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Just looking through the one-way mirror at the man he's about to interrogate, Suguru can already feel a headache growing in between his temples.
"Seriously, Boss?" he snorts, watching their supposed suspect with a critical eye. "This guy doesn't even look yakuza." Far from it, really – the coat they'd taken from him at booking was Burberry of all things, and before he was cuffed to the table in front of him the suspect rolled up his shirt sleeves as if to say look, see! No tattoos!
"And yet we caught him in a raid of a Gojo-kai warehouse," Yaga deadpans. "Probably better for us he's not actually part of the group. The civilians stupid enough to get caught up in yakuza business will always spill for a plea bargain."
Suguru sighs in the long-suffering way that Yaga learned to tune out years ago. He joined INTERPOL to assassinate the world's worst criminals – disguised as accidents every time, naturally, for that agency's reputation – not to baby spoiled rich idiots who got in over their head.
"Fine," he grumbles anyway, recognizing he isn't being given a choice here and the fight isn't worth burning through the little bit of energy his caffeine reserves have left. He's low-balling that he'll need another two cups of coffee after dealing with this particular suspect.
When he barges into the interrogation room, his first sign that something is off about all of this is the way his prey doesn't even startle at the sudden noise. Instead of being thrown off and jittery, he chuckles quietly and slowly tips his chin back down from where he was staring at the ceiling to pin Suguru with his unnervingly blue eyes. For all that he's the one who's been chained to a table in INTERPOL'S Tokyo branch for twelve hours, he seems to be as comfortable as he would be at home.
"INTERPOL-san," he greets him, already being obnoxious deliberately. "What can I do for you today, hm?"
Suguru narrows his eyes as he sinks into the chair opposite his suspect. "Ieiri Satoru," he greets in return, opening the slim file of precisely jackshit they know about this man. "You're a Tokyo native, aren't you? Where's the accent from?"
Satoru looks smugly pleased at how quickly Suguru caught on to the subtle and unusual way he rolls his syllables. "Just Satoru is fine! And I've spent a few years in Russia," he says airily, attempting to wave a dismissive hand and only getting the screeching sound of metal scraping against metal for his troubles. "Oops."
Oops, Suguru's finely sculpted ass. He's being annoying as a diversion tactic.
"Do you know why you're here, Ieiri?"
Satoru's lips quirk at the use of his family name in strange amusement, and he shrugs a shoulder with too much lazy confidence for a low level businessman wrapped up in yakuza dealings. "Something to do with the yakuza warehouse you found me in, I'd wager?"
Who are you really?
"We have you on enough possession with intent to distribute charges to keep you in some backwater prison for the rest of your life," Suguru taunts, curious if this will ruffle Satoru's feathers at all. "Are you really willing to go down for them?"
"I go down for plenty of men," Satoru drawls with a shit-eating grin. "What's a few more, eh?"
"What – that's not–"
"Maybe even you, INTERPOL-san, " he continues with a genuinely thoughtful expression on his face as he looks Suguru up and down. "Except you scream pent up virgin, so maybe not."
What the fuck?
"Are you going to cooperate or not?" Suguru asks, and he thinks he deserves a lifetime of credit and a free round of drinks at the bar for sounding composed. "I would be happy to let you rot in a cell forever, so you better decide quickly."
"Ah, but we both know that isn't up to you!" Satoru chirps, one side of his mouth tugging up into a grin that's full of pointed teeth. "So stop with the bluffs and get to the point. What is it you're after that you think I can help you with?"
At this point, he could help Suguru by spontaneously combusting. The paperwork would be worth never having to deal with him again. But, barring sudden human barbecue in the bowels of an INTERPOL office, Suguru has a job to do. He weighs whether or not to tell the suspect the truth, decides it's worth the risk – a cocky civilian ratting on the top yakuza family in Japan will end up dead before the day is over anyway.
"That warehouse belongs to the leader of the Gojo-kai," Suguru tells him. "We're going after the kumicho."
"The kumicho," Satoru parrots, purring the words in a frankly x-rated way. Suguru is absolutely not affected by the new low register to the other man's voice. "Why?"
"I'd say that's fairly obvious."
Without warning, Satoru lurches forward in his seat and leans as far into Suguru's space as his chained hands will allow. Suguru only resists the impulse to hit him in the head with his file because there's cameras in the room.
"Seriously?" Satoru breathes, that shark's grin back on his face. "You don't even know who he is, do you?"
Suguru bristles defensively. "We know he's been holed up in the Gojo ancestral home for years," he tells him. "And that he's supposedly the son of the former kumicho, but that's it. If you accept the bargain, you'll have to help us get closer to him–"
Satoru drowns him out with a bark of danger-tinged humor, falling back into his seat with a strangely attractive self-satisfied air that makes Suguru privately wonder about the ethics of losing his virginity to a prisoner and then killing him like a praying mantis. That probably should be included in the HR manual, and he makes a mental note to anonymously suggest this. He's a team player that way.
"This is great," Satoru chuckles, shaking his head. "Man, everyone back at headquarters is gonna be sharing this story for years! Thank you for the laugh, INTERPOL-san."
Being referred to in such a stupid way grates Suguru's nerves enough that he bites out, "Agent Getou. What headquarters?"
"What, you don't even know where that is?"
No. The last time they sent anyone to find even crumbs of information on the Gojo-kai, the agent's remains were delivered to the agency front doors in a barrel of acid. Very few people were willing to pursue any sort of lead after that.
"Can you help us get to him or not," Suguru mutters through clenched teeth. Everything about this man screams danger and wrongwrongwrong, but he's their best chance right now – and admittedly, intriguing.
"Oh, sure," is Satoru's breezy reply. "I happen to know him pretty well, as it turns out. We...have relatives in common, you could say!"
"So talk."
Satoru's smug expression becomes expectant as he lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers pointedly. "I promise to be a good boy and keep my hands to myself, agent."
"No," Suguru says flatly, immediately. There's taking a gamble and then there's being plain stupid– but then three sharp raps on the mirror tell him that Yaga is still there, and he's got other ideas on where the limit is for stupidity.
"Oh dear," Satoru hums, still unbearably smug with his wrists up. "It seems you're the one in chains."
Wondering exactly when he lost the high ground in this interrogation, Suguru doesn't bother suppressing the way he rolls his eyes while roughly grabbing Satoru's cuffs and unlocking them. For a long moment, the heavy clatter they make as they fall away is the only sound in the room, and Suguru stares resolutely at the opposite wall as a prisoner sizes him up like a meal.
"Much better," Satoru eventually says, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. His head tips to the side like a curious puppy, and his smile is nothing short of curiously amenable. "Is that really all you know about the kumicho?"
Sighing in resignation, Suguru leans forward to mirror his opponent's posture, propping his cheek in one hand. The distance between them is mere inches now, and this close he can see the coldly analytical way this man's mind seems to work. No mere businessman, certainly, and for the first time in months he finds himself facing an actual challenge.
"Basically," he admits, "unless you count the rumors that he killed his own parents to take over the clan and that he's overthrown the Bratva in Moscow."
There's that infuriatingly satisfied smile again. "Kumicho and Pakhan, huh? Your phantom sounds like a busy man! It's a wonder he gets anything done."
Suguru rolls his eyes again, but his focus stays locked on the mystery sitting across from him waiting to be cracked. "Hearsay and myth. What do you know that's actually true, since you're claiming to know him?"
He swears Satoru's eyes are translucent enough he can see back to the gears turning in his head – and then the moment a particularly nasty light bulb flares to life.
"Y'know," he murmurs, closing the distance between them by a few more centimeters as his eyes track every part of Suguru's features. "I finally realized who you remind me of."
His blood turns to ice. How can he –
"You're the spitting image of that guy they keep putting on the news, aren't you?" he continues, canting his head even further to the side. "What's his name again? Ken…"
"jaku," Suguru finishes as his blood thaws out and drains out of his face to leave him feeling hollow. "Kenjaku."
"Ah, yes. Isn't he some big shot kumicho himself? Why don't you ask him? Since you look relat–"
"We aren't talking about the Kamo-gumi," he cuts in swiftly, refusing to continue down this road. We aren't going to talk about my father.
And he realizes too late that he's given Satoru a piece of key information with this reaction, but the rage he always feels just at the mention of Kenjaku replaces everything else until he's blind even to the suspect within a handspan of him, to eyes the color of the summer sky assessing him, to Yaga's warning taps on the mirror.
"Aggggeeeent," Satoru singsongs in a whisper right in front of him, and the grating tone of it is enough for Suguru to snap back into himself, to lock eyes and swallow dryly at the way Satoru is watching him now.
Satoru breaks the contact long enough to look down with odd emphasis at his hands before his gaze travels back to Suguru's face. And no matter how much of a fucking trainwreck Suguru's been during this interrogation, no matter how off-kilter he feels around this man for no objectively discernible reason, he's the furthest thing from stupid. With his back to where Yaga is watching them, he can subtly pretend to reread Satoru's file – all while watching the tiny taps of his fingers on the table.
Russian Morse code.
Suguru's no Russian expert, but he knows more than anyone else in this office does. He tells himself that he'll report whatever message Satoru's giving him to his superiors. That he'll do the good thing and give away this secret communication.
Until.
He realizes what Satoru is telling him.
I can help you kill him.
And he knows without needing to be told that he doesn't mean the leader of Gojo-kai. His mouth goes dry and he debates kissing this stranger or stabbing him with his ballpoint pen for suggesting that Suguru could be free forever from Kenjaku with some simple murder. As if he hadn't thought of that before. As if he's never spent sleepless night after sleepless night devising plans to assassinate the man who inspired him to kill high profile criminals in the first place.
"Gojo-kai," he manages to say around the sandpaper feel of his tongue. "Their kumicho."
Satoru sighs like he's genuinely disappointed in him but he waves a hand in concession. "I know he hasn't been at the ancestral home in several years. I know he has strict rules his people have to follow."
Suguru looks at him skeptically. "So do all yakuza clans "
"Duh," he snorts, "but I meant different rules. I know he won't allow trafficking in his territory, that dealers can't sell drugs to kids, and loan sharks can't deal with civilians."
Interesting, but not entirely helpful. "Wow," he says, unimpressed. "Someone nominate him for sainthood."
Satoru's smile is a little less predatory now, a little less smug – somewhere between amused and appreciative in a way Suguru can't and doesn't want to define. It's becoming rapidly evident that he's attracted this man's attention, and he isn't entirely sure that's a good thing.
"Fine, fine! So bossy, agent!" The flicker of positive emotion is snuffed out so quickly Suguru thinks he may have imagined it. "I also know where he's going to be this Friday."
The logical thing to do is doubt this, to laugh in Satoru's face and call him the world's most idiotic liar.
Suguru leans closer. "Where?"
Satoru gives him the name of a Russian restaurant in Roppongi. "He has a meeting there at 8 PM."
"With who?"
The answering chuckle he gets vibrates through him and ultimately gives him no answers. But before he can press the issue, the door swings open again.
Neither of them jumps. Neither of them moves except for their eyes sliding over to the newcomer – a bored-looking blond man who has Satoru's coat neatly draped over his arm.
"Nanami!" Satoru lights up, leaning back to break the tension that's been simmering in the room. "I knew you cared. You only made me sit in here for thirteen hours instead of a whole day!"
"Only because your students are tiresome without you," is the monotone response as Nanami holds up the coat for Satoru to slide his arms into it. Somehow the tan wool gives him a sharper edge, a promise of danger carried on the same breeze as the expensive cologne he's wearing. Suguru is absolutely not ogling. "We've had the situation taken care of. They've released you from custody."
Satoru does not look in the least bit surprised that he's avoided a prison sentence. Instead, he looks back at Suguru and winks at him before fishing a pair of sunglasses out of his coat pocket and sliding them on. Insufferable asshole.
"See you soon, I'm sure," he says cryptically. Maybe he's going to add more, but the man who's apparently his attorney sighs impatiently.
"Gojo-sama. Ichiji is waiting with the car."
"Coming, coming," he whines, and then he's slipping through the door in a flash of tan and –
Suguru launches himself out of his chair so quickly it crashes to the floor, but he doesn't have time to notice. Gojo-sama. He charges down the hallway, skids around a corner and out the front door –
just in time to watch the Gojo-kai kumicho smirk at him with an obnoxious little handwave before sliding into the backseat of a sleek black Mercedes.
And Suguru has no proof to hold him on.
"Fine, then," he hisses through his teeth. "Roppongi at 8 PM."
It's a date.