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Immediately after the bastard slips through his fingers, Suguru abandons the mortal concept of sleep and replaces it with coffee-laced spite. Yaga kicks him out of the office on day three to take a shower, but he's trained for harder situations than this - he pushes his body to stay awake and even from the confines of his own bedroom he's scouring every database he has access to.
And there is, infuriatingly, absolutely nothing about Gojo Satoru. There's no definitive proof anyone by that name existed until he was captured in the warehouse. He searches Ieiri, finds nothing. Nanami? Nothing. All these names, all these ghosts. A desperate crime lab analysis of the fingerprints Satoru left behind and the DNA from the one cup of coffee he was offered yields just as much nothing. And that's suspicious on its own - a void this massive in the extensive databases of every major intelligence agency reeks of an insider cleaning up all traces of them. But -
"You aren't the kumicho," he says definitively as he sits across from Satoru at 8:07 PM at the restaurant he'd named earlier in the week. He hasn't slept since Monday, but a shower and much-needed shave several hours ago hides a multitude of sins. "You're a patsy."
"Damn, are you this charming on all your dates?" Satoru snorts, blue eyes lifting from the menu in front of him to the man who just barged into what may or may not be a Bratva front. There was no information on this restaurant either, no hints of criminal activity - unless one counted the price of the appetizers as extortion.
"We aren't on a date," Suguru hisses as he cases the building out of instinct. It's surprisingly open, like Satoru isn't concerned about the fifteen different angles of entry Suguru can identify where a decent hitman could snipe him from a nearby rooftop. The waiters seem to be actual waiters - none of the staff carry themselves like there's a gun hidden on their person. Even the other guests seem to be just that, a mixture of yuppies and obnoxious tourists, and no one is watching them closely like they're guarding Satoru.
Definitely not the kumicho.
Of course not.
Suguru would never be bested like that.
"Right, right. Because you didn't come alone, did you?" The way Satoru tilts his head and smiles beatifically right into the lenses of Suguru's glasses makes him internally curse. So he's already figured out where the camera and wire are hidden.
"Damn it," Yaga curses out loud into the earpiece attached to the stem of these glasses. "Proceed with caution, agent "
Satoru can't hear this part, but his smile only widens as though he can guess what's being said. "Don't worry, Interpol agents on every nearby rooftop and in the sedan across the street. I'll return your precious operative to you in one piece!"
"Fuck you," Suguru snarls and leans forward across the table. "Am I supposed to be impressed? Who's to say you aren't being fed what to say by someone else? Where's your wire?"
"I'm going to be offended," Satoru chuckles, unfazed, "by your lack of faith in me. Why are you so convinced I'm not the kumicho, eh? Is it because I'm too pretty to fit the part?"
It's his age. It's the way he dresses like a model. It's the way he was allowed into this restaurant without even a cursory patting down to make sure he wasn't carrying a weapon. It's -
Suguru growls in frustration and lashes out to seize Satoru's wrist, wrapping his fingers around the fragile joint and exposing the skin of his forearm.
"What sort of kumicho isn't fully inked?"
"The kind that doesn't give much of a fuck about tradition," Satoru murmurs, looking amused and deeply interested all at once, like he's waiting to see what stupid stunt Suguru will pull next. His pulse is a steady rhythm against Suguru's thumb, a little bit of constancy that he envies.
And he can't have that. He can't have this insufferable man so calm in contrast to his chaos. Smirking at the challenge in Satoru's eyes, he loosens his grip just enough to slide his fingers into the palm of Satoru's hand. He lightly traces the lifelines traveling little rivers of fate across his hand until he encounters the first ridge. And then the second, and the third.
Thin, faded with time, but unmistakable to Suguru, whose hands bear the same scars. The mark of someone taught to throw a knife, and the proof of a novice's mistakes etched permanently into the skin. But training scars alone don't make a kumicho, and his fingers continue searching for callouses -
"If you're looking for proof I regularly hold a gun," Satoru interrupts in a drawl, "you aren't gonna find anything. I wear gloves now."
Suguru swallows a little thickly at how well this man seems to follow his thoughts and flow into them.
"So give me proof," he says firmly. "Because I know you want something, and you better be worth the time I'm spending here."
Satoru withdraws his hand, and Suguru is a fool for missing the warmth of it in his own, but that's quickly quashed when Satoru holds that hand out and a passing waiter places a tablet in it.
"Let's backtrack a little!" He unlocks the screen and flips it so Suguru can see -
his Interpol ID photo and dossier.
"Here's the information I can so easily get my hands on, agent," Satoru hums, arrogant and annoying. "Ah! Or is it Suguru? You seem to prefer being called by your given name -"
"Where did you get that -"
"Getou Suguru," Satoru plows on, unperturbed. "Twenty-eight. Officially listed as a diplomatic envoy, which is bullshit speak for assassin. Top of your training class, expert marksman, and five solo kills of high-profile criminal leaders since your graduation. I'd been wondering who took down the Garza cartel last year!"
Suguru clenches his jaw and doesn't give Satoru the satisfaction of a reply.
"But here is where it gets interesting." Suguru tries to brace for the impact of what he knows is coming next. "Raised on the outskirts of Kyoto in a loving family. Showed significant promise both as an academic and an athlete. But it turns out -"
"-that my father wasn't my biological father," Suguru cuts in. If they're going to rehash his history, he'll at least control the narrative. "A man named Kenjaku is. My mother ran from him before I was born, and my father took her in. Are you going to make me say the rest?"
(Ten years later, it's the scene that haunts him awake and asleep - the new head of the Kamo-gumi coming to collect his son as an heir to this new empire of his. The flood of his parents' blood staining the kitchen tile when Suguru refused.
"And I'll kill anyone else you try to get close to until you take your place by my side," Kenjaku laughed as he left Suguru with the lifeless bodies of the only family he'd ever known.
Suguru knows from experience that Kenjaku can and will make good on that promise.)
"No," Satoru relents, quieter in what might pass as an apology. The moment he locks the tablet again, a different waiter is there to pluck it off the table and carry Suguru's life history with her.
"Say you are the kumicho," Suguru says after a shaky exhale to collect himself. "If you are, what do you want with me? Why all this to get my attention?"
"Why, I'm in the market for a hitman!" Satoru laughs, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The way he's looking at Suguru could be easily mistaken as intimate by the guests at neighboring tables. Suguru tells himself it’s all an act. "The Kamo-gumi are rapidly becoming the last and worst thorn in my side. I don't know that there's an assassin out there more motivated to track down Kenjaku to wherever he secretly schemes and take him out."
"...What?"
What?
"Of course, your whole Interpol gig is troublesome, but my people have worked with yours before for the greater good. I'm sure we could easily reach an accord, no?"
"You want me," Suguru says slowly, like he's rehashing for a child, "to what - go undercover inside the Gojo-kai and aid you in taking out your main competitor? Why? How?"
"I already told you why!" Satoru waves a hand to bat the question away from him. "As for how, that's rather simple. You accompany me as my second for the duration of the operation. Your instincts and insight would be useful. My people won't touch you because they trust my judgment, and if Kenjaku hears about it you'll be too insulated for him to get to you."
"He'll leave a trail of bodies in his wake to try," Suguru whispers hollowly. "It isn't worth it."
"I'd very much like to see him try," Satoru says, laden with so much arrogance it's almost comforting. Almost like Suguru can believe this man is capable enough of taking care of himself that he's worth investing in. But -
"I rejected my - his yakuza clan. Why would I be interested in joining yours?"
"Because it would be temporary! I'm not a recruiter, agent. I just see a beneficial opportunity for both our parties. You help me, Kenjaku dies, the Kamo-gumi are destroyed. Interpol gets whatever intel you share about the inner workings of the Gojo-kai. Win-win!" It sounds so simple coming out of his mouth.
"Of course, part of the agreement would be that no one associated with the Gojo-kai could be prosecuted for any...less than savory things you might witness while you're with us," Satoru finishes, and there's the catch.
“Of course,” Suguru parrots, leaning into Satoru’s space, “because there’s some other operation you want to run at the same time, isn’t there? While you have access to Interpol intel and me as a shield. You couldn’t give less of a fuck about Kenjaku.”
The rumble of laughter is like thunder to match Satoru’s electric gaze. “Now that’s funny, agent. I already know everything Interpol knows. Hell, I know so much more than your bureaucratic handlers could ever dream of. Why would I need you for some secret second mission?”
With startling speed, Satoru’s hand is suddenly wrapped around Suguru’s wrist, and the smug smile as he feels Suguru’s rabbit-hearted pulse is enough to inspire fantasies of murdering him. “What I need is a partner to take down the worst threat to Japan’s safety. And what you need is the confidence to do it. Sounds like serendipity to me.”
“You’re assuming I believe you,” Suguru points out as he resists the urge to snatch his hand back. “Some theatrics and my dossier aren’t proof you’re the kumicho, bastard.”
“Ugh, thhhaatt again. So untrusting!” Satoru scoffs and drops his hand back down. “Fine. You’ve been an absolutely terrible date, but I can give you a gift anyway,” he adds with an unfair wink as he stands up to his equally unfair height. How could someone this insufferable have such perfect posture?
“Yeah?” Suguru makes a show of looking around. “What’s it gonna be, a gun to my head when I walk out?”
Satoru waves a dismissive hand at him again while walking away, and Suguru’s murder fantasies are looking more enticing. “You’ll find out at 10 PM tomorrow, agent!”
===
“Um….sir?”
Suguru squints blearily at the nervous junior officer hovering over his desk. He’s been knee deep in the shit-all he knows about the Gojo-kai since his “date” the night before, and up until now everyone’s been smart enough to leave him alone. He’s about to open his mouth to remind the kid of that -
“There’s, uh. There’s something you need to see.”
And then he catches the clock for the first time in hours: 10:01 PM.
“Fuck,” is all he says in acknowledgement as he launches to his feet and over to their command center. Yaga gives him a disgusted look, which is probably fair, because Suguru looks and smells like the Parisian sewer he once spent a week camped out in for a mission. Suguru just smiles like the angel he is at him and then forces his attention onto the array of screens in front of him.
“We received an anonymous tip two hours ago,” Yaga sighs as they watch one of their strike teams infiltrate a warehouse on the Yokohama docks. “About unauthorized Triad drug smuggling at this location.”
It takes Suguru a solid thirty seconds to fully process the scene in front of him as the team moves into the open space of the warehouse. He’s seen some horrifying shit in his years, scenes that keep him up at night and dog him when he’s awake, and he’s killed enough people to drown in the blood and viscera left behind.
But this -
“Er - command, the location is secure?”
This is the worst thing Suguru’s ever been forced to see.
“I fucking hate him,” he declares, turning away from the sight of twenty very-much-alive Triad members tied together with obnoxiously bright red ribbon, bow and all. A gift, the bastard had called it. This was a paperwork nightmare.
“Suguru…” Yaga starts, but he doesn’t finish because he doesn’t need to.
Tomorrow, Suguru will be the newest member of the Gojo-kai.