a promise that could easily be broken, it was still reassuring to hear it said with such conviction. Having been roped in unwittingly himself, he ached to think that any more innocents would have to be drug into the pits of hell with him. Bloodshot eyes trailed up and tracked the movements of the bartender, the mind behind them wondering if he knew just how close he was to being caught up in this. Sure, he must have had some sort of protection—even the yakuza needed a place to drown their sorrows and an ear to hear them. Still, he wasn't invincible. One wrong move, and he would be the next Makimura.

Just as he suspected, Kenta wasn't exactly fond of the idea of Tojo eyes in the city. Kenneth was even less fond of it, he suspected. He was trying to escape this shit. Now, not only was he back to square one with another family, but the old family may have followed him to the city. God, what was it with family haunting him no matter where he went? Whether it was blood or not, he couldn't shake those damn phantoms. That wasn't even getting into the deeper aspects of that information.

As soon as the bartender set the bottle down, he grabbed the bottle and started drinking with a silent fervor, completely disregarding the burning of the beer in his wound. God, he needed this. He needed anything at this point. Something to ease the pain of the situation, even if it was just a little.

At the sound of the footsteps behind his ears, he whipped around ready to use that same bottle to deliver pain.

It was a good thing he didn't. Goddamn, who was this guy? If Kenta had an air of danger about him, this man reeked of it so badly that Ken was surprised there were still patrons in the bar with them. Instinctively, he grit his teeth, every nerve in his body preparing for a fight that, logically, he could tell wasn't going to arrive. In fact, this felt like the exact type of fight he'd only accept out of drunkenness or necessity. This guy seemed to tower over both him and Kenta, and that one visible eye seemed to sear holes in them.

Kenta knew him by name. Imaisan. Wait, maybe? He wasn't sure. He knew the boss's name was Nishitani, but Kenta had called him Nishitanihan earlier. Was it some sort of suffix? God, he wished he knew more Japanese.

Imaisan snatched Kenta's bottle after some harsh words, locked onto Kenneth's eyes for a moment, then spat out some very familiar words. He was calling him... Well, one of those unidentifiable insults that he had hurled at Kenta moments earlier. It was an insult, right? With that unimpressed stare and tone, it sure seemed that way. Ken glanced up at his only tentative friend, both in apologist and in confusion. Did those words even apply to him? The haze still lingered, he couldn't figure it out. Still, indignance stained his eyes. He wasn't sure if he deserved to feel it.

Kenta's hand was on Kenneth's shoulder again, and this time it was met with a flinch. That touch didn't feel kind this time. It felt performative—the sort of touch given to the hood of a rusted-out Ford that definitely hadn't had the odometer rolled back with a screwdriver. He wasn't a friend in this moment, he was a commodity.

The thought made him itch.

Returning his gaze to Imaisan, he realized that the man was making some sort of snide remark towards Kenta. A smirk grazed Ken's burning lips. Good. Finally, it was someone else's turn. Still, he wasn't in any position to be petty. Setting the bottle down on the coaster, he stood up and straightened his back, trying to be taken seriously despite barely being at chest-height with the man. "Ah, you are Kenta's coworker, yes?" he said, extending his hand to Imaisan and hoping he wouldn't slice it off. "My name is Kenneth. It is a pleasure to meet you."

He flashed a sharp-toothed grin that stretched the stitches in his mouth. Everything about his behavior spoke to a humble small-town charm, but he hadn't seemed to realize that his appearance raised just as many red flags as the one-eyed criminal before him.
 
"B-Better?" Kenta spat out, laughing as his hands slid off the other man's shoulders. The flinch didn't go unnoticed, if anything he was a bit too aware of what he had done. His fingers clenched as they returned to his side, putting a bit of space between them. After a heated argument, he should have known better than to act as if nothing was wrong. Honestly, he was surprised Kenneth didn't belt out a punch just from that small touch alone.

"Hell no, I think we're pretty even," he continued, adjusting the maroon-colored suit.

Seiji raised a brow, staring at his associate and then the stranger. "Imai Seiji," he responded, staring at the hand, giving Kenta a cautious look.

Kenta shrugged.

"It's also a pleasure," he repeated the introduction, near word for word as he shook the man's hand. Strange, speaking Japanese yet giving a handshake. Then again, he couldn't fault the man as he had only been in the country for say three days? Of course, he wouldn't know the total ins and outs. However, the man had been in the country long enough to get himself into hot waters with not only the Tojo Clan but also the Omi Alliance. Word had quickly spread through their organizations of a red-haired man who battled the patriarch of the Kijin Clan and managed to live. Maybe Nishitani was feeling off that night, or Kenneth really fought his way through the onslaught, but he managed to be all the talk at HQ. They were people digging through any possible files or connections he might have had but came up mostly empty-handed. All they found was an airline ticket that was traced back to an organization in America -- Red ATL.

However, it didn't go beyond there. With their lack of any established connections in America, especially down south where this man was obviously from, their search came to a halt. Any further information needed to be extracted directly from the source.

Seiji walked past the two, deciding to sit down at one of the tables instead of the bar. Despite this bar being a regular of his, there was no point sitting where the bartender or any other civilian could potentially hear their plots. Normally, those plots consisted mainly of money laundering, or how to scam a business into paying the Kijin Clan, but this was different. The three were planning a murder, no way around that fact.

"Actually, I'm glad you've been sittin' on your ass," the older man spoke, sighing a bit as he leaned into the comfortable booth. "There's been a change."

"A change?" Kenta joined, however, sat on the opposite end.

"You got a location at least, right?"

He nodded. "Our guy runs a massage place by day, acupuncture too actually. Probably trying to give the allusion he's workin' an honest life,"

"A massage parlor, really?" he paused, "Well . . . whatever he's doing, he's not actually our man."

Kenta immediately cocked a brow. "The hell do you mean? We've gotta go lookin' for somebody else now?!"

"No, no. We still have orders to take that man out, but our focus is this girl that also works there," Seiji turned to their foreign friend, leaning forward against the table in between them. "Makimura is actually women, need take her, death to others."

Despite the grim subject, Kenta couldn't help but laugh at his sworn brother's swords. "Shit Seiji-san, your English is horrible!" Earning him a quick glare. "What said was: Makimura is real target, she is a woman that work there, that man we got info on -- he not one," he shook his head, "We may not even need to kill," he added on, grinning a bit at the last fact.

Relief fell over the man's shoulders at the revelation. Although Seiji was adamant they may need to execute whoever stood in their way, Kenta knew very few people could pose a threat to the yakuza.

Instead of watching the life drain out of a man's eyes all he had to do was grab a woman and take her back to HQ.

"Wait -- so the woman is actually the owner of the Empty Lot?"

"Apparently so. That means we need her to stay alive." Seiji glanced between the men, "Sound easy, yes?" he spoke in English. "This can you do?"
 
Kenneth tilted his head at—Imai, his name was Imai—but found some relief as he finally accepted the handshake. The foreigner kept up his brand of formality, offering an almost too-firm grip to who he could only assume was his superior. Despite his gesture ultimately being accepted, there was a lot of caution in the newcomer's movements, and he seemed to keep looking over at Kenta as though asking what to do about this stranger beneath him. It all made Ken uneasy, like he'd overstepped a boundary but no one would tell him exactly what it was. Despite himself, once the handshake was over, he still found himself glancing back up at Kenta for—what? Support? Approval? Part of him recoiled at the thought of receiving either from the man, right now, but at the same time, he really was the best he had.

The next thing he knew, the conversation was being moved to a table. Again, he looked to Kenta for guidance. No luck, he was wrapped up in their current conversation. Well, there were three benches, and Kenneth wasn't sitting next to Kenta right now. So, despite how awkward it seemed for three men to take up a seating area as spacious as this, Kenneth slid into that empty bench, staring across at Kenta. He seemed to be taking this incredibly casually. It was like their earlier altercation hadn't even happened, like his concerns were nothing but a minor inconvenience.

Bitterness leaked into that once-kind expression. He might not have been able to stay mad at Kenta, but he could damn well hate how he was acting. Sure, he had his reasons. He had to maintain an image, present Ken as a benefit to the family, prove his worth, whatever all else. Ken could still hate it. He could still hate how quickly his humanity was boxed up and stored away for the sake of some so-called honor. As his eyes trailed away, he found himself scratching at his arm again. Damn, how long had he been doing that? He hadn't even felt his nails trying futilely to scratch through the leather. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could scratch out the part of him that refused to truly be angry at that greaseball.

Right, the conversation. Imai spoke with a clearer tone than Kenta, but his voice was still wrapped up in that regional dialect and Kenneth's head was starting to hurt. Damn, this always happened after he got lost in the fog. It felt like, as it left, it coiled around his skull and threatened to crush him for evicting it. Still, he had to focus. Apparently, there was a change in the plan. Something about this guy being the wrong mark? Well, that was just perfect. Kenneth couldn't help but frown at the realization that he may have just gone through all of that for nothing, but then the disappointment quickly switched to confusion again when Imai said they still had to find him. Why? If he wasn't connected to the empty lot, why bother hunting him down?

Then, Imai leaned towards Kenneth and... Well, tried to explain. What wasn't lost in translation found itself caught in a web of accents and headaches. He wasn't surprised, nor was he upset—his Japanese was about at that level when he couldn't study his dictionary. Still, Ken's bewildered confusion at the English salad must have been apparent, because despite the smile he put on to try and reassure Imai, Kenta still laughed at his superior. Well, he must not have outranked him by much, then. The one time he tried casually teasing someone at Red ATL he-

Shit, the fog was trying to settle again. He needed to stop thinking about that.

He put his hand up in a dismissive wave, chuckling nervously at Imai as the man was humiliated by the man who had just scolded Ken for humiliating behavior moments earlier. "It is okay, promise," he said, shaking his head. "I do not speak much Japanese. These words are very different, hard to talk between them. I do understand."

That said, he was grateful that Kenta had the mind to relay what Imai meant to say. Unfortunately, the words made his heart drop. The girl was the owner of the lot? The same girl he had been told was Makimura's assistant? Despite reassurance that they'd only be kidnapping her to get her to release the lot, his stomach still turned. Kidnapping was still one hell of a thing to put anyone through, especially an unsuspecting young woman who likely had no involvement in the underworld whatsoever. Shit, this felt like overkill. Couldn't they just accost her in an alley or something? That would still be stressful, but at least it wouldn't be outright abduction—forcibly dragging her to hell. Besides, who knew what these men would do to her to get that lot once they had her? Kenta seemed genuine about not wanting to hurt her earlier, but the Kijin wasn't made up of only one man.

Ken stared over at Imai—was he as monstrous as he appeared?

All of that, and he could already smell a discrepancy. Imai hadn't said they wouldn't need to kill. If he has heard the man properly, what he said was "death to others." So, murder would still be involved as well.

Ken really didn't want to do this. Part of him wanted to sneak away, to tell that young woman to run as fast and as far as she could before it was too late. But it was too late. Even if she escaped Sotenbori, the Tojo also had insight into what was happening. With how much both clans were willing to do just to get at this patch of dirt, they would have no trouble tracking her down. And then what? What horrors would she have to endure then? Once they had her, disobedient and alone, far from anyone who could hear her, what would they do?

He adjusted his jacket and subtly jammed his thumb into the stapled-up wound on his body, the searing pain breaking his train of thought as he forced himself to smile through it. He absolutely refused to think about this right now. He didn't have a choice. He was being asked if he could handle it, and he couldn't afford the toll to tell the truth. A dribble of blood stained the bandages beneath his shirt as he brushed a bit of dirt off of his lapel, cracking a grin up at Imai.

"I have had more bad jobs than this," he said, leaning forward into the table with his hands folded. It was somewhere between a scheme and a prayer. "We have... Tools for job? I have... Something to help if not."

Even if the man was also a criminal, Ken longed to get back in contact with Ivan more than ever now. He needed the weapons for his own survival, but more than anything, he longed for a conversation that wasn't in any danger of ending with a knife in his back the next morning.
 
So, the plan was to track down this Makimura Makoto, the woman that worked alongside the man they had been searching for all night and kidnap her instead. It seemed easier than trying to take down a mystery man. From the way Ema described him, Kenta could only assume he was a hulk of a man, built enough to defend the girls from any creep or weirdo that got too handsy. It painted a very distinct image in Kenta's head, of a man he potentially could not win against. Large, with broad shoulders, heavier than the average man . . . The same way Higashi Shiro was built; another convict was locked behind prison walls that made his life hell.

Even if the plan was merely to go inside the massage parlor, grab one girl and run, that man would still be there, and if not what would stop him from chasing them down?

Pressure in Kenta's chest tightened.

"Tools?" Seiji perked up, "Good idea, you're going to need them," he responded, leaning forward to gently nudge the younger man's shoulder. "Makes ya regret leavin' my damn knife behind, eh?" he joked.

Kenta forced out a small laugh, averting his eyes. "Shit, you're right and that one -- it was a good one too," he nodded.

It was a fine short blade he could have easily snuck into the waist of his pants. The sheath was finely decorated with black and gold, with a few characters lining the edge. God, the criminal could so clearly remember that night. They had been chasing after a man practically all night, from one end of Sotenbori to the other. They even attempted to split up, hoping to trap the man in a corner, but at every turn, he managed to slink his way through their fingers. For a food stall worker, he sure did have good mobility, going so far as to escape onto a rooftop.

It was the first time Kenta jumped a fence in five years. It was the first time Kenta dared to boldly jump across a building. He reassured Seiji his body could take it and as he stared at the other side of the building, his body leaped. For a sweet moment, he felt as if he was soaring until inevitably crashing down onto the building edge. After a heated exchange, he had no choice but to discipline the man, especially for making Kenta chase him down like a rabid dog.

That night, Kenta finally pierced a man's body, watching red blood gush out from within. It was terrifying, and he panicked as the blood stained not only his hands but the rest of his suit. Trembling fingers almost sank the blade in too deep, nearly killing the man that only deserved a long beating for the hundreds of thousands of yen he owed the clan. A beating he had no problems with -- a beating he could dish out with his eyes closed. It was Seiji who thought the man deserved to bleed for his crimes against the clan. Yet, he handed his sworn brother the dagger and ordered him to stab the stall working -- "He's not gonna learn if we just punch him 'round a bit. We've gotta carve him up, that's gonna teach him for trying to skip out on us."

Once again, the younger man's fingers trembled at the memory.

"Yo, pick your damn head up," he spoke, "Look at it this way: if ya do good on this job Nishitani-san will give you see you're worth more than just being a fuckin' collections boy," he nudged him again, pointing to Kenneth. "Ask him how he's gonna get those tools. He ain't got nobody else here, right? Call his bluff."

"He probably just means his pocket knife," he shook his head, straightening out his back. "He is ask what tools you have? Cause I may also need more than just my fist," he spoke slowly. If his suspicions were correct and Makimura Makoto had someone to protect her, the kidnapping would have to wait until that man was neutralized. "Seiji gave me knife once before but me lost it!" he shrugged with a laugh. "Been having to need to replace,"
 
That laugh didn't sound right. Kenneth's eyes shot over to Kenta, and he immediately felt the weight on his shoulders. He seemed shiftier, his eyes nowhere near the table. His hands shook, his sights set somewhere in the past. So, he was haunted too. By what, though? He didn't seem like the type who would have the nerve to kill a man, but like he said, there were rules they had to follow. If he had to bring a man to the edge of death, would that bother him? Would that haunt his nights like it was supposed to haunt Ken's?

He forced his eyes away. Dammit, he was supposed to be upset with him. Now he was wishing he had chosen to sit next to him, as much as that definitely would have raised questions with Imai. Or was it Seiji? Dammit, Kenta had thrown him off. Which one was the surname? He'd just keep going with Imai until he was corrected—it seemed to be working so far.

Speaking of the senior yakuza, if Ken was suspicious of him being condescending before, it was palpable now. He felt his lip twitch, the fog receding to give him a clearer view of his adversary. At least, he really seemed to want to be an adversary with all of those pointed fingers and snide words. What, did he think that he was powerless just because he was a foreigner? Sure, he wasn't exactly on top of the world, but he wasn't down for the count yet.

Kenta's words only confirmed his growing irritation. His pocketknife? Really? Had he heard that right? He had connections overseas and the best this guy thought he could do was lend them a switchblade?

He looked into his ally's eyes. They were flooded with worry. Maybe he was only saying that to quell his own fears. Ken didn't care. His pride had been been torn up, chewed up, fucked up far too much for him to care about Kenta's hesitance. Eyes full of fire, Ken locked onto Imai, all pretense of tolerance gone.

It wasn't a guarantee. It wasn't even something he was sure he could reasonably do. But, if all went to plan, he could get...

"Guns."

It was English, but if Kenta understood, Imai might have as well. If he didn't, the damn coward across from him could speak just fine. He could relay it. He would have to if he wanted to protect that reputation of his. Still, he figured he'd fill in the superior in a little more, dangle that bait. "Think I promise your boss last night," he continued in Japanese, tilting his head in an attempt to jostle the memory loose. "I have, ah... Favors up north. Know men who run tools over the ocean... If know men in business here, could, ah..."

He jammed his hands together as though plugging two wires together, then pointed at Imai. Despite not knowing the words—and being too angry to go searching—he hoped his point was clear. If it wasn't, fine.

He'd gladly rip this city open to show him what he meant.
 
All this talk of knives caused Kenta's head to continue spinning further. The memory resurfaced as he stared off into the bar, hoping to calm himself before the night continued. He couldn't allow himself to buckle, to yield, to show any weakness, and yet the voices rang throughout his head.

"Shit, time in the slammer made you a pussy, Kenta?"

With heavy eyes glued onto the knife, it trembled. The reflective metal forced himself to stare into his own eyes. Was he really capable of this? This was different than anything he had done in his life. Metal pipes, wood planks, kendo sticks, hell even random cardboard boxes -- they were all used in his fighting style, but a knife? No -- a dagger. Although it was on the shorter end, it still posed a deadly threat.

Impatient, Seiji shoved him forward, towards the nearly unconscious man. Although he managed to jump, he slipped and landed directly on his back. In a haze, he attempted to crawl away from Kenta who slowly approached him.

"H-hey, hey! Don't ya think this is goin' fuckin' far!" the man pleaded, arms raised as he squirmed from the bruising pain.

"Should've thought 'bout that earlier," Seiji retorted, standing beside Kenta. His head gestured towards the man again, "C'mon, just remind him who he's messing with and we can call it a night,"

Call it a night. God, how badly he wanted to do that. There were so many things he could do, yet this . . . He watched so many men get carved open within those concrete walls, did he want to want to hear those screams again? Kenta sucked in a sharp breath, deciding the quicker he did as the older man asked, the quicker he could return home and lie down.

Everything blurred after that moment, red mixed in with the bright luminescent street lights, and Kenta's mind flooded with the man's cries and pleases as he clawed his maroon suit.

"Hey, hey, don't kill him now," warned Seiji, "We can't let him just escape his debt."

-----

A loud, "銃?!" Snapped the man from his thoughts.

He blinked.

Kenneth had to be bluffing . . . there was no way. "Guns?" he repeated, allowing the word to sink in. Seiji jumped from his seat, eye wide as he stared at the foreigner. He couldn't help but laugh. "No no, you -- you lie!"

There was no way he could smuggle them in guns. Who the fuck did he think he was? He clicked his tongue, glaring at the bartender who seemed to stare for a little too long. "Did he actually say that to Nishitani-san?"

Kenta nodded garnering a laugh as the man threw his head back.

"Some friend who you, he's practically dug himself into a hole!"

Throwing his arm up in an attempt to make space between himself and his sworn brother, Kenta stared at the redhead across from him. Something changed in his eyes, there was no longer a blank daze.

"Kenneth -- you cannot lie. You," he shook his head, still awestruck, "You made this deal with me boss, you can --" his hand shoved itself into his dark hair, tugging at the strands. Fuck, why was English so difficult? "You can sit and joke with me -- me no care gun, but," a weak laugh left him. "No, no, you cannot be serious,"

"Shit, but what if he is?" Seiji questioned aloud, pacing within the small space between the couch and table. "Guns, Kenta. We can go in there, fuck that dude up, kidnap Makimura and get her back to HQ all without breaking a sweat!" he turned to Kenneth. "If you -- yes -- then we owe you good. That more than good."

"Are you sure this you can do? This would -- help a lot. Who need contact with?"

Guns . . . they were worse than knives by far. One of the deadliest weapons that required little skill to operate. All one had to do was aim and shoot -- and pray the bullet would hit the target. But, anyone could get lucky. Hands continued to tremble, even when he clasped them together; was it too late to go back to collections?
 
Got 'em.

A grin filled with malice spread across Kenneth's face, those sharp canine teeth catching the dim lights off the bar in a way that made him look almost otherworldly. Kenta's stammering fell on deaf ears. All Ken could focus on was the excitement in Imai's lone eye, the fervor in his voice as he stood and paced. It was strange, really. Ken wasn't used to anyone getting this worked up over the concept of owning a gun—unless that ownership was threatened, anyways. Anyone could own a gun in America if they had the money. Sure, there were age limits, but money could bypass those too. Almost everyone he knew either owned a gun or had plans to own one in the future.

Here? The mere concept of being able to use a gun for one night had his new associate practically bouncing around the room in excitement. It was a head rush, really—he had the potential to give these men access to godly power. Taking a life would become a simple three-step process: aim, pull, kill. It was the closest that humanity had to a delete key.

Perhaps it was stranger that he thought so little of it.

"I am man of my word," he said, his eyes narrowing. "I help find girl, I fight tonight, I get you... Gun?" he took a moment to recall the word that Imai had belted out. Funny how close it was to the English equivalent. "Yes. This I can do."

He took out his notebook and ripped a page from the spiral binding, laying it out in front of him before fishing his pen out from between his switchblade and his staples. Clicking it out, he scratched down a name and a number as legibly as he could:

Ivan Vasiliev

718-xxx-xxx

"His name Ivan Vasiliev, and there last the number I talk to him by," he said, standing and offering the paper to Imai. "Know he run guns, pills, many thing from America to over ocean. His people... I do work for them some time back. They do work for me if ask. One thing I need his new number."

It was only a few months ago that he had first gotten into contact with Ivan. Well, more accurately, they had been put in contact with each other. Red ATL was looking to strengthen their bond with their northern neighbors, and Kenneth was just expendable enough to send down to Florida to fix a little issue that they had been having with their supply lines. Apparently, a lot of their drug trade came through Miami. En route upstate, however, they had been hitting snags, to put it lightly. A gang that had been putting the pinch on their Miami connection was starting to get bold enough to skim their shipments. Ivan was to be their connection to the north, as well as a source of information about the supply line. Red ATL were merely the outsourced muscle.

Five men were sent down there to straighten things out. Ken was one of the two that returned. Despite the losses they took, the gang never resurfaced. Ken never went into specifics about what he did, and the other survivor had gone mute from trauma.

The details of that night remained one of the many secrets in Ken's pockets.

"If know any tool men in town, it is possible to find his new number from them," he said with a calm nod. "Then, you get your-"

Ken's words found themselves abruptly snared on his tongue as his eyes tracked back over to Kenta. God, the man looked like he was about to vomit. That tawny skin had lost some of its vibrancy, the blood drained away from his face as panic made its home in those vacant vessels. Despite being locked together, his hands shook so hard that Ken was surprised that the meat stayed on the bones. His once well-kept hair was now a mess—a familiar mess. Kenneth's often looked like that after he had given it a good pull. Whatever had began to trouble him earlier, it had fully pulled the yakuza into the past now, locking him in a fog of memories and abject terror.

Despite himself, Ken found himself trying to close the distance between himself and Kenta. He couldn't do much—there was a whole table and a much warier yakuza between them—but he still found himself leaning over the table with his hand touching the center as he tried to meet those frightened eyes. Shit, he was being a dick earlier, but he didn't deserve this much retribution. "Hey, hey. Look at me, alright? I'm right here, Kenta, look at me," he said, a frantic softness to his voice. Once he was sure he had Kenta's attention, he switched back to Japanese, clearing his throat as his free hand scratches the back of his neck. Was that a bit too gentle? "I teach you how to use gun, okay? You do not need to kill with gun. It is... You hurt man, not kill. You can do that. With gun. Yes."

Dammit, why did Japanese have to be so hard? And why did Imai have to be right there? He shot a glance up at the senior yakuza, straightening his back. Right. He still had a game to play here. "It best we not kill man," he said, shaking his head. "If live, he go to, ah... Street doctors. Maybe talk words about gun, but not talk to police if he criminal. If kill, police find gun hole... Do not want this here."

Hopefully, that made just enough sense to curb Imai's bloodlust. The issue with guns was that they could be traced. Find the gun that matched the bullet, and the case was already halfway solved. Knives and bats were more discrete—was it a chef's knife or a switchblade that made that slice? Would anyone ever be able to tell, truly? Regardless, if guns were as illegal here as Kenta had said, then it might have been in their best interest to keep things non-lethal.

He could only bite his tongue and hope Imai agreed.
 
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