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Kyouji retired at 59, two weeks after kumicho passed.
“Was that really necessary?” Satomi asked as he sat down by Kyouji’s side on the couch with a cup of tea, directing his eyes to Kyouji’s bandaged hand. His pinky finger was missing.
“No, not really. The group pretty much dissolved after kumicho’s death and only a few stayed behind to restart it, the ones who left could just leave, no need to cut a finger off.”
“Then why did you…?”
“Just felt like I should. Leaving a finger behind together with my life as a yakuza, y’know. And to honor the old man and everything he did for me.”
Satomi kept quiet instead of saying getting you into organized crime shouldn’t be something you honor someone for. He knew what Kyouji meant. Kumicho had been the closest thing Kyouji had to a father figure for a long time.
“But it’s okay,” Kyouji said, showing him a smile that, Satomi knew, meant he was about to say something stupid. “I don’t use my pinky to finger you, and I usually do it with the other hand, anyway.”
Satomi spat out his tea.
“I hate you so much,” he said.
Kyouji laughed.