Chapter Text
Akaashi opened his coffee-shop every day at the same time: a bright and painfully early 7am. He was duty bound to serve some sort of salvation to the poor working folk who struggled in every morning, their dark circles getting progressively darker throughout the week.
Students would trickle in the hours after the break of dawn, armed with laptops and weighed down with books, nursing a headache from days of successive sleep-deprivation or a misguided hangover.
Akaashi would spend his day making coffee after coffee, sometimes slipping into the kitchen to make more pastries whenever they sold out, guiding his newest hire Yachi when she slipped up (which was unfortunately often, but Akaashi would never regret hiring her, he knew she would be great with the customers when she relaxed into her role a little more), and marvelling at Yukie’s incredible latte art skills.
Akaashi was good at many things but the delicate skill of pouring the foam perfectly so as to create beautiful little works of art was absolutely beyond him. Yukie had magic hands.
The coffee-shop was always warm, full of chatter when rush hour hit, peaceful in the quieter hours of the day, always filled with the rich smell of coffee and sweet pastries. With wide windows looking out over the busy street outside, the little shop was a perfect refuge in the bustle of the city.
Akaashi loved his job. He loved his employees, he loved seeing the relieved smiles of his customers’ at their first sip of his coffee, he loved the conversations with his regulars (yes, all of them).
But he most certainly did not love the early mornings.
He needed to be at the shop by 6am every morning to begin the process of opening up. Pastries needed to go into the oven, coffee beans roasted, and the inventory checked. He never made Yachi or Yukie get in so early to help him set up - they were both college students, and Akaashi wasn’t that evil.
A few of his favourite regulars even got to slip in before opening time to grab a quick coffee, if their jobs started ridiculously early. Akaashi had a soft spot for those who suffer morning starts as early as his.
But, let this be known, Akaashi was not a morning person. It was partially the reason why he’d grown to love coffee so much in the first place. He was something of a monster in the mornings.
Once, the girls had come in early to help out for an event at which they’d been hired as catering and met early-morning-Akaashi for the first time. After that particular experience, the two had not made a single mistake all week. He had felt so bad about frightening them so much, he’d slipped them both the biggest box of pastries at the end of the week as something of a peace offering.
That is why, when he pulled his car into a small parking spot just next to the shop, he thought he was hallucinating. There appeared to be a man, lying crumpled on the pavement, just off in the small alley by the coffee-shop.
Akaashi threw himself out of his car, not bothering to lock up, or even to turn the ignition off. He dashed towards the prone figure.
There was a lot of blood.
Akaashi hurriedly placed his sleeve over his nose, trying not to gag. Most of it looked dried, having soaked through much of the man’s dark trousers. There was a jagged hole in the thick fabric, caked with more blood.
He crouched down, hesitant at first, though his hand reached out naturally, wanting to help. Akaashi scanned the man for injuries.
Apart from the blood-soaked trousers, his cropped, light-brown hair was matted with blood too. The blood from a head-wound had run down the back of his neck, soaking his thin t-shirt, and curled round the side of his cheek to bloody his youthful-looking face.
Akaashi noted the shallow rise and fall of his chest with relief. He reached over carefully to probe the back of his head. What he found was not promising. He needed to get help, and call for an ambulance.
He turned over the young man carefully, trying to place him into the recovery position. But, as Akaashi gently lifted the man’s arm, he spotted a dark tattoo on the inside of his wrist. It was a leafy vine, curling around a dark bird, its wings spread in flight.
“Akaashi-san?” A voice called out from the direction of the shop. “Akaashi-san, are you around? You’ve left your car still running?”
Daichi’s head popped around the corner of the alleyway. His open features tightening immediately when he took in the scene before him.
Akaashi had never seen Daichi in full professional mode before. He was the main reason the coffee-shop owner doled out coffee this early in the morning, always stumbling in before or after a twelve-hour shift, barely able to stay on his feet. Akaashi never had the heart to deny the pitiful, sleep-deprived police officer anything.
“What happened here?” Daichi demanded, his dark eyes serious as he dropped down by Akaashi’s side.
“Daichi-san,” Akaashi began, “I found him just now, as I was heading in this morning. He was just like… this-”
He gestured in the direction of the prone man with pale hands that were shaking slightly. He noticed quietly that they were spotted with blood. “I tried to move him into recovery. I was about to call an ambulance,” he explained.
Daichi regarded him carefully before nodding. “Good work, Akaashi-san.” He gave the other man a firm pat on the back. “You don’t need to worry about this any more. I’ll take him to hospital.”
Daichi turned his attention to the injured man, carefully cataloguing everything as he pulled out his phone to call for backup.
“Daichi-san,” Akaashi hesitated. “If it’s easier, I can go with him to hospital. You have a shift now.” He glanced down at the phone in Daichi’s hand, so quickly the other man almost didn’t notice.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Akaashi-san!” Daichi’s eyebrows furrowed at Akaashi’s suggestion. “This is my job.” He watched the other man’s expression as he quickly rang up the hospital. After a brief summary of the situation, they promised to be over in a few minutes.
Turning his back attention back to Akaashi, he broke into a smile, “You’re the one with a cafe to get back to, desperate people to serve! Defender of the city in another way, am I right?”
Daichi was ridiculously cheery given the situation. Akaashi supposed that doing this job day in day out changes a person’s view on what was normal. He gave the other man a tired smile, twisting his fingers together.
“Of course, Daichi-san.”
They waited for the ambulance together, beside the unconscious figure. Daichi kept monitoring his breathing, laying his jacket over him to try and ward away the early morning chill.
Slightly more than a few minutes later, the ambulance’s wails rang around the tiny alleyway, ringing piercingly off the damp walls. The paramedics jumped out immediately and gently pushed the two men out of the way.
They watched on as the professionals checked the man’s vitals, discussing his status in low voices. A gurney was rolled out and they began to move him onto it.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Akaashi-san? That must’ve been quite a shock to find this morning.” Daichi placed a concerned hand on the other’s arm, a little worried to find it trembling minutely.
“Yes,” Akaashi hesitated. “I am fine. Don’t worry about me at all.” He looked over Daichi’s shoulder at the paramedics carefully wheeling the injured man into the ambulance on a gurney.
Akaashi’s face seemed rather blank, his eyes lacked their usual sharpness. Though he appeared unconcerned, Daichi knew the calm-tempered coffee-shop owner too well. His dark, arched brows were pinched, giving away his concern.
“I will let you know as soon as I have an update on his condition,” Daichi assured him, gripping his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “You can visit later if you like?” he offered.
Akaashi merely shook his head. “There’s no need for that. I wouldn’t want to bother the poor man with another stranger wanting to know his story.” He smiled carefully at Daichi, before turning away, seeming to head back to the shop.
But, as Daichi clambered through the ambulance’s back door after their mysterious patient, he cast a glance back at the coffee-shop owner. Akaashi was standing on the pavement, a stiff, dark figure against the soft glow of the early morning sunshine. The policeman noted that he wasn’t watching the ambulance at all, but instead gazing off into the distance, rubbing distractedly at the blood staining his hands.
I hope Akaashi-san’s alright after starting his morning like that, Daichi thought, reminding himself to send someone over later to check on him.
But, there was something niggling at the back of Daichi’s mind, but try as hard as he might, he could not think of what it was.
Ah, that’s it: I forgot to get my morning coffee. Daichi bemoaned the thought of surviving a whole day on the sad instant granules that his office stocked. That’s all.
But, for some reason, the niggling feeling that something wasn’t right just wouldn’t go away.
---
Bokuto bounced down the street, his arms swinging by his sides, and a slight spring in his step. It had been a good day, and to round it off, he’d decided to go and get some tea from the coffee shop he frequented. Yes, he knew that caffeine this late in the day wasn’t good for him, but if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t going for the beverage, but rather the person who served it to him.
It wasn't a secret to anyone that he only went to the shop to see the owner. He’d originally been introduced to it by Kuroo, who said that his partner at the police station practically drank the place dry every time he was on shift.
The first time he had visited, the black haired owner had been absent, and instead he’d been served by a small blond girl who had seemed terrified by him when he first came in. Kuroo blamed it on his over-the-top entrance, but he maintained that it had been Kuroo’s smirking that had intimidated the poor part-timer.
He’d liked the tea though, and the small shop was in a convenient place, so he had gone back and that time the owner had been present. His disinterested eyes had seemed to exude exasperation at Bokuto’s energetic exuberance as he’d served his tea. He appeared rather reluctant to talk to him, but with Bokuto restlessly fidgeting around the counter, he’d eventually started up a conversation.
Most of it had been teasing, pointing out Bokuto’s childish behavior and picking up on the small things that he did. Now these small conversations happened almost every day, whenever Bokuto could spare a moment.
He was so happy that they were getting to know each other better, though Bokuto himself had never been able to answer the other man’s questions fully. To this day, he still couldn’t think of a good enough lie to tell Akaashi when he asked what his job was. What was he supposed to do? Stand there with his hands braced on his hips and announce to Akaashi: “I’m a member of a gang and frequently assassinate people. I’m a very proficient hitman.”
Akaashi would either give him one of those looks which meant that he couldn’t believe the words that had just left his mouth, or he would look horrified and resolutely refuse to allow Bokuto access to his coffee shop ever again. And he wouldn’t be able to stand that.
It didn’t take much to knock the wind out of his sails. He knew that his hyper and overactive personality could put people off, but he also knew that it annoyed people sometimes when he switched mood suddenly. The smallest thing could send his thoughts spiralling and leave him despondent and down, anything from missing a shot, to not getting to see his favourite coffee-shop owner when he went to get his tea.
That’s why he was so pleased to see the familiar head of black hair behind the counter when he entered the coffee shop.
He raised his hand in greeting. “Hey!”
At the shout, Akaashi’s head snapped up and he looked at Bokuto, wide-eyed, as if he’s just heard a gunshot. His expression softened a bit when he recognised that it was Bokuto who had walked in, but there was something guarded in his eyes.
Bukuto settled himself with his elbows on the counter and watched as Akasshi turned to boil the kettle for his tea. It made him feel slightly smug that Akaashi had his order memorised - not that it was complex at all, but it still made him happy to think that Akaashi remembered him, even in a small way.
Normally while the kettle was boiling, Akaashi would turn his attention back to Bokuto and begrudgingly make conversation (as much as he sighed and rolled his eyes, Bokuto thought he secretly might like those conversations, as getting a rise out of the tall man often made the corners of Akaashi’s lips turn up).
Something was off today though. Akaashi kept his back turned and seemed to be distracting himself with menial tasks - he kept spooning some tea in the teapot and then removing it again. Akaashi was always meticulous about the amount of tea he added, but this was a bit too careful.
Finally seeming satisfied with the amount of tea, Akaashi started pouring the boiling water into the pot, but, at the last moment, his hand gave a slight shake, and some of the boiling stream splashed onto him.
He hissed in pain, letting go of the pot, which had luckily only been a couple of centimetres above the bench so clattered harmlessly back onto the countertop, and grabbed the back of his hand.
Bokuto jumped a little at the sudden sounds.
“Hey, are you okay?” Bokuto asked with some trepidation, his hands flapping uselessly, reacting to his concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Akaashi went to pick up the tea pot again.
“You should probably run that under some cold water,” Bokuto inclined his head towards the sink.
“No, honestly, I’m fine,” Akaashi shook his head.
“I can literally see it going red from here! Come on, let’s run it under some water or it’ll only get worse.” Bokuto got up off his stool and rounded the counter so he could reach the sink.
Turning on the cold tap, he ran the water over his own hand until he was satisfied that it was sufficiently chilled. Then he reached out and grabbed Akaashi’s wrist. The other man jerked his arm a bit in surprise, not expecting the sudden contact, but he acquiesced and allowed the insistent tugging on his wrist to draw his hand under the water running into the sink.
“Do you have any clingfilm?” Bokuto let go of Akaashi’s wrist once he was satisfied that the other man wasn’t going to move it away from the sink.
“Hmn,” Akaashi seemed to have to shake himself out of a haze. “Erm - yeah, there should be some in the back - I just finished the roll out here. Hang on, I’ll go get it.” He drew his hand away from the tap.
Bokuto reached out quickly, and, grabbing Akaashi’s wrist once again, jerked it back under the running water. “Woah, no you don’t! I’ll go get it.”
“You can’t get into the back room though, it’s staff only and there’s a key code for the door.” Akaashi pointed to the door with his unoccupied hand, and Bokuto saw the small keypad on the wall.
“That’s fine, just tell me the code,” Bokuto looked at Akaashi expectantly.
Akaashi just looked at him, unblinking. “Did you miss the part about employees only?”
“Nope - what’s the code?” Bokuto continued to watch Akaashi with wide, expectant eyes.
“I’m not giving you the code. Why are you even behind here? And what do you even need the clingfilm for anyway?” Akaashi turned off the tap and dried off his hand on a towel. “Ah, no! I’ve had it there for five minutes now and I can’t feel my fingers," he stressed, when he saw Bokuto move to turn the tap back on. “It’s not that bad, look.” Akaashi held up his hand for Bokuto to inspect. The skin was a little reddened, but other than that it didn’t look too bad.
Bokuto was still worried though. Akaashi wasn’t a clumsy person at all, in fact, he was one of the most graceful people Bokuto knew (and that was saying something, considering whom he knew), and it worried him a little to see the other injured like this.
He was about to protest, when Akaashi held up a hand to stop him. “I really do have to serve some of the other customers, I’ll get you some clingfilm when I go on my break in half an hour, how’s that?”
“Fine,” Bokuto grouched, “but then you have to promise to let me wrap your hand in it.”
Akaashi sighed, but he agreed to the strange request. “Oh, and I’ll make you some new tea, that one will have over-brewed by now.”
Bokuto watched as Akaashi made him a new pot of tea, and then handed it to him over the counter. He took it carefully, along with the proffered tea cup, and took them to a table at the back of the shop. He liked that table - it was out of the way, kind of secluded and he could sit there for hours if he wanted to.
He sat and sipped his tea, stifling a yawn. He’d had a late night the day before and now he was beginning to feel it. Placing his folded arms on the table, he rested his head on them. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he could feel his eyes drooping and couldn't fight it anymore.
He drifted in and out of wakefulness. The soft sounds of the coffee shop were soothing and every so often he would catch soft snatches of Akaashi’s voice, as he fell into a doze.
Suddenly, he felt a gentle pressure on his head, though his sleep-addled brain was too tired to comprehend what it was. Hair was brushed away from his forehead with gentle fingertips and he felt his consciousness start to return to him.
He blinked his eyes open and re-adjusted to his surroundings. His neck was stiff from lying in an awkward position for so long, and he rolled it gently, working out some of the cricks. He could see Akaashi talking to a customer at the counter across the room.
He went to stretch his arms and as he moved them he felt his elbow bump against something.
Looking down, he saw that there was a roll of clingfilm resting on the table.
---
“I have something for you.” Kuroo slapped the file down onto the desk.
He hated reporting in. He hated the unavoidable, tangible evidence of his work. He hated the stupid hours Oikawa would call him in to see him. This always just left him feeling a bit wrong, and needing a good long cuddle with Kenma and their (annoyingly named) cat.
He also really hated that vapid smile that their boss always painted on his face. It hid the truly terrifying man underneath, which Oikawa always covered over with his stylish glasses and floppy, model hair.
Truly a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Oh ho,” Oikawa raised an eyebrow lazily. “Something better than last time I’m hoping.”
Kuroo shifted uneasily, remembering the last time the two of them were in a room together. “Look, that was a quiet month. We were lucky, and the cops didn’t catch wind of anything we were doing.”
Oikawa hummed in acceptance, a slender finger tapping at the frame of his glasses. He looked decidedly bored. “There’s no such thing as luck, Kuroo-chan,” he admonished, then gestured, clearly hurrying Kuroo to speak.
“The police are onto the smuggling ring,” Kuroo warned, tapping the folder on the desk. “I don’t know how they got the information; they’re keeping super hush hush about their informant. I smell a rat to be honest.”
Oikawa gave out a long, drawn sigh. He removed his glasses and set them on the desk, rubbing a hand quickly over his eyes.
Were those dark circles the glasses were hiding? Kuroo narrowed his eyes. Their illustrious leader never let himself appear anything less than perfect. He was untouchable and took lengths to remain so.
“I’ve known about this for a while,” Oikawa admitted. “A couple of months ago, I had my suspicions when all the numbers came in a little out of place.”
“There’s more,” Kuroo said grimly. “They think that the unsolved missing peoples cases are linked to this. It’s dozens of people, Oikawa-san.” His mouth twisted into a grimace just thinking about it.
He slammed his hand down on the table between them, looking deep into Oikawa’s cold brown eyes, daring him to lie straight to his face. “This has nothing to do with us does it?”
“No.” The brown-haired man’s reply was blunt and steady. “None at all. I only found out about it tragically recently. I have been working to find out what exactly is going on since then.”
“Why have you kept this to yourself, Oikawa?” Kuroo pointed an accusatory finger at him, his expression thunderous. “Don’t you think this is important for the other higher-ups to know? We should be doing something about this. This is wrong, even for us, this is just wrong!” Kuroo couldn’t help choking a little on those last words. God, Daichi’s staunch belief in justice was rubbing off on him.
“Why do you think, Kuroo? Can you use that big head of yours just for a second, or it all just hair?” Oikawa hissed out, waving a hand dismissively, knocking Kuroo’s hand away from his face. “We have a mole, idiot, and I can’t let them know I’m onto something. I already have my suspicions, anyway. They’ve been getting sloppier and sloppier over the last months and it’s only a matter of time before they reveal themselves completely.”
He grinned viciously, “I want to watch them squirm, before crushing them completely. They’ll regret they ever betrayed me and for having the audacity to do something as disgusting as this on my turf.” He hid it well, his mouth and forehead still soft, his hands relaxed, but Oikawa’s amber eyes burned with unrestrained anger. He let out a soft puff of barely controlled frustration.
“So, who’s the little bird who let you in on this then, Kuroo-chan?” Oikawa pierced the dark-haired man with his gaze, brighter now without his glasses.
Kuroo hesitated for the slightest moment. “Daichi’s the one working on the case. It’s too important to go to anyone else.” He couldn’t keep any secret from Oikawa for long anyway, and he didn’t think the boss would get rid of his police partner yet, not while he was still so useful. Not yet -
Oikawa’s laugh rang around the small room.
Kuroo shuddered internally. God, this is why I hate talking to the boss.
Oikawa raised one arched eyebrow, a slim finger tapping thoughtfully against his lips. “Well,” he drawled out, a dark smile spreading across his expression, his eyes as sharp as a knife.
“Suga-chan will need to know about this. His little game is up now.”
---
The office building was clean and sharp - all glass and metal edges, the kind of establishment that promised professionalism and expertise. Though what most people didn't know was the type of professionalism and expertise the company offered. The clean exterior meant very little when you knew about the blood on the back step.
Daishou flashed his wrist at the woman sitting behind the desk in the entrance and she gave him a swift nod, pressing a button under her counter to let him through the turnstile and into the main building.
He didn’t make eye contact with any of the people passing him in the corridor as he headed towards the stairs. He kept his eyes trained on his feet, and silently cursed them all in his head when he sensed looks fixed upon his back.
He took the stairs two at a time. He wasn’t going to risk taking the lift and being trapped with one of these bastards.
Reaching the fourth floor, he was met with another security desk and yet another stoney stare.
“Suguru Daishou here to see Ushijima-san,” he drawled out, putting as much venom into the suffix as he could.
The man gave him an impatient look. “Do you have an appointment?”
Would he fucking be here if he didn’t? “Yeah, I have an appointment. It’s at five”
“Well, Daishou-san, you need to work on your time management, as it is currently five fifteen, which is well past the time you were given leave to see Ushijima-sama. His time is precious and he doesn’t appreciate it being wasted by the likes of you.” The man twisted his face into a sneer.
“What the fuck are you trying to say,” Daishou hissed back.
“I am simply trying to suggest that you correct your tardiness in the future.” The man was clearly taking pleasure in riling him up, and as much as Daishou hated to admit it, it was working.
This was why he despised this place, all these people lording themselves over him, like he was the shitting scum of the earth, when they were no better than he was.
“Are you going to let me though or not?” he tried to keep his tone level, but he could hear the anger seeping through. The fucker’d better let him through soon, he wasn’t the kind of guy who wouldn’t resort to his fists.
“Of course, I just need to see your ID card and-”
He was interrupted by a deeper voice coming from the open office doorway behind the desk. “It’s fine, let him through.”
“Of course, Ushijima-sama.” The man behind the desk bowed his head respectfully and waved Daishou past him.
He slid past the desk and preceded Ushijima into the office, the other holding the door open.
The office was bright and airy, with the wall behind the desk consisting of a huge window that stretched floor to ceiling.
There was a plush, armed desk chair behind the desk and Daishou briefly considered rounding the desk and sitting in it, just to piss the other man off, but he knew better than to do that, so he dropped down into the wooden chair in front of the desk and crossed his legs.
Ushijima took his time rounding the desk and settling himself into the chair, and Daishou knew he was doing it on purpose, but he was not a patient man and he was already in a bad mood.
Ushijima steepled his hands under his face and rested his chin on them, looking at Daishou appraisingly.
Daishou clicked his tongue. “So this is how you’re going to play it, is it? You’re going to give me the silent treatment until I crack and spill something to you?”
Ushijima didn’t answer, he just leaned back in his chair, lowering his hands with his typical measured movements. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took a file out, sliding it over to Daishou.
Daishou snatched it up and opened it, scanning the page and the attached picture before throwing it back down between them. “Yeah, what do you want me to say about it?”
“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” Ushijima was apparently going to get him to admit to it himself; make him openly confess what they’d done and make himself look bad, rather than just stating what he wanted. This guy knew just how to get under Daishou’s skin and he fucking hated it.
“You just want me to say it, don’t you.” Once again there was no response from Ushijima. He just sat there calmly, waiting.
“Fine,” Daishou spat, “we didn’t finish the job you gave us. You fucking happy now?”
“Why is he not dead?” Ushijima finally decided to speak.
“He got away from us,” Daishou shrugged his shoulders.
“He was far too gravely injured to get away from you.” No words were wasted as usual. Everything Ushijima stated was said with certainty, like the future was something he could control. “You dumped him while he was still alive.”
“And how would you know that? Who’s reporting to you?” Daishou leaned forwards in his chair, uncrossing his legs. He squashed down the desire to bounce his leg nervously. He would not give anything away to this bastard.
“I have my sources,” the permanently stoic Ushijima once again portrayed nothing on his face - his gaze was steely and absolute.
“Yeah well, so what if the little fucker’s not dead. It’s not like he’s going to be alive much longer anyway.” Daishou knew the damage they’d done, and while he would admit that they hadn’t killed the guy, losing that much blood wasn’t good for any man.
“Then it will surprise you to learn that your ‘dead man’ is currently in hospital,” Ushijima tilted his head to the side as he eyed Daishou.
Daishou could feel the tension building behind his eyes - he was going to get a headache. “And if you know so much about him, why did you not just finish him off yourself, hmn?”
“There were unfortunate circumstances surrounding his discovery. You were not exactly discreet about where you left him,” the slight crease in Ushijima’s forehead was the only sign of irritation he displayed, but Daishou could tell he wasn’t happy. Ha, served the self-important fucker right.
“Well, if all you wanted was to call me here to reprimand me, then I think I’ll let myself out now,” Daishou made to stand up, but was arrested in place, when Ushiima reached out across his desk and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. Daishou knew that was going to bruise, the fucker.
“Don’t let this happen again.” The rest of the sentence was left unsaid, but Daishou could hear it clearly, or you know what will happen.
Ushijima’s tone was dark and his eyes bored into Daishou. He wanted to break the eye contact, but he found he was unable to look away from those burning golden eyes, so instead he shucked his arm out of the grip, though he knew that if Ushijima hadn’t wanted to let him go, he would never have gotten out of that grip.
He rolled his shoulders as he tried to collect himself. “It won’t.”
Ushijima gave a barely perceptible nod of his head and sat back down. Daishou knew he was dismissed.
He wrenched open the door and stormed past the man on the desk, taking the stairs down two at a time, as he had on the way up. When he reached the front entrance, he saw that the woman on the desk was deep in conversation with someone. Like hell was he going to wait to get her attention so she could buzz him out.
He approached the turnstile on the exit side of the desk and, planting his hand on the barrier, vaulted over the gate.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strode out of the front door, ignoring the yells behind him.
He’d parked his bike around the corner so he hurried around the block, pulling out his keys. Blessedly, the bike was still there - he wouldn’t have put it past Ushijima to have someone sabotage it.
He pulled on the helmet he’d left hanging on the handle bars, and swung his leg over the bike. Slotting the key into the ignition, he flicked back the stand with his foot and revved the bike onto the road.
He knew Ushijima wasn’t stupid, but he did have a bad habit of underestimating others, particularly those he considered to be beneath him.
Daishou hadn’t made a mistake. He had never intended to kill that man, and it had been no coincidence where they’d dumped him. But he could let Ushijima think that he was just incompetent.
He smirked. Shiratorizawa may not realise it, but when they were stepped on, what snakes did best was bite back.
---
Double bubble disco queen
Headed to the guillotine
Skin as cool as Steve McQueen
Let me be your killer king