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Morning cast the bedsheets in gold, draping sunlight across their bare skin. Tatara propped himself up on his elbows. His eyes drifted across the ridge of Mikoto’s spine and his fingertip followed to trace the intricate tattoos on his back.
“I could learn to paint,” he said.
Mikoto shifted his arm from beneath the pillow instead of opening his eyes. He pulled Tatara to his chest. “What are you saying,” he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.
“If painting was my next hobby, I could use you as a model."
Mikoto responded with a drowsy groan. "Too much work."
Tatara shook with silent laughter as he nestled his face to the crook of Mikoto’s neck. “All you have to do is hold still.”
Mikoto sighed, his sleep impeded. He rolled over and pressed Tatara to the mattress.
“Not around you,” he replied.
He cut off Tatara's exclamation of surprise with his lips. Tatara's breathy laughs were reduced to breaths as Mikoto shifted his affections to the other's neck. Mikoto moved lower. Fingernails burned into his back. A phone vibrated on the bedside table.
“Waka,” Tatara gasped.
“No.”
He lifted Mikoto’s head, his face still flushed. “Let me pick it up.”
Mikoto fell back onto the bed without another word, crossing an arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight. Tatara sat up to answer the call. He pulled on his button-up with his free hand, listening to what was said on the other end.
“I understand,” he replied. “Right away.”
He hung up and looked over his shoulder, smiling at Mikoto. He planted a kiss on his forehead and left the bed.
“There’s no helping it,” he said. "I’ll be back soon.”
Mikoto rolled into a sitting position, his legs hanging over the side of the mattress. "Is it important?" He pulled his pants up to his knees only to give up the task and light a cigarette instead.
“There’s talk that Shirogane-kai is pressuring our vendors in Ueno,” Tatara said. He opened the closet and shrugged on his overcoat. “It doesn’t seem likely, but someone has to check it out.”
Mikoto made no reply, only grabbed the shirt crumpled on the floor and pulled it over his head. His collar just managed to cover the edge of his tattoos.
“What are you doing?” Tatara asked.
“Hmm,” he replied.
“I'm only asking around,” Tatara said. “Go back to sleep.”
Mikoto stabbed the rest of his cigarette into the ashtray and left the room. Tatara sighed in resignation. Minutes later, they both tugged on their shoes at the door.
“Did you brush your teeth?” Tatara asked.
“You forgot the keys,” Mikoto replied.
Tatara ran back to the kitchen counter and tossed him the keys. It was a bad toss, but Mikoto leaned backwards and caught them with a smirk. He waited until Tatara crossed the threshold to lock the door behind them, something that Tatara never remembered to do himself.
The world crawled past the taxi window. It might have been faster to walk than to test the lunch hour traffic in Ueno.
“It must be a misunderstanding,” Tatara remarked.
Mikoto offered a monosyllable grunt from the seat next to him, already half asleep.
“Shirogane-kai hasn't fought with other territories before. There has to be a reason for it."
“Hell if I know,” Mikoto said. He rubbed at his eyes, giving up his nap for good.
Tatara searched for a sign of hope in the traffic, then glanced at the map on his phone. “This is close enough,” he told the driver.
Mikoto dragged himself out of the cab after Tatara, who held the bangs away from his face while looking around the shopping district. He made a small noise of realization.
“Waka, over here."
He touched Mikoto’s arm to guide him by touch, only to retract the hand with a sheepish laugh.
“Whoops,” he whispered.
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and led the way from a safer distance, whistling as he turned down a side street. He stopped to check the map again, turning it the other way. Mikoto nudged his shoulder before walking ahead. His long, lazy strides almost scuffed the pavement.
"Don't be stupid," he said.
An intense longing seized Tatara by the throat. He swallowed it before regaining his lead through the narrow web of backstreets, detached from the heavy traffic of the storefront side. Warehouses shadowed the alley on each side.
“Is this it?” Mikoto asked.
Tatara stepped around a door in the brick wall. “This is the building, but the front entrance is on the other—“
Mikoto lunged at the door. It splintered from its hinges. A shout rang out from within, followed by footsteps on the concrete floor. Mikoto pulled the first man through the doorway. Tatara stepped to the side. A gun clattered across the asphalt. Its owner slammed into the ground a moment later, motionless.
“Waka?”
“Five minutes,” he answered. He ducked through the doorway.
Tatara picked up the gun, unscrewed the suppressor and began counting. Bodies broke namelessly upon boards and steel and other bodies. A shiver ran down his arms, leaving goosebumps.
“Sixty-seven…sixty-eight…”
A young man with a shaved head staggered through the doorway. Blood dripped from his face. He limped blindly from the exit until Tatara blocked his path.
“Are you from Shirogane-kai?” he asked.
Tatara did not enjoy pointing a gun at other people. It did not make for good conversation. As expected, the low-level shatei made no answer. He was new, expendable, sent to prove his worth even if it only amounted in silence.
“Did you hurt the people working here?” Tatara said.
The shatei gave a slight laugh. It turned into a coughing fit. His hand lashed out. Tatara stepped back, but the shatei yanked the gun barrel upward. The air cracked with a familiar bang unmuffled by a suppressor. Pain exploded from Tatara’s stomach, sending sick colors in every direction. Tatara dropped the weapon, swimming through his vision. He felt Mikoto tear the shatei’s grip away from him. Tatara stumbled backward and hit the wall, clutching his stomach as the fight continued before him. A metallic taste filled the back of his mouth. His shoulders heaved with every painful inhale.
The shatei crashed to the ground with a moan that trailed into silence. Mikoto scanned the alley. Adrenaline buzzed from his fingertips through the knife blade. The brightness in his eyes cut like a razor and never quite settled on Tatara, looking through him instead as if afraid to cut.
“The gunshot?”
Tatara laughed. It came out uncertain. “That was me. I couldn’t wait five minutes. Are the vendors okay?”
“They’re gone,” Mikoto said. His palms felt hot. Even his throat burned raw. “It was planned.”
It was an ambush. You would have died.
Tatara left the wall’s support to wipe the blood from Mikoto’s cheek. He took the knife from his hand and folded the blade into his own pocket. Mikoto flinched at the touch, but caught himself. He pressed the hand to his face with an urgency that reverberated through him like the gunshot. His breath left him in shudders. He had never known fear until Tatara brought love out of him. Sometimes he thought that the two were the same.
“We should hurry,” Tatara whispered. He pulled away carefully, bringing them back to reality. “Someone probably heard and we need people to remove the bodies.”
“Call ‘em yourself,” Mikoto said.
“I’m at the bottom of the hierarchy,” Tatara reminded him. “There’s no one beneath me.”
Mikoto exhaled something close to a laugh. His fingers still trembled. “Well, half the time.”
"That's hardly what I meant," Tatara answered. He covered his mouth with his hand, wiping away the smile there. It seemed too fierce in their surroundings, another reminder that the aftermath they stood in was nothing new.
Tatara leaned against the wall and scrolled through his contacts. After some deliberation, he made the call.
“Hi! It’s Totsuka, do you remember me?” A pause. He smiled briefly. “Good! Actually, there’s been a situation in Ueno. Can you come? Thank you. I’ll send the address.”
He hung up and glanced at Mikoto.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
The question was wrong. Tatara’s concern was more sincere than the words deserved. Mikoto sat down on the steps in front of the door.
“Nothing," he replied. He could no longer ignore the contradiction of their lives, that's all.
Tatara joined him on the steps and waited. Their fingers entwined. After a while, he said, “Your hand is warm.”
As far as Mikoto could tell, he enjoyed saying useless things.
“You know that I love you, right?”
A weight pulled Mikoto's stomach to the ground. He knew. Nothing had changed since the first time. I love you still sounded more like an end than a beginning. His mouth burned the words like flame touched to paper.
“Because my hand is warm?” he said.
Tatara smiled and looked at his feet. “Sure, let’s go with that.”
“Yours too.”
A van pulled into the narrow alley. Their hands parted. Tatara stood up, the breath caught in his throat. He met the van and opened the passenger door before it stopped.
“Eric—“
Tatara recovered from his surprise with a polite bow. The oyabun’s personal aide stepped out of the passenger seat. Ojima carried himself with a cool, detached competency from years of experience. The hardened look in his eyes set an expectancy for discipline. Mikoto did not rise to greet him.
“How rare for you to volunteer in other people’s work,” Ojima said.
“I could say the same to you,” Mikoto answered.
“Unfortunately, the situation now requires greater attention. I made a call to the police department. They won’t respond to the area for the several hours.”
Eric hopped from the back of the van. He and the driver went straight to work, lifting the two bodies in the alley and dumping them into the back of the van, which was lined with plastic. Tatara stepped out of their way.
“It’s been a while,” he said. “Eric, have you been getting along well?”
Eric seemed uncomfortable with the attention and glanced to Ojima once, but nodded. “Fujishima’s taken care of me,” he mumbled. He frowned, testing his memory. “Thank you for asking,” he added.
Kousuke smiled in the direction of their conversation before pouring cola on the cracked asphalt. Eric excused himself from Tatara's conversation to take the scrub brush from him and start cleaning blood from the pavement.
“Fujishima, take inventory and collect the surveillance,” Ojima said. He pulled his phone from his suit pocket. “The car is here. Totsuka, you’ll come with me to investigate the vendor’s compliance.”
“Yes, sir,” Tatara replied.
He felt Mikoto’s eyes on him as he followed Ojima, but did not look back. This game was nothing new to either of them. It only got harder to play.
Tatara maintained a perfect silence in the backseat while Ojima made several business calls. He recognized the shift in scenery outside the tinted window. Towering office buildings and shopping malls melted into suburban sprawl. Small gaps grew between the passing houses. His destination registered as a slight surprise. He had only been to the main house once for his initiation and had not been called to it since. A small laugh escaped him before his chest tightened. At least one good thing came of it.
The car slowed along a walled property and stopped in front of the gate, which opened to let it through. The driveway led up uphill to a traditional-style complex. The wings of the house extended to each side. Snow covered the roof and the grounds around it. Fountain water trickled into an empty koi pond.
The housekeeper greeted them at the door, an old, withered woman who had served the family for generations. Tatara recognized her from his first and last time at the house and then some from Mikoto’s halfhearted complaints of her constant nagging. He smiled and attempted to bow while taking off his shoes, almost stumbling.
“Hello, ma’am. Are you well?” he asked.
She looked at him in a way that was too discerning, almost pitying. “I’ll take your coat,” she replied.
“That’s okay, I’m not staying—“ Tatara glanced at Ojima. He handed over the coat.
The housekeeper slid open a rice paper door at the end of the main hall, standing sentry at its side. Ojima entered the room first. Tatara followed. His heart skipped a beat when he saw who sat at the low table. If he managed to bow or made the correct address, he was unable to remember it.
“Sit down,” Oyabun said.
Tatara dropped onto his knees beside Ojima. Now he could see the resemblance between father and son. The strength in build, square jawline and hooded eyes, even the intensity of expression bore an ageless familiarity. But the man in front of him embodied only stone cold strength, none of the quiet warmth and tenderness that Tatara had come to love. He could see why Mikoto hated the closeness. Then he realized the gravity of his situation.
“Why am I here?” Tatara blurted.
A quick report, his next assignments and Ojima should have been done with him. Instead he faced the family head without an explanation, probably forgetting several vital rules of etiquette in the process.
“What is your relationship with my son?”
Tatara froze. His answer came a beat late. “I serve him with the respect and loyalty that my vow commands.”
“You’re a liar,” Oyabun replied. He did not raise his voice. “Your misconduct towards my son has brought disgraceful rumors upon both him and the clan. It is well known that you have not only tainted him with your subversive sexuality, but made him lazy and unwilling to inherit the clan. On top of this, you seek to reward yourself with the favor of his position and feign innocence of the accusations before you.”
He stared at Tatara with a chilled expression. “In what way have you not broken your vow?”
Silence fell upon the room. Oyabun''s shoulders lowered slightly, the only indication that he had lost his composure. He knew that no argument could be made against him, and Tatara could not save himself from punishment. It was too late for love to be the answer. But it was the only truth that Tatara had left.
“I would have preferred to have this conversation before you decided to get rid of me today,” Tatara said. He did not smile, but a disconcerting irony remained in his tone.
Oyabun’s gaze flickered to Ojima. Neither answered.
“Mikoto is worth more than my life or yours,” Tatara said. “You can’t change him and I would never want to.”
Tatara reached into his pocket. Ojima grabbed his hand. Oyabun stopped him with a gesture, allowing Tatara to pull the switchblade from his pocket. He flattened his hand on the table.
“I hold only one thing above my promise. This is not an apology. It’s a proof.”
He clenched his teeth so that he would not bite off his tongue. Mikoto would not want this. The knife came down on his finger.
Mikoto walked back to Tatara’s apartment with his hand curled around the keys in his pocket. It was only a matter of time until someone found out about their relationship or he was forced to replace his father as head of the clan. Today had shocked him back into the reality of both. His fingers still trembled slightly when he looked at them. He did not want the world that gave Tatara a gun and told him to shoot. He did not want the world that threatened to take away the only person that Mikoto would live for. Both he and Tatara were trapped in their vows. Someday one would consume the other. Mikoto clenched his fist. The keys dug their sharp teeth into his palm.
You know that I love you, right?
Tatara would be sitting at the door, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He would cover his smile, sheepish, and say something about forgetting his keys a second time that day. Mikoto would warm him up and help him forget. A different sight met him instead.
A man in a black coat stood in front of Tatara’s door. He knocked. Receiving no answer, he stepped backwards and threw his weight against the door. It splintered. Mikoto ran at him. The intruder turned, ducked around him and disappeared between the streets. Mikoto chased after him, but losing sight of him once was enough for the Black Dog to escape entirely.
Mikoto’s mind burned too hot to think. His thoughts tore to pieces, any attempt to string them together ending in failure. This was more than a conflict between clans. Shirogane-kai had targeted Tatara in particular. He needed to act. His blood pulled toward the opportunity to seek out the threat and annihilate it from existence. Only one cooling thought drew him back. It was his fault. He should have left the clan long ago and taken Tatara with him, even if it meant the price of expulsion. They should have left for somewhere far away where I love you did not sound like an end.
Mikoto looked at the door, splintered and half off its hinges. A weakness washed over him, longing for Tatara’s voice and the next touch of him. Tatara claimed he could be happy anywhere. He claimed to be an idiot. He laughed when he was unhappy and tried to put peace and goodness into places where it did not belong. That was how he first reached Mikoto.
But he knew that it would be better for Tatara not to know the truth until it had been done. The consequences of leaving the clan at his rank were unthinkable. Tatara would not want this for him, maybe not even for himself.
With some difficulty from lack of practice, Mikoto sent a text message from his phone.
Don’t go home.
Then he turned it off.
It was dark by the time Mikoto arrived at the gates. He entered the access code and did not bother to remove his shoes once inside the house. A warm light glowed from the tea room. Mikoto leaned against the doorway, expecting to interrupt a conversation or conference. Instead, his father sat alone in the tatami mat room, looking over paperwork. A traditional robe replaced his customary suit and tie. When he looked up to acknowledge Mikoto’s presence, it was with a stiff prejudice, his expression barely changed to accommodate the contempt in his tone.
“What is it you want?” he asked.
Mikoto’s lips twisted into a wry smile. He had only two interactions with his father: silent compliance and silent refusal. This would be the first time in his memory that he asked his father for anything.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
His father turned back to the papers on the low table. “Do you know what expulsion means? A disappearance. You will have nothing left, nowhere to go.”
“Name your price.”
He did not hesitate in his response. “Locate the head of Shirogane-kai.”
The current oyabun of Shirogane-kai had not been found once in his two years of activity.
“And the price for two people?”
His father’s smile unsettled him. “Locate him and kill him.”
Mikoto’s fingers twitched. Both the ambush in Ueno and the Black Dog’s appearance threatened to consume him. He wanted to take Tatara away; he wanted to stay and destroy. Now the temptation became a cohesive whole. There was no better opportunity to save himself from fear.
“Consider it done,” Mikoto said.
He left the house, returning chilled silence to its interior.
Oyabun stared at a distant point beyond the wall, brooding. After several moments, Ojima entered from the deck. He closed the sliding door behind him and sat down at the table, crushing his cigarette butt in the ashtray. He waited for his superior to speak first.
“The river in Arakawa-ku,” he said.
Ojima nodded. “Right away.”
Mikoto spent the night awake behind a splintered door. He knew that the Black Dog would not return, yet he waited. He did not turn on his cellphone and Tatara did not come home. The AM hours stirred his thoughts into self-destructing circles.
He knew that Tatara he would not want what he was doing now. He would accuse him of taking too much of an imagined burden. He would see a sacrifice where Mikoto saw none and feel the guilt of lives upon them when Mikoto felt nothing. Without a doubt, Tatara would look at him with the same eyes as I love you and ask, “Why did you decide this all by yourself?”
But damn the consequences. What blood could stain him in a way he was not already dyed? As long as Tatara stayed safe, he was incapable of regrets.
Mikoto rubbed his eyes. Dawn cast a lighter tinge to the kitchen shadows. The front door creaked open, letting whispers in. Two sets of quiet footsteps treaded down the hall. Mikoto moved from the counter to the wall.
“Why is the door broken?” Eric asked.
“I don’t know,” Kousuke answered. He did not continue the question. Eric accepted it as an answer.
“I’m tired.”
“We’re almost done.”
Mikoto turned cold. He grabbed the first collar that came into reach, slamming Eric into the wall. The air knocked out of his lungs with a gasp and he dug his fingernails into Mikoto’s wrists. Kousuke stopped himself on the edge of retaliating, his body tense with restraint.
“Done with what?” Mikoto said.
“Totsuka.”
The words echoed through him. Hollow. Nothing stopped. Mikoto felt Eric drop from his grip. He could feel the city moving. He could feel Earth beneath him and hundreds of millions of people living useless lives all at once except one.
“We got a call from him last night,” Kousuke said. “He didn’t know where he was, but he said the city lights were too bright for stars and that he could hear water. He apologized. That was it. We tracked him to a bridge in Arakawa-ku.”
“Where is he?”
Kousuke only answered after a long moment had passed. “I don’t think you should see the body.”
Mikoto’s senses tried to burn out thought by setting themselves aflame, but all that remained was empty space, an absence that tore him open and filled him with nothing.
“Leave,” Mikoto said.
Kousuke made no effort to move. Eric looked between him and Mikoto with an anxious expression until Kousuke finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping.
“We’ll be back later,” he said.
Kousuke closed the damaged door behind him as well as he could. Streetlamps glowed over a thin layer of fresh snow as the sun rose. Eric chewed his lip and waited on the sidewalk for him to catch up. Their vehicle was parked a short walk away.
“We should have told him about the yubitsume,” Eric said.
“There’s no proof that it was related,” Kousuke replied. “Even if it was—“
He stopped. “Listen to me, Eric. Even if Totsuka wasn’t killed by Shirogane-kai, even if Oyabun got rid of him for his own reasons, it’s not our place to interfere. In fact, it’s dangerous. Do you understand?”
Eric blinked away the sting in his eyes and nodded. He kicked the snow, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “I wish Mikoto was in charge. Then none of this would have happened.”
“He doesn’t scare you?”
“Not like Oyabun or Ojima. Totsuka was always with him. I think that must mean he’s a good person.”
Kousuke thought about Mikoto’s eyes glazing over with the news.
“I think so too,” he said.
Mikoto entered the bar on the third day. It was empty in the late morning, the burgundy curtains drawn back to catch whatever light the city had left.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” called the owner.
Mikoto took a seat. Izumo came out of the back room and almost recoiled with shock. Bruise-like rings had formed under Mikoto’s eyes, which were bloodshot and sunken. His skin was pale, his lips colorless. His hand wavered almost indiscernibly in holding a lighter. Izumo pulled out a glass and poured him a drink. It was not in his habit to tell customers how terrible they looked. Thankfully, Mikoto was an old friend and rarely paid for his drinks.
“You look completely shot,” Izumo said.
Mikoto’s gaze cut like a dull blade, more dangerous in the force it required to focus. His sleep-deprived body was only a prison for that look, and its instability made it clear that the prison would only last for so long.
“I need information,” he said.
Izumo’s eyebrows raised. “You need what?” His mind ran through a list of quickly exhausted explanations. It was unheard of for Mikoto to need anything besides a supply of vices and a bed to crash on.
“The head of Shirogane-kai. Where do I find him?”
Izumo exhaled in relief. “So that’s what this is about. I’ve heard the story. A couple of assaults, a clan member gets killed, Shirogane-kai refuses responsibility and now the two wards are bracing for war. Do you realize how bad for business this is? Find him yourself.”
“I tried.”
An edge ran beneath the resignation in his tone, suggesting that the bar owner tread more carefully with his words.
Izumo crossed his arms. “I won’t get involved in yakuza problems. That was the deal.
You’ve never been interested in work anyways.”
He paused. A concerned expression dawned on his face. “What happened?”
Mikoto looked out the window. Izumo almost accused him of avoiding a reply, but the dots finally connected themselves. He leaned on the counter and pressed his hand to his forehead.
“Oh no. Not that kid.”
“Will you give me the info or not?” Mikoto said.
“Of course I won’t. You’re already worn into the ground. You’ll get yourself killed.”
He knew that he left Mikoto with only two choices. Judging by the length of his silence, it was a difficult decision to make. Mikoto began to leave.
“Wait,” Izumo said. “There’s an absurd rumor that the Black Dog is still in high school,” Izumo said. “No one has been able to confirm it, but I would check the schools near Arakawa-ku. I doubt that kuro would be far from shiro.”
“Thanks,” Mikoto said.
“I would rather you didn’t,” he replied, tossing him a plastic packet.
Mikoto caught it one-handed.
“You need sleep,” Izumo said.
He shook the packet in response.
“Those are for an emergency,” Izumo called after him.
The door closed. Izumo picked up the empty glass on the counter and sighed. He wondered if this was the last time he would see Mikoto alive.
Tatara rubbed a calming circle into his shoulder.
“Was it a nightmare?”
Mikoto could not find the words to speak, afraid of his voice and how the fear might change it. He unraveled slowly at Tatara’s touch, his surroundings returning in pieces.
“It’s okay to be afraid. The fear is real, even if the rest isn’t.”
Mikoto rolled over in bed to face him. Tatara’s blonde hair splayed against the pillow and he smiled with his eyes. He was beautiful. Had he ever told Tatara that?
“Don’t go home,” Mikoto said.
Tatara’s expression flickered into concern. “Is something wrong?”
Something was wrong, but Mikoto could not pinpoint it. He flung off the covers and left the bed. The room spun.
“Waka? Why won't you tell me?”
The bed was covered in blood. A scream tore through the room.
Mikoto jolted awake as the bullet train squealed, its scream reverberating through him as it pulled into the station. Sweat soaked his shirt. His heart felt swollen against his rib cage. Something was lodged in his lungs. He pressed a hand to his chest and pushed his way onto the platform. Oxygen refused to reach his lungs no matter how many breaths he took. There were too many people. He felt them like the heartbeat racing beneath his fingertips. The station signs were impossible to read. He blinked his vision into focus and pulled out his cellphone. His fingers trembled.
He had not turned it on. He was afraid of what he might see. A better outcome that he had missed, another mistake, a last conversation that never occurred. He hated himself for his blinding fear of the black screen. Shutting out his thoughts, he turned it on.
Nothing. No missed calls, no new messages.
“We got a call from him last night…” Kousuke had said.
Mikoto stared sightlessly at the screen. Both of them were the same. To separate ends, they must have carried the same regrets, Mikoto alone at the kitchen table, Tatara unable to take his eyes from the sky. Mikoto swallowed. He looked at the station, found out where he was and where he needed to go. There was nothing left to feed to pride.
Takenodai High School was a small, two story complex with a gated courtyard, one of two high schools in the Arakawa ward. The school day was still in session. Mikoto smoked outside the back of a café and made the call from a disposable flip phone. A few words, a simple threat.
“A gift from the Black Dog,” Mikoto finished.
He broke the phone in half before tossing it in the dumpster. The alley was a safe distance from the front of the school. In a small, rural school, the seed of panic would spread from a secretary to several faculty members in a matter of minutes. A vague message from the principal over the intercom, followed by whispered exchanges in front of the students. Someone mentions a bomb threat; another asks about the meaning of a black dog. The Black Dog himself, if more than a rumored existence, sees the ruse and is forced to act. All Mikoto had to do now was wait.
Minutes passed. A female student ran across the courtyard into the opposite wing of the school. A fire alarm went off. Students began to leave the grounds in groups of friends. They joked to each other about the unplanned drill, heading for the nearest convenience stores and cafés. Movement from the roof caught Mikoto’s attention.
A boy gripped the railing and looked down at the students leaving the building. Even at a distance, Mikoto could see the stark white of his hair. A second figure pulled him away from the edge. Kuro and shiro. The Black Dog and Shirogane-kai. They responded to his challenge by exposing themselves to the world.
Mikoto’s lips pulled into a smile. “Your move,” he said.
They disappeared from the rooftop. The Black Dog appeared again to intermingle with students leaving the school. He kept a diligent watch as they dispersed and removed himself from the grounds once the emergency vehicles arrived. The girl who pulled the fire alarm left in the opposite direction. If they were decoys, the tantalizing appearance of their leader was the greater distraction. He would not appear so easily again. The Black Dog was a more guaranteed target.
Mikoto cut through the alley to the other side of the block. The Black Dog recognized him and hesitated only a moment before he broke into a run. He leapt onto a vending machine and caught the fire escape of a building, disappearing across the roof. The rest of Mikoto’s vision blurred as he sprinted in pursuit. The Black Dog was already halfway across the park when Mikoto rounded the corner. He caught up with the student in a matter of strides and threw him to the concrete, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.
“Where is he?”
“Wait,” the Black Dog gasped.
Mikoto’s palms burned. He crushed a knee into his back. The student’s face lost color. “Tell me where he is.”
“That’s enough,” said a voice.
Mikoto turned, dragging Kuroh with him. In person, Tatara’s killer was young and slim with round eyes. He twirled an umbrella on his shoulder and confronted Mikoto with an almost embarrassed expression.
“Kuroh’s my wife,” Shiro said. “I’d like him back now.” His uneasiness was superficial, the side effect of a genius intellect that did not need the appearance of confidence.
Mikoto reached for his waistband. Shiro dropped the umbrella and moved into his movement. He pushed Mikoto’s face away and grabbed his hand, twisting the arm in a fluid movement. He bowed with it in front of him.
“Thank you very much,” he said.
Mikoto’s senses exploded white with pain. His knees fell. The gun clattered to the pavement. For a moment that seemed to last forever, he could not think to act. Kuroh rubbed his throat and picked up the pistol. Shiro released his hold, stepping backwards with the same unaffected demeanor. Mikoto had never felt a rage so cold in his life.
“Pardon me for making this point,” Shiro said. “But is it normal for yakuza to ally with other wards over the death of one low-level member?”
He picked up his umbrella. “We never attacked your territory, yet your clan and several others are preparing for war over this incident. The men in Ueno were contracted killers, most likely in the service of your father.”
Mikoto searched for an opening. Disable the firearm, use a hostage. One moment of hesitation threatened to topple all he had willed himself to do.
“You went to his apartment,” Mikoto said.
“The truth is, some rumors circulated about the two of you before this,” Shiro answered. “We thought that Totsuka might have been singled out as a target for this reason and tried to contact him,”
Mikoto remembered Tatara’s phone ringing that morning.
“I don’t want to ask this, but is it possible that your relationship might have interfered with something bigger?”
He remembered it as if seeing it for the first time. Tatara’s vague, flitting fear of public eye, his apologies. The last time Mikoto saw him, leaving with Ojima. Later, the calm assurance of his father, the conditions of Mikoto’s release. There was no end scenario in which Oyabun lost.
Kuroh glanced toward the street. “Neko is signaling for danger,” he said to Shiro. He squinted. “I think. At any rate, we should leave.”
Shiro responded with a wave in the same direction. “I don’t expect you to believe us without proof, but we could combine efforts to investigate—“
“I don’t need it,” Mikoto said.
He stood to his feet. His arm hurt too much to move. Kuroh tensed and moved closer to Shiro’s side, but neither attempted to stop him.
“What will you do?” Shiro asked.
“Worse than what I would have done to you,” he replied.
“I don’t think revenge is the answer.”
Mikoto almost laughed. “Neither is running away.”
The jab hit its mark. Shiro frowned. “Your point?”
“Play dead.”
Mikoto’s phone vibrated while he was on the train. He picked it up without looking at the number. The voice on the other end did not matter. He only wanted to avoid his thoughts. Still, it came as unexpected.
“It’s Eric,” said the voice. Something toppled in the background. “Fuck—sorry, I need to tell you something important but I’m in the closet.”
“That’s your problem.”
Eric spluttered. “No, wait, it’s not—this is important, okay? Are you listening?”
Mikoto listened.
“Are you?” Eric repeated.
“Yes.”
“Good, because Fujishima didn’t want me to tell you and it might cause a lot of trouble so I had to think a long time about it which was really hard and—“
“Less words.”
“Totsuka’s pinky was missing when we found the body,” Eric said. He held his breath for Mikoto’s response. “Hello?”
“I get it,” Mikoto said.
“But—“
He hung up.
The uppers from Izumo numbed the pain in his arm and kept him moving long past his expiration date, but they gave too much clarity to his thoughts. He tried not to think at all throughout the rest of the day, spent waiting in a bar close to the main house. The daily news reported chaos in the Arakawa ward: a bomb threat at Takenodai, a reported shooting in the park nearby. Meanwhile, classified police reports pieced together details suggesting the death of a mysterious yakuza boss. The story would buy him some security for the next 24 hours. It was more time than he wanted from the world.
He left after nightfall. Streetlamps and store displays illuminated the sidewalk that led uphill into the suburbs. Gradually, the neighborhood darkened, only porch lights and passing cars left to carry the torch.
With a short running start, Mikoto grabbed the top of the wall lining the property and hefted himself over the side, landing in a crouch. Avoiding the night patrol was a matter made easy from practice, entry into the house even more-so. The gun felt warm in his grip, a familiar extension of his hand. He moved along the wall of the east wing corridor towards his father’s bedroom. The weight of his steps were balanced, his breathing quiet and regular. Even his heartbeat hushed itself.
No light glowed behind the rice paper door. Mikoto threw it open and aimed for the bed.
Empty.
His office was at the other end of the house. Mikoto’s pace quickened. A voice filtered from the west wing. He turned the corner as a man stepped out of the room. Mikoto fired twice. The man fell and bled, his sightless eyes turned towards Mikoto. It was Ojima. Doors slammed. The night guards’ footsteps pounded down the hall. Tatara’s killer waited in the study, ready for him.
Mikoto held the gun steady with both hands and ran at the door, fell forward and fired from the floor. The shots rang in his ears, filled his sight and poured from him until the trigger clicked uselessly to signal an empty magazine. The body was there behind the desk, his father dead several times over.
He recovered his senses and lunged into the room. Pain exploded from his leg. Mikoto grabbed the gun from the desk and shot through the rice paper door. The guard fell to the floor, silent. Mikoto ripped his shirt into strips and knotted them around the bullet wound in his leg. He tried to stand, but his leg buckled beneath him. The corners of his vision faded. He breathed deeply and blinked in an attempt to keep it from closing in.
Escape was impossible. The remaining guard would call for backup and Mikoto would kill each one of them senselessly until they returned the favor. He ejected the empty magazine, grabbed a spare from the desk and snapped it into place. Without Tatara, everything returned to what they had been before. Mikoto pulled the cigarette carton out of his jacket pocket. Empty. Fair enough. Death was a small price to pay for sleep.
Gunshots erupted in the house. Mikoto frowned, aimed at the open doorway and waited. Footsteps ran down the hall, slowing in approach to the bodies. Eric peered through the doorway. His eyes widened and he attempted to form a few words before running away. He appeared again a few moments later with Kousuke in tow, both breathing heavy.
“This is a mess,” Kousuke said.
“Why are you here?” Mikoto asked. He directed the question at Eric, who cringed and looked away.
“Fujishima found out,” he mumbled.
Kousuke slung a medical pack onto the floor and cut through the strips on Mikoto’s leg. He applied a QuikClot bandage to stop the bleeding.
“Your kneecap is busted. I’ll call one of our doctors. Eric, help me carry him to a bed.”
“Don’t bother,” Mikoto said.
Kousuke slung Mikoto’s arm around his shoulders and pulled him upright. Eric rushed to his other side and helped support his weight.
“We’re cleaners,” Kousuke said. “We can make this place spotless in a few hours. All you have to do is take your father’s place in command and implicate Shirogane-kai in the killings. No one has to know.”
“I said forget it.”
“Why?” Eric said.
Mikoto shook off their help and dropped onto the bed, regretting the sudden movement. Everything wavered. “I’m leaving the yakuza. Find someone else.”
Neither responded right away.
“What will you do?” Kousuke asked.
Find another way to die, Mikoto thought. To their confusion, he laughed. They were right. He might as well end the way he began, white rage and red violence driving him to the final breath. It was the quickest, easiest way to live.
“Fine,” he said. “Call the doctor.”
“Right away, Oyabun.”
The pain was not much. He did not feel enough.