i just wanted to say… your story really hit me. i don’t even know how to explain it properly, but it’s been stuck in my head since i finished it. i’ve reread it so many times, and i still feel that heaviness in my chest every time.
i think i got attached to it because i kind of see myself in it — i grew up in a bakery too, and something about the setting, the feeling, just… hit home. and the ending, oh my god, it broke me in a quiet way. it’s beautiful but it hurts.
i know you’re not open for requests right now, but if ever someday you decide to make a part 2… please know that i’ll be right here waiting. your writing means a lot to me. ❤️
love,
ryannnnn
hey ryannnn, thank you so much for all of the lovely notes, reblogs, and comments you left on this story!
i guess i'll start off with the bad news - there is, unfortunately, no second part to "in another life," and i do not intend to ever write a follow-up to it. tldr; my philosophy and writing style, especially for tragedy and angst, is to leave my stories more open-ended; i feel that part of the anguish comes from the ambiguity, absence, and emptiness of a tale that's left for interpretation, so yes, the fic is finished and complete.
on the brighter side of things – for me, at least – i'm glad this story resonated so deeply with you. it's so cool that you grew up in a bakery, though i'm also deeply saddened that this story hurt you in ways that are familiar to you. while i may not ever pick up "in another life" again, i do hope you can give some of the other fics i've written a shot.
thank you so much, again, for all the love, tears, support, and encouragement. take care!!!
cw: marking/biting, possessiveness, both reader and jing yuan are sorta coded as switches
notes: inspired by this fanart. practice to get back into writing smut oop
YOU DON'T wake to sunshine warming the apples of your cheeks or the light tune of songbirds. instead, it’s the light tapping of rain, the steady tempo of drops colliding against and dripping down metal railings and glass panes. it’s an oddly quiet morning, so the thumps and taps are especially harsh on your ears, and you stir awake as the rain begins to pick up.
the first thing you feel is a thrumming ache at your waist and hips, along with a slight stinging around your wrists. it’s unpleasant waking up to physical discomfort, but when flashbacks of the events that occurred much earlier in the morning return to you, all of that annoyance washes away as quickly as the rain droplets racing down to the bottoms of your windows.
you shift onto your other side to face jing yuan. lying on his back, both of his arms rest over his stomach, and his hair is sprawled across the entire expanse of his pillow and some of the space around him. he’s still asleep, a slight downcast underneath his eyes that you feel a tinge of remorse over, but at the very least, he seems to be breathing deeply and steadily. you then reach across and press a cold hand to his chest, to find that same steadiness in his heartbeat, tempered and grounded and unwavering.
there are marks of red and purple, etched bite marks, that litter the skin of his neck, shoulders, and what is revealed of his upper torso. you let your fingertips dance across each spot, the faintest of grazes over the bruising, before tugging the blanket up and veiling some of your accomplishments. as much as you like leaving your presence on him, those are not for others to see.
not a few minutes later, then, do you fall back asleep, to the rain shower and satisfied desires.
–
the next time you wake up, it is a total downpour outside. the xianzhou luofu rains, but rarely this much at once. there’s almost no silence, as sheets of the sky’s tears lay waste upon your shelter – it’s almost frightening how angered it sounds, with the sound of water crashing and winds howling.
but you also wake because there’s a slight sway to your bed. you don’t know for how much longer you slept for, but even through your grogginess, there’s a strained squeeze and then a relieved push of mattress springs coiling and uncoiling when you sense jing yuan rise. you glance up to see him seated at the edge of the bed, pulling on a silk robe.
he makes the simple act a mesmerizing sight. there are long streaks of red, two groups of five slanted parallel lines, that start from his shoulder blades and curve down to his sides. the pure white of his robe shines in contrast, and you watch as those marks of yours, too, get covered up as broad arms slip into sleeves and worn hands pull down at the collar to adjust. but ever more enticing is the serious, possibly solemn, look on his face as he gets dressed. his hair hangs loosely, the front pieces framing the slope of his jaw perfectly and shadowing his eyes. the glow in his eyes is muted, adding a darker undertone to his usually bright gold, and you indulge in this grittier color.
and it’s a privilege only you have that he hasn’t noticed your lingering stares. outside, he’s always aware of who’s watching him, remaining alert and cautious to onlookers’ curiosities and impulses. but he’s never felt the need to do that with you. perhaps it is because you are weak, and he has no fear that he can take you on. however, that explanation is ignorant and casts aside jing yuan’s diligent nature. so it must be that he doesn’t see a need to, and satisfaction, once again, fills your soul to the brim.
you cherish all of jing yuan’s shades and nuances, but this one in particular is your favorite. his fatigue is because of you; his silence is because of you; his contentedness is because of you. just as he had bent you over, kissed you till your lips were swollen and numb, and reached so far that you went starry-eyed, you had also dug your fingernails into him, drank up his blood and tears, and rode him till he could only plead for more. these moments, too, are not for anyone else.
so when jing yuan stands up and takes slow steps towards the bathroom, you smile at the soft sighs he releases under his breath and the slight tremble in his knees. all of him is yours, as is your entire being his, and everything in between – the turbulent storm outside, the growing heat in between your legs, his yearning recollections of last night – is just for the two of you.
notes: just some 30-min stream of consciousness writing practice, to get back into the groove of things! left the ending open-ended, but it's supposed to read more angst whoops - after amphoreus, i feel like every writer and artist has the sadistic urge to make this man go through worse (as if that's possible) before letting him experience happiness
"AND?"
"there's no 'and,' phainon."
"yes, there is." and he chuckles, throwing his head back, the rays of the setting sun illuminating his entire figure, shimmers of refracted gold and fire flickering off the tips of his white hair and the glow of his warm skin. but even the brilliance of the sun is no match for the radiance in his smile and the pure joy in his eyes.
you especially love the way he laughs with his whole chest, as if he isn't carrying the weight of a million burdens on his wary back. you don't know what those burdens are, he never talks about them, but they must be heavy, and you'd do anything to shoulder some of that pressure for him.
"i'm serious. i said my part already."
"so that's it? you tell me you're madly in love with me, and there's nothing else you want to say?"
phainon's quieted down, but there's a teasing smile at the corner of his lips. he's gazing at you, amusement painted so evidently in the pure cyan of his irises, and if you were less of a confidant, more of a passing stranger, you'd give in to his witty quips and your yearning heartstrings.
"or should i say - there's nothing else you want to ask?" he arches one brow, which you snort at as you turn your cheek and face the other way.
the two of you are sitting on an empty grassfield that stretches down the sloped hill to the parking lot where your bicycles are tossed onto the pavement without a spare thought, and beyond that, there's layers upon layers of tan stucco houses that extend past the horizon. your university is located right next to the suburbs, and the two of you have made it a routine throughout the past four years to bike the four-mile stretch from campus whenever either of you needed to escape the suffocating libraries and poorly-lit hallways. but with this being your last summer before the two of you move to two different cities for two different careers, this place, this moment, will eventually become nothing more than a fleeting memory.
so no, there isn't anything else you'd like to say, and you shake your head once more.
"then, what am i supposed to do with your confession?"
you shrug as you tuck your knees and feet in to stand up. phainon takes the hint, and begins to brush away at any stray blades of grass from his pants.
"i don't know," you chirp, as you stretch your arms out and roll your shoulders back.
but if there's anything you do know, though, it's that your confession is only another addition to his laundry list of concerns. instead of shouldering some of his problems, you're laying more on top of him.
you can't take it back now. neither of you are naive or callous enough to pretend that you never uttered those words. and it's not like you didn't mean to tell him.
"i'm scared, you know," you finally whisper. both of you have stood up, and are making your way down the curve of the hill.
phainon increases his pace to join you at your side. "of what?" he asks.
"i'd rather push you away, than have you leave me."
"why would i ever abandon you?"
you click your tongue. "i didn't say 'abandon.' sometimes, people separate because they're better off as friends, but they can't stay friends after breaking up because their history has become… too complex."
he hums. it's a soft sound, one that blends right in with the passing breeze, akin to a lonely songbird's tune to itself.
"so you're worried that'll happen to us?"
"i suppose."
"always so elusive," he teases with a nudge to the side of your arm.
you bump him back with an elbow and a snicker. phainon's always been excellent at towing the line between comedy and melancholy.
"you're mysterious, too, phainon," you mumble. and just because you feel like it, you take off, rushing down, letting gravity pull you down as you try to maintain balance, your ankles always at the brink of rolling with each stagger downwards.
he yells after you, the latter half of your name swallowed by the pounding in your ears. but you don't stop or look back at him, don't check to see if he's running after you, and continue to race your way to your tattered bike.
(it's an old and rusty thing, chains worn out, tires caked in mud, rubber handles weathered smooth from the callouses lining your palms. you'll throw it out, too, along with this love you have for phainon.
he doesn't need it, and you don't want it either.
and if you look back now, you'll never be able to take your eyes off of him.)
cw: marking/biting, possessiveness, both reader and jing yuan are sorta coded as switches
notes: inspired by this fanart. practice to get back into writing smut oop
YOU DON'T wake to sunshine warming the apples of your cheeks or the light tune of songbirds. instead, it’s the light tapping of rain, the steady tempo of drops colliding against and dripping down metal railings and glass panes. it’s an oddly quiet morning, so the thumps and taps are especially harsh on your ears, and you stir awake as the rain begins to pick up.
the first thing you feel is a thrumming ache at your waist and hips, along with a slight stinging around your wrists. it’s unpleasant waking up to physical discomfort, but when flashbacks of the events that occurred much earlier in the morning return to you, all of that annoyance washes away as quickly as the rain droplets racing down to the bottoms of your windows.
you shift onto your other side to face jing yuan. lying on his back, both of his arms rest over his stomach, and his hair is sprawled across the entire expanse of his pillow and some of the space around him. he’s still asleep, a slight downcast underneath his eyes that you feel a tinge of remorse over, but at the very least, he seems to be breathing deeply and steadily. you then reach across and press a cold hand to his chest, to find that same steadiness in his heartbeat, tempered and grounded and unwavering.
there are marks of red and purple, etched bite marks, that litter the skin of his neck, shoulders, and what is revealed of his upper torso. you let your fingertips dance across each spot, the faintest of grazes over the bruising, before tugging the blanket up and veiling some of your accomplishments. as much as you like leaving your presence on him, those are not for others to see.
not a few minutes later, then, do you fall back asleep, to the rain shower and satisfied desires.
–
the next time you wake up, it is a total downpour outside. the xianzhou luofu rains, but rarely this much at once. there’s almost no silence, as sheets of the sky’s tears lay waste upon your shelter – it’s almost frightening how angered it sounds, with the sound of water crashing and winds howling.
but you also wake because there’s a slight sway to your bed. you don’t know for how much longer you slept for, but even through your grogginess, there’s a strained squeeze and then a relieved push of mattress springs coiling and uncoiling when you sense jing yuan rise. you glance up to see him seated at the edge of the bed, pulling on a silk robe.
he makes the simple act a mesmerizing sight. there are long streaks of red, two groups of five slanted parallel lines, that start from his shoulder blades and curve down to his sides. the pure white of his robe shines in contrast, and you watch as those marks of yours, too, get covered up as broad arms slip into sleeves and worn hands pull down at the collar to adjust. but ever more enticing is the serious, possibly solemn, look on his face as he gets dressed. his hair hangs loosely, the front pieces framing the slope of his jaw perfectly and shadowing his eyes. the glow in his eyes is muted, adding a darker undertone to his usually bright gold, and you indulge in this grittier color.
and it’s a privilege only you have that he hasn’t noticed your lingering stares. outside, he’s always aware of who’s watching him, remaining alert and cautious to onlookers’ curiosities and impulses. but he’s never felt the need to do that with you. perhaps it is because you are weak, and he has no fear that he can take you on. however, that explanation is ignorant and casts aside jing yuan’s diligent nature. so it must be that he doesn’t see a need to, and satisfaction, once again, fills your soul to the brim.
you cherish all of jing yuan’s shades and nuances, but this one in particular is your favorite. his fatigue is because of you; his silence is because of you; his contentedness is because of you. just as he had bent you over, kissed you till your lips were swollen and numb, and reached so far that you went starry-eyed, you had also dug your fingernails into him, drank up his blood and tears, and rode him till he could only plead for more. these moments, too, are not for anyone else.
so when jing yuan stands up and takes slow steps towards the bathroom, you smile at the soft sighs he releases under his breath and the slight tremble in his knees. all of him is yours, as is your entire being his, and everything in between – the turbulent storm outside, the growing heat in between your legs, his yearning recollections of last night – is just for the two of you.
cw: marking/biting, possessiveness, both reader and jing yuan are sorta coded as switches
notes: inspired by this fanart. practice to get back into writing smut oop
YOU DON'T wake to sunshine warming the apples of your cheeks or to the light tune of songbirds. instead, it’s the tapping of rain, the steady tempo of drops colliding against and dripping down metal railings and glass panes. it’s an oddly quiet morning otherwise, so the thumps and taps are especially harsh on your ears, and you stir awake as the rain begins to pick up.
the first thing you feel is a thrumming ache at your waist and hips, along with a slight stinging around your wrists. it’s unpleasant waking up to physical discomfort, but when flashbacks of the events that occurred much earlier in the morning return to you, all of that annoyance washes away as quickly as the rain droplets racing down to the bottoms of your windows.
you shift onto your other side to face jing yuan. lying on his back, both of his arms rest over his stomach, and his hair is sprawled across the entire expanse of his pillow and some of the space around him. he’s still asleep, a slight downcast underneath his eyes that you feel a tinge of remorse over, but at the very least, he seems to be breathing deeply and steadily. you then reach across and press a cold hand to his chest, to find that same steadiness in his heartbeat, tempered and grounded and unwavering.
there are marks of red and purple, etched bite marks, that litter the skin of his neck, shoulders, and what is revealed of his upper torso. you let your fingertips dance across each spot, the faintest of grazes over the bruising, before tugging the blanket up and veiling some of your accomplishments. as much as you like leaving your presence on him, those are not for others to see.
not a few minutes later, then, do you fall back asleep, to the rain shower and satisfied desires.
–
the next time you wake up, it is a total downpour outside. the xianzhou luofu rains, but rarely this much at once. there’s almost no silence, as sheets of the sky’s tears lay waste upon your shelter – it’s almost frightening how angered it sounds, with the sounds of water crashing and winds howling.
but you also wake because there’s a slight sway to your bed. you don’t know for how much longer you slept for, but even through your grogginess, there’s a strained squeeze and then a relieved push of mattress springs coiling and uncoiling when you sense jing yuan rise. you glance up to see him seated at the edge of the bed, pulling on a silk robe.
he makes the simple act a mesmerizing sight. there are long streaks of red, two groups of five slanted parallel lines, that start from his shoulder blades and curve down to his sides. the pure white of his robe shines in contrast, and you watch as those marks of yours, too, get covered up as broad arms slip into sleeves and worn hands pull down at the collar to adjust. but ever more enticing is the serious, possibly solemn, look on his face as he gets dressed. his hair hangs loosely, the front pieces framing the slope of his jaw perfectly and shadowing his eyes. the glow in his eyes is muted, adding a darker undertone to his usually bright gold, and you indulge in this grittier color.
and it’s a privilege only you have that he hasn’t noticed your lingering stares. outside, he’s always aware of who’s watching him, remaining alert and cautious to onlookers’ curiosities and impulses. but he’s never felt the need to do that with you. perhaps it is because you are weak, and he has no fear that he can take you on. however, that explanation is ignorant and casts aside jing yuan’s diligent nature. so it must be that he doesn’t see a need to, and satisfaction, once again, fills your soul to the brim.
you cherish all of jing yuan’s shades and nuances, but this one in particular is your favorite. his fatigue is because of you; his silence is because of you; his contentedness is because of you. just as he had bent you over, kissed you till your lips were swollen and numb, and reached so far that you went starry-eyed, you had also dug your fingernails into him, drank up his blood and tears, and rode him till he could only plead for more. these moments, too, are not for anyone else.
so when jing yuan stands up and takes slow steps towards the bathroom, you smile at the soft sighs he releases under his breath and the slight tremble in his knees. all of him is yours, as is your entire being his, and everything in between – the turbulent storm outside, the growing heat in between your legs, his yearning recollections of last night – is just for the two of you.
notes: just some 30-min stream of consciousness writing practice, to get back into the groove of things! left the ending open-ended, but it's supposed to read more angst whoops - after amphoreus, i feel like every writer and artist has the sadistic urge to make this man go through worse (as if that's possible) before letting him experience happiness
"AND?"
"there's no 'and,' phainon."
"yes, there is." and he chuckles, throwing his head back, the rays of the setting sun illuminating his entire figure, shimmers of refracted gold and fire flickering off the tips of his white hair and the glow of his warm skin. but even the brilliance of the sun is no match for the radiance in his smile and the pure joy in his eyes.
you especially love the way he laughs with his whole chest, as if he isn't carrying the weight of a million burdens on his wary back. you don't know what those burdens are, he never talks about them, but they must be heavy, and you'd do anything to shoulder some of that pressure for him.
"i'm serious. i said my part already."
"so that's it? you tell me you're madly in love with me, and there's nothing else you want to say?"
phainon's quieted down, but there's a teasing smile at the corner of his lips. he's gazing at you, amusement painted so evidently in the pure cyan of his irises, and if you were less of a confidant, more of a passing stranger, you'd give in to his witty quips and your yearning heartstrings.
"or should i say - there's nothing else you want to ask?" he arches one brow, which you snort at as you turn your cheek and face the other way.
the two of you are sitting on an empty grassfield that stretches down the sloped hill to the parking lot where your bicycles are tossed onto the pavement without a spare thought, and beyond that, there's layers upon layers of tan stucco houses that extend past the horizon. your university is located right next to the suburbs, and the two of you have made it a routine throughout the past four years to bike the four-mile stretch from campus whenever either of you needed to escape the suffocating libraries and poorly-lit hallways. but with this being your last summer before the two of you move to two different cities for two different careers, this place, this moment, will eventually become nothing more than a fleeting memory.
so no, there isn't anything else you'd like to say, and you shake your head once more.
"then, what am i supposed to do with your confession?"
you shrug as you tuck your knees and feet in to stand up. phainon takes the hint, and begins to brush away at any stray blades of grass from his pants.
"i don't know," you chirp, as you stretch your arms out and roll your shoulders back.
but if there's anything you do know, though, it's that your confession is only another addition to his laundry list of concerns. instead of shouldering some of his problems, you're laying more on top of him.
you can't take it back now. neither of you are naive or callous enough to pretend that you never uttered those words. and it's not like you didn't mean to tell him.
"i'm scared, you know," you finally whisper. both of you have stood up, and are making your way down the curve of the hill.
phainon increases his pace to join you at your side. "of what?" he asks.
"i'd rather push you away, than have you leave me."
"why would i ever abandon you?"
you click your tongue. "i didn't say 'abandon.' sometimes, people separate because they're better off as friends, but they can't stay friends after breaking up because their history has become… too complex."
he hums. it's a soft sound, one that blends right in with the passing breeze, akin to a lonely songbird's tune to itself.
"so you're worried that'll happen to us?"
"i suppose."
"always so elusive," he teases with a nudge to the side of your arm.
you bump him back with an elbow and a snicker. phainon's always been excellent at towing the line between comedy and melancholy.
"you're mysterious, too, phainon," you mumble. and just because you feel like it, you take off, rushing down, letting gravity pull you down as you try to maintain balance, your ankles always at the brink of rolling with each stagger downwards.
he yells after you, the latter half of your name swallowed by the pounding in your ears. but you don't stop or look back at him, don't check to see if he's running after you, and continue to race your way to your tattered bike.
(it's an old and rusty thing, chains worn out, tires caked in mud, rubber handles weathered smooth from the callouses lining your palms. you'll throw it out, too, along with this love you have for phainon.
he doesn't need it, and you don't want it either.
and if you look back now, you'll never be able to take your eyes off of him.)
notes: best read after this drabble - think of it kinda like a continuation? written with the same reader characterization. submission for this request. this is like 51% angst, 49% romantic, idfk. anyway, enjoy!!
YOU STARTLE awake. You sit up – shoulders tense, back rigid –, without the slightest bit of concern for the person sleeping next to you.
Wait, where is he –
You turn your head to the left, towards the glass door that opens to the condo's porch. And past the glass, you see the burning embers of a lit cigarette, just bright enough to silhouette the tattooed hand that holds the addiction in the air, away from a pair of drying, cold lips.
There's an unexpected cold draft settling over Tokyo, despite it being the beginning of summer.
You don't know if you should hurry to his side, or if you should leave him be. It can't hurt to do both, no?
As you pull on your oversized t-shirt, you peek over the ripped collar to continue observing Nagumo. His left hand, inked with the Greek alphabet, a section of the Golden Ratio, and other symbols, brings one end of the nicotine stick, and he takes a quick drag from it. His face seems to scrunch into a frown, though you're not sure. Even if it's imagined, you'd like to believe in the idea – it's amusing, funny, in alignment with the many unexpected sides to your boyfriend that you've only come to see in recent weeks.
You also put on a pair of sweat shorts. They're not yours. The fabric is worn yet comfortable, a perfect softness without a hint of lint. As you fumble with the drawstrings, Nagumo inhales once more, and blows out a cloud of smoke that he waves away into the atmosphere with his right hand, also tattooed with mathematical constructs and structures.
As you patter over to the door, a part of you already regrets disrupting the moment. It's not often that you see Nagumo like this – never this somber, in fact –, and while you're not fond of partaking in his vulnerability without his consent, it is refreshing to see him without his usual cheeky smile (which you deign to admit that you love more than you should).
You knock on the glass twice. He glances over at you, surprise coloring the dark in his pupils for a split second. He walks over, putting out the cigarette by smearing it against the metal railing of the porch, and opens the door.
It's cold – the gust of wind that filters in, even that boastful smile of his. But don't be mistaken – it's not cold, as in uninviting. It's simply… empty, from the absence of warmth.
"I'll go brush my teeth," he says, gravelly, raw. His voice is thin, worn – but not comforting, like the cotton of his clothes.
You don't know what to say, and he doesn't return your curiously concerned gaze for too long. He smooths a palm over your head as he shuffles past you and into the bedroom, and your eyes follow him until he closes the bathroom door behind himself.
His hands are freezing.
The splashing of water echoes from the glass, tile, and marble of the bathroom, and you make your way over, too, because you feel like you're obligated to watch him. To watch over Nagumo.
And that's a familiar idea. You're good at watching over things. Before you met him, you scrounged and scrutinized over every single coin and paper bill, punching away at the addition and subtraction symbols on your old-school calendar from the sixth grade as you calculated your bills and the remainder that you'll send to your family. And when you're home, you supervised your younger siblings as your parents worked from dawn to dusk, offering some attention before they're deprived of it all once you leave.
All of these things are long past burdensome. They're just routines in your life that you've long accepted and settled into, roles that you've come to recognize that no one else but you can fulfill.
So watching over Nagumo isn't a big deal. You'd even argue that it's necessary. After all, there are so many things about him that you don't know, all unpredictable variables that might ruin your relationship and, therefore, you.
But this, this time, this moment – you need to watch over him, because you need to take care of him. Because that's what loved ones do for each other. And you'd never lie to yourself about being in love with him.
Nagumo's hunched over the sink. His hair hangs over his face as he stares downwards, and he seems to be lost in thought. There are two tells for this: first is that his brushing is slow and lazy, and the second is that he doesn't acknowledge you as you pad over to where he stands.
It's only when you wrap your arms his torso, resting your forehead against his back, that he startles.
That's definitely never happened before. It's an amusing yet sobering thought.
"You can finish brushing," you mumble.
Your hug is awkward. One of your arms rests over his hip bone, and the other reaches up along his chest in an uncomfortable angle. You have to hold back an embarrassed huff, as the discomfort settles in with every passing moment. I should be better at this, you can't help but think. You're sure Nagumo knows that this position is not optimal, even if he makes no move to shrug you off.
Eventually, Nagumo stands back up. You take that as your cue to let go, but his hands – still freezing – wrap around your wrists and hold your arms in place.
You lean to the side, and see that Nagumo is staring at you through the mirror's reflection. It's your turn to jump a little, clearly caught off-guard. He's never looked at you like this before – no one has –, like you're something precious, someone he doesn't want to give up on.
Then, in quick movements, he spins around, pulls you up so that your chest is pressed against his, and carries you back to bed. Your head is spinning, and you choke at the tenderness underlying every one of his actions. But you don't say anything, only clinging onto the back of his t-shirt with clenched fists and closed eyes until he lays you down onto the mattress.
"Nagumo?"
He lies down, too. His head is level with the crook of your neck, and he slots his body into the natural spaces your figure makes. Naturally, his face is pressed against the tender skin of your neck, and his fingers have found solace in the soft touch of your body right underneath the hem of your shirt.
He breathes out. "You're warm."
You hum in agreement. You run your fingers through his tousled hair, letting your fingertips thread their way through the thick, straight strands and occasionally rub at his scalp.
Nagumo begins to kiss at your neck, as he grazes his lips and smooths over every spot with a quick lap of his tongue. You melt into him, too. Your hands grab onto the back of his head so that you can hold him closer, and you hook a leg over his waist, which he latches onto immediately, as one of his hands slides down the small of your back, the curve of your hip, to clutch at your thigh.
His kisses transform into more vigorous sucks, and with each tug of your skin into between his teeth, you keen forward and let a pitched whimper slip out of your pursed lips. Your bury your face into the crown of his head, breathing in the scent of your shared citrus shampoo and vanilla conditioner, and the possibility that you might be suffocating him almost goes ignored until Nagumo stops his love biting for a split second.
But just as you lean back to give him room for air, he tugs you back in.
"Don't." If his voice was thin before, it's now barely there. It sounds transient, fleeting; had you not heard, his words and their meaning would've disappeared into obscurity, never to be uttered again.
Don't what? Don't pull away? Don't stop him?
You exhale shakily. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to."
"It doesn't require you to try."
It's an accusation of a crime you haven't committed. You can't help but purse your lips, equal parts confusion and concern.
Your let your hands wander down to the broad expanse of his shoulders, rolling your knuckles over the top few knobs of his spine, before you splay them flat and hug him.
"Yoichi," you mutter, albeit a little sternly, "you're not being fair to me."
"I know."
Quiet moments ensue, during which neither of you talk or move. You can still smell the lingering scent of tobacco on his shirt, and his bangs tickle your collarbone, chest, the bite marks that he left behind.
You don't know who has hurt Nagumo and what they've done, but it's not your place to pry. Just as he doesn't ask about your poverty or self-deprivation, you won't with his history or pain. Most things in life, you've realized, cannot be healed without time and solitude.
At least Nagumo seems to be warming up, and that's more than anything you could ask for.
Maybe when sufficient time has passed – anytime between a few days and a couple of years –, if the two of you are still together, then you can ask. Maybe then, both of you can come clean without inhibition, without the selfish desire to defend yourselves.
notes: best read after this drabble - think of it kinda like a continuation? written with the same reader characterization. submission for this request. this is like 51% angst, 49% romantic, idfk. anyway, enjoy!!
YOU STARTLE awake. You sit up – shoulders tense, back rigid –, without the slightest bit of concern for the person sleeping next to you.
Wait, where is he –
You turn your head to the left, towards the glass door that opens to the condo's porch. And past the glass, you see the burning embers of a lit cigarette, just bright enough to silhouette the tattooed hand that holds the addiction in the air, away from a pair of drying, cold lips.
There's an unexpected cold draft settling over Tokyo, despite it being the beginning of summer.
You don't know if you should hurry to his side, or if you should leave him be. It can't hurt to do both, no?
As you pull on your oversized t-shirt, you peek over the ripped collar to continue observing Nagumo. His left hand, inked with the Greek alphabet, a section of the Golden Ratio, and other symbols, brings one end of the nicotine stick, and he takes a quick drag from it. His face seems to scrunch into a frown, though you're not sure. Even if it's imagined, you'd like to believe in the idea – it's amusing, funny, in alignment with the many unexpected sides to your boyfriend that you've only come to see in recent weeks.
You also put on a pair of sweat shorts. They're not yours. The fabric is worn yet comfortable, a perfect softness without a hint of lint. As you fumble with the drawstrings, Nagumo inhales once more, and blows out a cloud of smoke that he waves away into the atmosphere with his right hand, also tattooed with mathematical constructs and structures.
As you patter over to the door, a part of you already regrets disrupting the moment. It's not often that you see Nagumo like this – never this somber, in fact –, and while you're not fond of partaking in his vulnerability without his consent, it is refreshing to see him without his usual cheeky smile (which you deign to admit that you love more than you should).
You knock on the glass twice. He glances over at you, surprise coloring the dark in his pupils for a split second. He walks over, putting out the cigarette by smearing it against the metal railing of the porch, and opens the door.
It's cold – the gust of wind that filters in, even that boastful smile of his. But don't be mistaken – it's not cold, as in uninviting. It's simply… empty, from the absence of warmth.
"I'll go brush my teeth," he says, gravelly, raw. His voice is thin, worn – but not comforting, like the cotton of his clothes.
You don't know what to say, and he doesn't return your curiously concerned gaze for too long. He smooths a palm over your head as he shuffles past you and into the bedroom, and your eyes follow him until he closes the bathroom door behind himself.
His hands are freezing.
The splashing of water echoes from the glass, tile, and marble of the bathroom, and you make your way over, too, because you feel like you're obligated to watch him. To watch over Nagumo.
And that's a familiar idea. You're good at watching over things. Before you met him, you scrounged and scrutinized over every single coin and paper bill, punching away at the addition and subtraction symbols on your old-school calendar from the sixth grade as you calculated your bills and the remainder that you'll send to your family. And when you're home, you supervised your younger siblings as your parents worked from dawn to dusk, offering some attention before they're deprived of it all once you leave.
All of these things are long past burdensome. They're just routines in your life that you've long accepted and settled into, roles that you've come to recognize that no one else but you can fulfill.
So watching over Nagumo isn't a big deal. You'd even argue that it's necessary. After all, there are so many things about him that you don't know, all unpredictable variables that might ruin your relationship and, therefore, you.
But this, this time, this moment – you need to watch over him, because you need to take care of him. Because that's what loved ones do for each other. And you'd never lie to yourself about being in love with him.
Nagumo's hunched over the sink. His hair hangs over his face as he stares downwards, and he seems to be lost in thought. There are two tells for this: first is that his brushing is slow and lazy, and the second is that he doesn't acknowledge you as you pad over to where he stands.
It's only when you wrap your arms his torso, resting your forehead against his back, that he startles.
That's definitely never happened before. It's an amusing yet sobering thought.
"You can finish brushing," you mumble.
Your hug is awkward. One of your arms rests over his hip bone, and the other reaches up along his chest in an uncomfortable angle. You have to hold back an embarrassed huff, as the discomfort settles in with every passing moment. I should be better at this, you can't help but think. You're sure Nagumo knows that this position is not optimal, even if he makes no move to shrug you off.
Eventually, Nagumo stands back up. You take that as your cue to let go, but his hands – still freezing – wrap around your wrists and hold your arms in place.
You lean to the side, and see that Nagumo is staring at you through the mirror's reflection. It's your turn to jump a little, clearly caught off-guard. He's never looked at you like this before – no one has –, like you're something precious, someone he doesn't want to give up on.
Then, in quick movements, he spins around, pulls you up so that your chest is pressed against his, and carries you back to bed. Your head is spinning, and you choke at the tenderness underlying every one of his actions. But you don't say anything, only clinging onto the back of his t-shirt with clenched fists and closed eyes until he lays you down onto the mattress.
"Nagumo?"
He lies down, too. His head is level with the crook of your neck, and he slots his body into the natural spaces your figure makes. Naturally, his face is pressed against the tender skin of your neck, and his fingers have found solace in the soft touch of your body right underneath the hem of your shirt.
He breathes out. "You're warm."
You hum in agreement. You run your fingers through his tousled hair, letting your fingertips thread their way through the thick, straight strands and occasionally rub at his scalp.
Nagumo begins to kiss at your neck, as he grazes his lips and smooths over every spot with a quick lap of his tongue. You melt into him, too. Your hands grab onto the back of his head so that you can hold him closer, and you hook a leg over his waist, which he latches onto immediately, as one of his hands slides down the small of your back, the curve of your hip, to clutch at your thigh.
His kisses transform into more vigorous sucks, and with each tug of your skin into between his teeth, you keen forward and let a pitched whimper slip out of your pursed lips. Your bury your face into the crown of his head, breathing in the scent of your shared citrus shampoo and vanilla conditioner, and the possibility that you might be suffocating him almost goes ignored until Nagumo stops his love biting for a split second.
But just as you lean back to give him room for air, he tugs you back in.
"Don't." If his voice was thin before, it's now barely there. It sounds transient, fleeting; had you not heard, his words and their meaning would've disappeared into obscurity, never to be uttered again.
Don't what? Don't pull away? Don't stop him?
You exhale shakily. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to."
"It doesn't require you to try."
It's an accusation of a crime you haven't committed. You can't help but purse your lips, equal parts confusion and concern.
Your let your hands wander down to the broad expanse of his shoulders, rolling your knuckles over the top few knobs of his spine, before you splay them flat and hug him.
"Yoichi," you mutter, albeit a little sternly, "you're not being fair to me."
"I know."
Quiet moments ensue, during which neither of you talk or move. You can still smell the lingering scent of tobacco on his shirt, and his bangs tickle your collarbone, chest, the bite marks that he left behind.
You don't know who has hurt Nagumo and what they've done, but it's not your place to pry. Just as he doesn't ask about your poverty or self-deprivation, you won't with his history or pain. Most things in life, you've realized, cannot be healed without time and solitude.
At least Nagumo seems to be warming up, and that's more than anything you could ask for.
Maybe when sufficient time has passed – anytime between a few days and a couple of years –, if the two of you are still together, then you can ask. Maybe then, both of you can come clean without inhibition, without the selfish desire to defend yourselves.
You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.
yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+
word count: ~13,900
cw: explicit language, explicit descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/bodily injury/etc., graphic descriptions of mental disorders (ptsd, anxiety, depression, dermatillomania), attempted suicide/suicidal ideation, domestic violence, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, implied age gap, mentions of drugs
notes: please heed the warnings!!! i know there are a lot of them, but please!!! also note that this is chapter 2! otherwise, i will say, this plot is largely for plot development oops. as always, big thanks to @staraxiaa and @pranabefall for being my permanent beta readers (i really should start paying y'all i'M SORRY I'M BROKE) and for offering top-tier insight and advice. lena grilled me on the ending, so it's perfect now. aine gave great inspo for the direction in which this story's heading. it's a long ride, so thanks for hanging on! we're halfway through now!
part i - part ii - part iii
A THUNDERSTORM reaches electrification, or its maturing stage, once the thunder cloud grows dark and grey in color. This transition is the result of increasing humidity and moisture, as air continues to rise up the cumulus cloud and brings additional water along with it. Eventually, once the raindrops have breached a certain size, the rising air will no longer be able to support the droplets’ weight, and rain will fall within the cloud.
In both nature and humankind, it seems storms start from the inside, before they're forced to pour out into the world when the turmoil can no longer be contained.
(You may not notice it anymore – the weeping of your soul second nature, your world a perpetual rainstorm.)
–
Jing Yuan is gone by the time you move in. It seems this estate's sole purpose is to house Yanqing until he graduates from elementary school, which won't be for another few years, and with most of the men gone as well, it's become vacant and spacious.
You don't do well with large, open spaces. There's too much uncertainty, too many openings for you to be wary of. Not that anyone would be after you – and you're sure that Jing Yuan has your safety (from external forces, that is) guaranteed –, but some instincts are never meant to die. Thankfully, you've been given a room of similar size to your studio, so the uneasiness doesn't bother you as much when you're on your own.
A lieutenant by the name of Kou and two of his associates assist in hauling in your singular suitcase and backpack, and in general, they seem to be your main points of contact. Judging by the permanent creases in between his brows, Kou seems to be a stern person, overly serious at all times, determined to fulfill his responsibility to squeeze every possible bit of information out of you. You make a mental note to think before you speak when he's around.
Presently, you have some downtime, about half an hour before dinner's ready. Aside from the two associates guarding your room, you're by yourself, and you take this opportunity to prepare for your first meeting with Kou later that night.
As you were packing this morning, you had time to reach a few conclusions. First, you clearly panicked too much during your meeting with Jing Yuan yesterday. Not that you would ever truly believe the words that come out of his mouth, but he personally admitted that your encounter was by coincidence. In other words, there's a possibility that he doesn't know everything there is to you.
And logically, that makes more sense. After all, Hana had told you that your parents went hysterical after your disappearance, and burned everything that reminded them of you – your photos, school uniform, and the shiromuku you were supposed to wear that following autumn. If there was anything of yours that could remain, it would be your severed left pinky, a vow you made of your own volition, a damning ultimatum to them and the shit household they raised you in, that you'd never come back. But, at this point, even your pinky would only be there in spirit, at this point having already rotted and eroded in the damp soil it rests within. You also found out you had been removed from the family register when you went to change your legal name to your current one, so there's nothing that could indicate your prior existence.
So while you did mess up, you might still have some remaining leverage (though you shouldn’t get too ahead of yourself).
As for Hana…
You can't help but bite your thumbnail, worry shading every one of your actions. You better be safe.
The two of you have a set schedule of monthly calls, so if either one of you were to break that routine, that'd be an immediate indication that something's gone wrong. Since the two of you had called barely a week ago, you were expecting her to pick up on the urgency behind the two panicked calls you left her last night. You even sent her voicemails hissing at her to give you a sign of life. She did reply a few hours later via text, but she said she couldn't call back, no thanks to a violent client that left her with high blood pressure and a chafed asshole, as well as a general lack of an empty bathroom for her to hide in.
There's no reason to assume the worst, you mentally chide. But your sense of urgency shouldn't be discarded because, while she may be fine now, she may not be in the near future, so you should move faster when you still have the chance.
And that leads to the most important question: What should you do next? Since you can't back out of helping Jing Yuan, you should use this opportunity to ensure your childhood friend's safety.
Based on the photographs the oyabun showed you, it's obvious they're snapshots of a violent takeover occurring in your hometown. You should figure out whether it's Jing Yuan's or another gang that is responsible for the conflict. Though, in the worst case, who the perpetrator is won't matter – you'll have to negotiate with Jing Yuan anyway to spare or save Hana's life. But being informed of the specifics will help you position yourself in said negotiations.
But then you reach a complicated dilemma. You have no idea how much influence you have, and there's no reason for the oyabun to actually trust you or the information you'll provide. If you're utterly useless, you have no doubt Jing Yuan's men will off you first before you can even discuss with their boss.
That means you need to get him to believe in you enough so that you'll have the ability to persuade him. However, earning his faith would require you to be honest to him to a certain degree (because the best lies are half-truths), and that's… a deeply unsettling notion.
No matter how much Jing Yuan knows about your history, you abhor the idea of having to be vulnerable about it in front of a man like him. You'd rather commit seppuku and show him your literal insides, than scoop out your inner thoughts and lay them out for his entertainment and pleasure. Sometimes, you just have to compromise, you think, with a dismal shake of your head.
You shelf this thought for now. Your first priority should be ascertaining their intentions with you, as well as determining the current state of the takeover.
You eat dinner alone before you're led to an office. Kou's already sitting at the desk, placed center and towards the back, and you assume that you're to sit in the singular chair opposite to him. Of course, you don't, not until you're directed to with a nod from his associate, and even then, you sit on the very edge of the seat. You don't feel so unnerved by Kou, but more so your impending conversation with him. It's not that you're intentionally underestimating him, but after your confrontations with Jing Yuan, everything else has paled in comparison.
Kou clears his throat, clasping his hands together on top of the desk. "This won't take long. I'm sure you're tired from all that has transpired."
The lieutenant goes through basic procedures and expectations, like he's onboarding a new employee. You're not allowed to communicate with anyone outside of the estate, and if you want to use your phone or laptop, you'll be monitored. All of the information you'll be exposed to is confidential, and you can't even talk about it with other members of the gang, as most of them are uninformed. Your job is to answer any questions asked of you truthfully, without bias or ulterior motive. And finally, following the end of your stay, you'll continue to be monitored in a non-disruptive manner for an indefinite period of time to ensure that you're not breaking non-disclosure. The terms are shoddy at best, impossible to enforce, but you agree to them anyway.
But why can't they just ask folks back home directly?
Then, you're given your first task, which is to go through several missing persons reports and see if you can recognize any of the listed individuals.
There's no need to lie about this – you recognize every single one of them. Most of them are girls, with the occasional boy with stereotypically feminine features, and the age range is between 14 and 22. You don't know any of them personally, their relations with you limited to being a former classmate or the local laundromat owner's daughter. But it doesn't matter how distant they were to you because these were faces you used to see everyday, people who used to coexist and occupy the same spaces as you. A bitterness overcomes you, a sheen of oil that coats and clings to your tongue, a taste that should be disgusting but elicits nothing more than a disapproving grimace.
You tell Kou exactly this, and in response, he probes a little deeper, asking you if you have any ideas as to where they may be. It's true that you aren't sure where they exactly are, as in you don't know which underground brothel they're a part of or the specific landfill their hollowed body parts are buried in, but approximately, all of the missing folks should remain within the larger Tokyo Metropolis prefecture. You don't inform him of the latter, though, because that's a detail only certain folks are privy to, but you inform them of the sex and human trafficking, which you frame as rumors you heard through the grapevine back when you were in school. Kou seems to find this bit helpful, as a low grumble of his, more mellow and pensive, echoes through the room.
It seems Jing Yuan and his men have yet to discover the exact nature of your hometown. Not that it's rare for a gang to participate in sex or human trafficking, but you suppose they were temporarily led astray by the also very busy arms trading that occurs in the area. After all, your hometown is a prime location for smuggling goods in and out of the affluent Roppongi neighborhood, and well, those goods could be anything.
Just as he's about to ask you another question, a series of thuds and lighter patters of feet begin to shake the floor. Kou simply sighs and dismisses you, asking for one of his men to take you back to your room. At least you were useful enough tonight, you think, relieved that you get to live to see another day.
As you leave the office, a high-pitched shriek pierces through the air. The voice can't come from anyone but a young child, so you figure Yanqing's back home.
Now that you think about it, you haven't run into the kid at all. He must've been out all day, attending school and doing whatever other things that the heir to a yakuza syndicate would do, but they wouldn't be anything like the flower arrangement and shamisen classes you had to take when you were young since he's a boy.
"Let me go!"
You wince at how shrill his voice is, and it gets more and more unbearable as the way back leads you closer to the noise.
Except you didn't expect the commotion to take place right in front of your room.
Yanqing's bolting around the rock garden, feet kicking up dust and sand, destroyed the pattern of ripples, as he zig-zags between and jumps over shrubs, wide, flat stones, and domineering men who lack in the agility department. He seems to be acting out, you observe, and you watch as five yakuza men fail over and over to capture the young heir, their arms flailing and mouths helplessly agape, spilling out gentle pleas that barely conceal their underlying curses.
It doesn't surprise you that Jing Yuan's kid is outmaneuvering men who are five times older and bigger than him. You can't imagine how dangerous Yanqing will turn out when he grows up. The distorted image bothers you – that this child with grubby hands and chubby cheeks will one day be drenched in the color and stench of crimson.
Suddenly, your eyes lock with Yanqing, and you startle a little, having not realized that you were staring at him while pondering his prescripted future. The kid, too, is caught off-guard by your onlooking gaze, and one of his bodyguards seems to notice his pause and lunges at him, hugging his frame tightly to prevent him from escaping again.
You tear your eyes away from the little boy. The bodyguards, a powerless child, the lack of freedom – the entire scene fills you with dread. You excuse yourself, bow to the associate, and slip into your room.
Immediately, you collapse onto your knees and bury your hands into your face. You thought you could fend off the reminders for much longer. It shouldn't be that hard – all you have to do is turn your cheek and pretend everything here doesn't poke and prod at the parts of you that remain raw and exposed. It should've been easy, really. But you had underestimated – ignored – how deeply everything inside still hurts and how poor your pain tolerance is, even after years of attempted "training" and grueling punishment.
Outside, the commotion continues – Yanqing's pitched yelps and his bodyguards' calls of "Young Master" farther away, no longer right outside your room, but loud enough to prick at your eardrums.
With a ragged breath, you cover your ears with the hot, sweaty planes of your palms and, for extra measure, you hunch over your tucked knees and bury your head underneath the futon covers. The fetal position makes you feel small, and your behavior, like a child, only serves to dampen your mood.
A voice among your mind's chorus sniggers – Is that all you've got?
You can't muster the energy to retort. It's not like you've ever considered yourself extraordinary or even marginally above mediocre, but the disappointment and helplessness sting like a fresh wound, as if you haven't been troubled by these feelings countless times before.
Part of you is even surprised that you've lasted up to this point. The estate and the people in it are all too familiar, in that their sheer existences are reprimanding reminders of past mistakes, taunting allusions to prior experiences that never fail to overwhelm you with dread and humiliation. Everything has been bothering you since the beginning, and seeing Yanqing in that state is what has finally set you off, triggering alarms and old, destructive habits.
Your internal monologue of nonstop deprecation and criticism drowns out everything else, and your hands fall away from the sides of your head to rejoin together, nail to dry cuticle to nail. You pull, scratch, pull until thinning skin finally gives way, and then you rip it off, finding a confusing, guilty pleasure in the act of tearing yourself apart, tiny strip by tiny strip.
And through it all – your bleeding fingers, the dead skin and crimson dots that litter the comforter, the satisfaction of killing off parts of yourself –, that dominating voice inside your head crescendos and rapidly assumes control of your brain. It coaxes and calls forth others to join it, and whispers from the past, from what you remember of your parents, join in to howl a depressing, ominous harmony – You're a failure, you'll never amount to anything, all your effort will be in vain.
Like a chant, a spell, a curse, they repeat themselves over and over, and it feels like they won't ever stop until they finally manifest the bleakest, most appalling future for you. And you're completely trapped in this hateful whirlpool, with your head permanently submerged in its dark, murky waters. Worst of all, even when common sense is saying that you shouldn’t give in, your parched throat drinks it all up, indulging in the acidic, bittersweet taste.
Eventually, unbeknownst to you, you fall asleep, and only then does your self-hatred cease.
–
You're woken up by fleeting, curious touches to the bottoms of your feet.
You don't wake immediately. It starts off as a slight discomfort, and your subconscious urges your body to move by the barest amount, enough to wiggle your feet and toes around until the itchy sensation fades away. But after a few seconds, it returns, and the cycle repeats, until eventually you're roused, eyes blinking open to see the same blackness that you saw when they were closed.
Fuck, did I black out?
Crazed and frustrated, you flail your arms around, struggling in the most inefficient manner possible to tug the futon cover off of you. You don't know how long you've been out, but you feel somewhat rested, so it's probably way past dinnertime. It didn't seem like Kou wanted to meet with you again today, but in the slimmest chance that he did, you're screwed.
However, despite several pushes and kicks, nothing works, and you let out a displeased groan as the blanket remains tightly wrapped around everything above your shoulders. I'll just have to use more force, you think, and you thrust an elbow back to free up more movement for your arm.
But then your elbow hits something, and someone yelps out in pain. You jump in surprise, and as if on cue, with a swivel of your head to look in the direction of the sound, the cover slides off of your head, as if making a grand reveal.
Because right behind you is a child, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow of the moonlight through the shoji screens, and there's only one kid that you know of that lives here.
In the fleeting moment that you have to take him in, all you can register is that he's small. Not frail, or weak, just small. You're much larger than him – you could probably curl your body around him, once, twice, with some length of limb to spare. (You're taken aback by the tenderness in your observation. It lifts your spirit, then pulls the latter crashing back down.)
"What are you doing here!" you hiss as you reach out by instinct to touch his cheek, which he's nursing with a hand, something akin to a stunned expression seizing his cherubic features. His other is clamped over his mouth, and his wide eyes beg you to stay silent, too.
There's shuffling coming down the hallway that stops outside your door.
"Is everything alright in there?" It's one of your guards, but you find it odd that he wasn't standing right outside your room like he usually is. His partner doesn't seem to be there either.
"Sorry," you call out from where you sit, "I just knocked my hand against something."
"May I come in to check?"
Yanqing's eyes widen impossibly more, and his panic causes you to stumble over your words.
"I - uh - I-I'm changing at the moment! Can you give me a minute?"
"Oh." It's a surprisingly flat sound. "Never mind then."
You breathe a sigh of relief at his quick acquiescence. Then, you shoot a glare at the kid, who's still as a rock, and the two of you have a staring-with-blinking contest that seems to last forever.
With your eyes having adjusted to the faint moonlight, you have no choice but to take a proper look at the boy as you both wait. And with one glance, there's no doubt about it – he's no biological son of Jing Yuan. His hair is thin and neat in his ponytail, unlike Jing Yuan's mess of a mane, and while it could be that he's still far too young, you don't see any traces of Jing Yuan's facial or physical traits.
Yanqing definitely lacks the oyabun's eyes. The kid's are large and round, dewy and clear, too busy taking in his surroundings to comprehend and be tainted by them. They're a bit darker in shade – probably more bronze or orange, though you can't tell for sure – compared to his foster father's gold, and it eases you a bit to see that this child looks more humane.
However, if the saying is true – that a person's eyes are honest reflections of their minds –, then you can tell that the light in Yanqing's eyes is not unperturbed. He's not foolish enough to come here without a reason, and you're not sure whether you should be thankful or not, that this eight-year-old is too mature for his nascent existence on this planet.
At the same time – and perhaps you're looking too deeply into it –, in the midst of his troubles, there's a hopeful glint in the kid's eyes, as if he's eagerly awaiting you to do something. Unlike Hana and Jing Yuan, though, you can't read Yanqing's mind, so you have no clue as to what he's expecting from you.
You feel an uptick in your pulse at your temple. It's irritating, really. It's additional pressure you didn't anticipate having to deal with, and you loathe the dreadful melancholy that returns whenever you think deeply about Yanqing's circumstances. Even though he's nothing like you, in the same way he's nothing like Jing Yuan, the two of you are similar in ways that only you can tell.
You wonder, then, in what ways he's like Jing Yuan.
You wonder if one day, those honeyed pools will harden into amber chunks. If those chunks will build static as he continues to be exposed to his foster father's ruthlessness and electric current. If those chunks will ensnare people, cities, nations for decades and decades to come, taking innocent lives as part of the gang's nefarious plans – a gang that'll continue to be at his beck and call, plans that, one day, he'll organize and execute, from start to very bloody finish.
Neither of you break away until there's another shuffle outside of your door, and the guard's paces take him back to where he came from.
Finally, you and Yanqing tear your gazes away from each other.
Cognizant that the men are never a safe distance away, you maintain a steady, low voice as you speak. "Why are you in my room?"
Yanqing clearly understands the dangers of your current situation, so he, too, in spite of his young age and lack of experience, mirrors your quiet whisper. "I brought you some snacks. You must be tired."
He turns to his left and slowly pushes a black tray carrying full bowls, plates, and utensils your way. Everything is packed to the brim, with traces of soup and shreds of vegetables spilling out, and you're sure he's overcompensating for his disturbance, having already predicted that his visit – his presence – is unwanted. (Does he feel that way at the moment, or is it a learned notion?)
You scoff. "Thank you, but you didn't have to do that at the risk of my life. Sneak back off to your room before I'm slaughtered for kidnapping you."
Speaking of which, you can't help but think – Wouldn't it be funny if I actually died for kidnapping the same brat I saved – from an attempted kidnapping? Kinda a full circle moment there, huh.
Unfortunately, the kid doesn't budge. He's shifted positions so that he's now sitting on his calves, and his hands have balled into tiny, trembling fists that rest on the tops of his thighs. Clearly, then, he's not here to deliver some goodies and throw a slumber party with you, not that it would take a genius to have figured that out.
You can't afford to be merciful. You scoff again and cross your arms over your chest, hoping to exude enough of a contemptuous and unreasonable air so that he'll give in and run off.
At first, your act did affect Yanqing. His head droops a little, and his gaze falls as well. He also shifts in his seat, rocking side to side, and you can almost feel his indecision as he struggles to choose between leaving you alone and staying rooted to his spot. In the end, though, he settles with the latter, a semblance of a dissatisfied pout ghosting his pursed lips, which leaves you with no other choice but to, at the very least, hear him out. After all, you have no intention of wrestling a kid into submission (although you're not very confident that you could beat him in a fight in the first place), nor would it be smart to kick him out lest a guard sees him.
You sigh in surrender.
"Fine," you mutter, "what do you need from me?"
Yanqing immediately perks up, and you can't help but cringe at the way he practically shines, the stars in his eyes and their metaphorical glow too bright in the presence of your comfortable dark.
"May I sleep here tonight?" He asks with such politeness and reverence that, had you been any less jaded, you would've given in.
"Absolutely not," you deadpan.
"Why not?" He huffs, and for once, he's acting like a brat.
With a blank face, you explain, "Your guards don't know that you're here, yes? So if they find you in my room, I will die."
"No, you wouldn't! They wouldn't hurt you as long as I tell them not to."
"Child, do you remember how we met?" Yanqing slips into a restless silence, so you don't press him to respond. But you do conclude by saying, "They care about your safety, so don't get yourself into too much trouble."
You're sure he has his reasons. Children don't act out unless their needs, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional, aren't being met, and you're sure he's being neglected in several ways, by nature of his environment. Especially for someone as docile as Yanqing, there's no doubt that something's bothering him, or else he wouldn't be seeking help from a stranger like you.
However, it's precisely because you're a stranger that you cannot –
That's a fucking lie, and you know it.
You press your knuckles into your eyes and rub vigorously, as a means to prevent your expression from falling. It seems you're still soft, even after all these years and the terrible experiences that have come along with them.
You shouldn't concede. You shouldn't allow him to stay. He could promise to wake up early, escape silently, whatever – but there would never be a guarantee, and it's entirely foolish to rely on a child to follow through with their word. At the same time, though, deep down in your heart, you don't want to turn him away. You want to give him an opportunity to prove himself, especially since no one gave you one. And if anything, on the very hour that you resolved you'd leave that cheap illusion of a home, you promised yourself you'd never act like them, and turning away a lonely child would be exactly something they would do.
You let your hands fall into your lap, in total defeat. If you kick the kid out, you'd never be able to face him, and more likely than not, you wouldn't be able to even think straight for the next few days, no thanks to the guilt that'd be eating you from the inside out.
"Fine."
As expected, Yanqing's face somehow lights up even brighter, and this time, you have to completely avert your gaze. There's no going back, no backpedaling on your words, no room for regret. It's obvious you're biting off more than you can chew, but you'll think about your future later. Right now, you need to tackle what comes next, and that's surviving tonight.
"I have questions," you continue. "First, do you know your way back?"
The kid nods swiftly, body angled and sharp, oozing utmost respect for you now that you're saving his ass.
"How do you plan on returning without getting caught?"
"The guards switch every three hours. They take 15 minutes to break and chat, which they really shouldn't be doing, but… that just means I can slip back in then."
"When is the next rotation?"
"Uh, Tsurugi wakes me up at 6…?"
You note Yanqing's confusion and his irrelevant response, due to your choice in vocabulary, so you urge yourself to speak more simply and softly. (Tsurugi must be the name of his primary bodyguard, who you vaguely recall.)
With a deep breath, you say, "Great. Then, just for tonight, I'll let you stay. But you have to leave by five, and if Tsurugi catches you, you're coming up with a lie. I will act like I have nothing to do with you. Am I clear?"
As if the two of you are roleplaying a children's game, he salutes you, little chest puffed out, back arched forward, cheeks round and red with excitement. You ignore it, and scooch over to make space for Yanqing to join you on your futon. He crawls over, the fabric of his pajama pants which are shy of his ankles wrinkling under the twists and turns of his knees, and plops right down, head taking up the entirety of your pillow. For a second, you part your mouth to point out that your graciousness doesn't extend to the sacrifice of your quality of sleep, but as Yanqing's eyes close, drowsiness evidently shrouding his mind, you think better than to berate the little one.
It’s not like you’re going to sleep anytime soon, anyway. You'll stay up till five, so that you can wake him on time, and then slip a few hours of rest in before breakfast.
You peek up at the doors to your room and see the faint outline of guards standing outside. Since it seemed like a shift change had just occurred, you assume that it's currently barely half past midnight, and the analog clock hanging on the wall behind you confirms it as such. If you had your phone on you, you would take this chance to attempt contacting Hana once more, but Kou had taken your device away during your meeting and locked it in a safe sitting on one of the shelves in his office.
That reminds you – they could be looking through your phone. The only thing of use they'll find in there is Hana's phone number, but even then, they likely wouldn't take the risk of potentially calling a civilian, or at least not without you. Perhaps that'll be something they'll expect you to do eventually. Anyway, for tonight, you'll have to make do with passing the hours by idly.
Yanqing has fallen into a deep sleep. Tucking the blanket underneath his chin, you dote on him a little, a small apology for your rudeness from before. Then, you straighten out his ponytail from where it curves in an unruly manner around his neck, before lying back down yourself, face tilted upward towards the ceiling.
–
There's the crack of a gunshot. A heavy thump on the dirt ground. Then, there's a few sniggers, some side comments you can't make out, all of which cease when someone barks out orders to bag the body and dispose of it immediately. Finally, silence.
Well, not total silence. If you strained your ears further, you'd hear the choked sobs of another victim or two, their animalistic and desperate pleas muffled by the black duct tape slapped across their sealed lips, along with the rustling of the men placing the corpse into a body bag that will later be burned in a large furnace in some far-off trash site.
(Not that anyone knows you know, and you're simply parroting Haru's words, so you're not entirely sure what he means. But, even without understanding the full extent of his words, you're aware that your family is in dangerous, brutal business, so you don't force yourself to listen for more.)
Even though you're only in elementary school, you've learned when you should and shouldn't wish to learn more, and more often than not, in the world that you live in, curiosity does kill the cat and will fail to bring it back.
After all, that's why all of these people are dying, no?
You roll your eyes, because you know that's not true. An explanation that simple and cold doesn't sit right even with your developing moral compass.
This discomfort that you're feeling at the moment... that's frustration directed at yourself. Because you're no different in your desperation or intrigue, except you have no excuse for behaving so recklessly, aside from your youth.
And Haru has taken extra measures to drill that into your head. He constantly reminds you that there's no need for you to worry about "adult matters," that you should immediately find him if you run into a problem, that you should be enjoying the barest bits and pieces of your childhood because "you'll never experience it again."
However, no matter how much wisdom or power he has, Haru can't solve the current issue at hand.
At that thought, your hands throb, which draws your attention away from the murders taking place outside of your room. You're grateful that no bones were broken this time, thanks to Haru and his insistence that you let the matter go once and for all. As you wiggle your fingers and ball them into fists, there's that familiar soreness and ache of bruised skin webbed with bloody cracks, muscles weathered from overuse and strain, and dulled knuckles with little strength remaining in them. The pain is beginning to spread up your wrists, the fatigue starting to weigh down the flesh and blood in your forearms, and you ponder how exactly you're going to be able to pick up a pencil at school in the morning.
You've been beaten over this issue for the past two months, ever since you started hounding your parents over it. No matter how many times you've asked your parents for permission to attend your school's annual overnight trip, they won't allow you, and this year is no different. At this rate, you'll graduate elementary school, having made zero memories with the few friends you have, and there's apparently talk of you transferring to another middle school where you won't recognize anyone.
Grumbling a little, you bore your eyes even deeper into the textured plaster of your bedroom ceiling, so that you can attribute the tears gathering at your waterline to your makeshift staring game and not the overwhelming disappointment suffocating you at the nose and throat.
That's another problem Haru can't solve for you.
I mean, he could, but I don't want to wake him up.
Haru's bedroom is right next to yours, and his breaks are limited to whenever you're (supposed to be) asleep. You know he wouldn't complain if you were to find him at this hour, but you'd feel horrible for doing so, and you definitely wouldn't be able to hold your tears back then. You'd rather not be more of a burden to Haru or Hana than you already are.
So you revert to your typical coping strategy: bite your lower lip firmly – not enough to draw blood, or else Mother will rage –, grip your hands onto the top edge of your blanket, and go over the English vocabulary you were introduced to in class earlier in the afternoon.
Because, one day, you'll leave this place far, far away. So far, where no one will quiver at the briefest mention of your last name, where parents won't scowl at you for befriending their children, where you won't have to bandage your bleeding, splitting hands every morning in fear that they'll fall apart and crumble at your feet.
And Haru and Hana will definitely come with me! Haru's fluent in English anyway, and we can just teach Hana the basics. The three of us will run away, and no one will find us.
–
You take a few deep breaths, urging the infuriated tension in your body to dissipate and your disturbed mind to stop conflating the past with the present.
I can't believe I still remember so much, you think, in equal parts disappointment and… yearning. It's not a longing for the place that you grew up in, but rather, for what the place could've been. A normal family and life was all that you wished for when you were growing up, even though you didn't have the slightest clue as to what normalcy was like. In the end, you concluded that, as long as there was Haru, Hana, and an absence of pain and blood, that would be normal enough. Of course, now that you've personally experienced somewhat of a mundane life, you roll your eyes and wish your past self was a bit more ambitious.
You typically don't allow yourself to reminisce, but since your past and present are colliding, it's impossible to recognize the parallels.
And just like that, both so slowly and so rapidly, you must wake up Yanqing.
You're grateful that the kid's so obedient, as he doesn't utter a single groan or whine when you tap on his shoulder. He simply sits up while rubbing the heels of his hand into his eyes in gentle back-and-forth motions. And even through his grogginess, he climbs out of the covers noiselessly and walks towards the attached bathroom.
Seated, you watch as he climbs onto the toilet seat and reaches up to unlock the window pane, from which he squeezes through. He then jumps down, followed by a gentle thump, then silence. Through it all, you're incredibly impressed and terrified by the amount of tenuous training this elementary schooler has already mastered. Anyway, there's no one outside your room at the moment, so you figure there's very few guards on patrol in general, so you trust that he'll sneak back into his room with no problem. Regardless, from this point onwards, it's none of your business what Yanqing does or what happens to him.
Relief washes over you, and you catch your breath for what seems like the first time since you blacked out last night. The air is still chill, as it always is in the spring, but there's a touch of slight, summer humidity that sticks pleasantly against your skin. Whether or not you're prepared, it will be that time of the year again.
–
It seems Jing Yuan's goal is to take over both gangs at once, as soon as the two merge together when they settle their contract. That way, he wouldn't just have control over your hometown, but also whatever territory the acquiring gang has. For any other syndicate, an objective like this one would be infeasible, but this is no more than a small matter for him and his men.
Swaying side to side, you stare down into the center of the marble sink, one hand placed flat on the counter and the other gripping your toothbrush, elbow hanging in the air. The tangy and minty taste of fluoride bubbles against your tongue and drools from the corners of your lips. You should spit it all out – you've been brushing for five minutes –, but you're too deep in thought.
That explains why I only have a week.
The gangs in your hometown are going to finalize the acquisition by the weekend, and he needs enough intel to ensure that the ambush is truly worth it and that he's attacking where they're most vulnerable.
With regards to the acquiring gang, you have very little idea as to who it could be. Usually, mergers and acquisitions take place between neighboring organizations. You’re aware of two candidates, but one out of the two is too conservative, disinterested in artificial growth and more fearful of internal strife than anything else, and the other one… well, you're not sure they would continue to pursue a partnership after the shitshow that went down when you left. Of course, you can't rule the latter out entirely based on conjecture, and they're the sole lead you have.
You set down your toothbrush and turn on the faucet, using the lukewarm water to wash away the toothpaste foam and gunk. You also fill up a glass cup halfway up with water and drink from it, throwing your head back so you can gurgle. You squint as you stare up at the shining LED lights lining the top of the sink mirror.
Anyway, back to Jing Yuan.
There's no doubt that he's aiming to monopolize your hometown's trade channels and connections, as that's the singular redeeming aspect of that place. The acquiring syndicate would also be involved – either as a large supplier themself or as an operations provider –, so it would also be advantageous to seize their services.
So far, you've mainly been helping Kou and his men with names and locations. You also threw in some leads, disguised as idle gossip and tales, to make yourself seem useful, even if by coincidence. For instance, you mentioned seeing groups of college boys hanging out in the alleyways between a popular cigar shop and a thrift store nobody frequents. The thrift store is useless, but if they were to look into the cigar shop, they'd easily find that it's not just a small warehouse for foreign drug imports, but there's also a tunnel in the manager's break room that connects to an underground sex shop a few blocks away. That sex shop is considered one of the larger establishments in the area, and deals frequently take place in their midst of stale cologne, spilt alcohol, and smoking gunpowder. Surely Jing Yuan would find some of those conversations valuable.
Since Kou has already been informed of the underground sex and human trafficking, if his men were to follow your trail exactly as you intended, then they should be able to deduce that your hometown gang is more than interested in becoming a major supplier themself. Given that they control the entire flow of goods in the neighborhood, if they were to succeed and begin expanding nationwide, then they might actually have a shot at amassing considerable fortune and power.
You inhale, then exhale, through your nose.
You briefly entertain the thought of what comes next. Jing Yuan's sure to execute his hostile takeover perfectly, and naturally, he'll reorganize the gangs' internal management when he seizes them. If his primary interest is the supply chain, he'll likely shut down any and all unrelated activities. That means staff will be let go. Prostitutes, independent hitmen, the occasional clueless bar owner – only those that are not directly affiliated with the gang. While the others…
Your back and shoulders stiffen at the thought. Hana easily falls in the latter group.
Water begins to flood your throat. You gag, a strangled, wobbly noise that's forced out amidst your surprise, and you throw your head back down so that you can spit into the sink. With a ragged breath, you shut your eyes firmly, and wait for the nausea to alleviate.
Suddenly, the bathroom door cracks open, and you jump as the door handle on the inside knocks into your hip. You're about to scream out loud, but when you whip your head around, you're greeted by a concerned Yanqing.
You can't help but growl. "What are you doing here?! I said last night was a one-time thing!"
The child recoils at your animosity. He tucks his chin down into his chest and takes a few steps back, though he doesn't close the bathroom door. And maybe it's just the lights again, but there's something that glitters at the corners of his eyes.
You take another inhale, letting air, still a little warm and humid from your bath earlier, fill up to the ends of your lungs, expanding all the way to the sides of your ribcage and the core of your stomach.
He's just a kid. Calm. Down.
"Sorry, Yanqing," you say, evidently softer and very apologetic. "You just surprised me, is all. But we did agree that you couldn't come over anymore."
He scrunches his nose a few times, before nodding obediently again. However, like the previous night, he anchors himself to his spot, and he probably won't leave until you give in and let him stay.
"Yanqing…," you mumble, crouching down onto the floor so that you're at eye-level with him, "is something wrong?"
It takes him a while to muster an answer. At first, it's the subtlest tremble in his upper lip, like he's deciding whether he should tell you the honest truth or not. Then, he squirms with his shoulders, thin frame shaking and swaying back and forth, and it doesn't take you long to recognize that it's out of embarrassment. However, it's critical that you don't rush him, especially if he's teetering between uncertainty and doubt. Finally, he huffs, pouts, and looks up at you with round, innocent eyes, checking one final time to see if you're the kind of person to judge him harshly.
You're not, and you nod with pursed lips to demonstrate that you'd listen to him intently.
"I don't like sleeping alone," he confesses.
You nod again, out of sympathy. When Yanqing doesn't follow up, you ask, "Is there a reason why?"
Dismayed, he shakes his head. "It's too dark."
We're alike in that respect, you mentally note. The number of similarities between the two of you is growing.
"I get that. Have you tried asking for a nightlight? Those helped me when I was young."
That's a half-lie. You never had a nightlight, per se, but when you couldn't go on your sixth grade overnight camping trip, Haru tried to make up for the loss of the experience with glow-in-the-dark stars that he stuck on the ceiling of your bedroom. Unfortunately, they didn't last for more than a week, due to an impromptu inspection from Mother, and she demanded they all be ripped off and disposed of immediately.
Yet again, Yanqing shakes his head. "I have to get used to it," he states, firmly.
You sigh, hands reaching up to smooth back some of his loose baby hairs. "But you're here."
"I know… but…" He looks up at you with a desperate, pleading look, like he's begging for you to understand him. "There are things out there in the dark. I don't feel safe."
Not just alike – the exact same.
"I see…" You stand back up and lead him to your futon, turning off the bathroom lights and closing the door behind you. You lie down on one side of the comforter, and the child mimics you, settling down across from you, making sure to fold his arms and legs close to his chest.
Words don't need to be exchanged for Yanqing to comprehend that you're giving him permission. And there's also the unspoken agreement on the same conditions you set the first night he came over.
"Relax, I'll wake you when it's time."
At that, the child unfolds himself and wriggles into a comfortable sleeping position, while you lay the blanket over his body so that he doesn't catch a cold.
"By the way," you hum, "how did you get in here this time?"
"I ran around the house and came through the main door."
"I see." You pause for a moment, before finishing, "Try not to do that. You'll get caught easily that way."
"I won't – I promise!"
The look in his eyes is set, determined, somehow ferociously loyal. In spite of his passionate spirit, you don't have the heart to offer him another piece of advice, one that you take quite to heart: Don't make promises so frequently, and unnecessarily.
A flicker of a smile appears on your face, and Yanqing takes it as a sign of affirmation. He grins himself, before turning on his side, getting comfortable for the night.
Suddenly, he jerks up, supporting his upper body with a bent elbow, and looks back over his shoulder at you. He says, "You're really kind, miss! I wish everyone here was as nice as you are!"
Before you can respond, not that it's possible for you to come up with an adequate enough reply, he flops back down.
You could speak up, if you wanted to. But – and maybe this is simply an excuse – his breathing's already transitioning into deeper, longer inhales, and just like yesterday evening, you can't find it in your heart to disturb him. After all, no child talks like that, without reason.
It's not to imply that the men here are abusing Yanqing. From the peeks of skin that you've seen, primarily that around his wrists, ankles, and neck, there aren't visible injuries. The bruises that you did catch a glance of seemed like normal injuries received from a blunt sword, most likely from exchanging blows during kendo practice.
However, that doesn't mean the people here are serving the child fully. Generally, emotional neglect is a common recurrence in East Asian cultures and traditional upbringing, and there's no doubt that it's drastically worse within yakuza households. Jing Yuan must be subjecting Yanqing to a severe and harsh training regime in order to shape the latter into a proper heir, and part of that training would require adopting a strict, apathetic attitude towards everything, including the kid's pain, frustration, and anguish. In other words, there's no other way to teach a child of less than ten years the art of masking and indifference without demonstrating it directly to them.
All told, it's highly possible that you're the only adult that Yanqing has encountered in a long while who is so open with their expressions and thoughts. And you can't help but think – What a pitiful existence.
–
When rainfall occurs, the cumulus cloud becomes a cumulonimbus cloud. As the rain droplets fall, they'll also push air particles downwards, forming a cycle of up and downdrafts within the cloud. As a result, fallen rain will settle on the bottom, while those that remain at the top freeze into ice particles. This cycle is what allows electrification to build up.
What is most notable at this point in the development stage is the widening of the top of the storm cloud, as positively charged ice crystals fan out and form what is termed as the "anvil."
In blacksmithing, anvils are tough by nature, made to withstand the brutal hammering and battering of metal against metal. At the same time, it is also used to cut and shape, flatten and curve – to manipulate. In the context of thunderstorms, the anvil signals the storm's maturity, and the more spread out it is, the more turbulent the weather will be. In that sense, the anvil also manipulates – it draws out a sense of foreboding and gloom from the radius of towns, homes, and people it casts its looming shadow over, victims that will have to bear the storm's incessant rain and lightning.
And while there's no scientific basis for Japanese folklore, it is suggested in countless tales that these lightning strikes are signals from the heavens to the mortals, that punishment for their transgressions is impending.
Imminent.
–
It's your fifth day at the estate, and Yanqing's visits have become habitual. You no longer chastise him for putting you in danger, and he listens to you more often than not. And to make sure he doesn't get caught, the two of you decide on a more refined routine to conceal his presence and your knowing of it.
You wait until a few minutes before or after the guards' shift change to go into your bathroom to begin your nightly routine. That way, you can help Yanqing down as he sneaks through the bathroom window, and the sounds of your bath filling up are more than enough to overpower the slight squeak of the window pane whenever it slides open.
Today, though, Yanqing seems more haggard than usual. The droop in his shoulders, along with the shadows under his eyes, are telltale signs of his exhaustion. He doesn't even bother to greet you with his usual toothy grin, no "Good evening, Miss!" to be heard. You pick at your left thumb’s cuticle, wondering if it's because of his nightly escapades to your room. Yet, he looked more rested than when he was staving off sleepless nights alone, you internally debate.
Suddenly, as Yanqing steps down from the toilet, bending at an angle at the waist, he lets out a timid weep of pain.
Urgently, you reach over to steady him and avoid making contact with his midriff. The pain seems to linger, by the insistent crease between his eyebrows, so whatever injury he's sustained must be quite stubborn.
"Hold on to my shoulders," you instruct. Looping an arm under his knees and placing the other on his back, you heave him up and rush to lay him down on your futon.
"Where does it hurt?" You pat your hands lightly around his ribs, glancing back and forth between his wrinkled nightshirt and his rapidly blinking eyes.
"Right side –," he squirms just as your hand smooths over the spot right between his last rib and the dip in his torso, "– there!"
You lift your arm and hover your palm over the spot. "Can I take a look?" you inquire, and the boy immediately lets out a whimper in confirmation.
You shimmy his shirt up and find bandages wrapped around his stomach. On the right side, as Yanqing directed, there are a few specks of blood, and there's a purplish blob peeking out from the upper border of the gauze. There are probably several more cuts and bruises underneath the off-white wraps, and you swallow thickly at the sight.
Your vision blurs and dims, and for a moment, it feels like you're losing your balance. It continues to contort, swirling, while the world slips from its axis.
Fuck! Now's not the time!
You didn't handle this so well during your first night, and you feel a rush of panic as you question if you'd be able to withstand it this time. You pause, close your eyes, and frantically search for your center of gravity to re-ground yourself.
The water's still running, that's suspicious –
I don't have a first aid kit, what am I supposed to do!
Is the window still open? I should double-check –
You shove all of these thoughts aside. They're important, yes, and you'll get to them. But what's most important is gauging Yanqing's condition, you remind yourself, and you open your eyes, opting to simply do rather than think.
Your survival instincts kick in. The first and necessary step is to survey your surroundings. The bandages are neatly arranged and knotted, so you can't take them off. But even through the polyester fabric of the gauze, there's a noticeable heat that seeps through, so at the very least, you can help cool him off.
Robotically, you stand up and mutter, "I'll be right back."
You pace back to your bathroom and grab your hand towel hanging from the rack. You turn off the bathwater, the bath almost filled up to the brim, and leave it be. Then, you turn towards the sink, and let it run with cold water while you soak up the towel. Simultaneously, you're able to check the window and are relieved to find it closed, with its glass panes fogged up from condensation. Finally, with a few rough twists and pulls, you drain enough from the towel so that it doesn't drip, and rush back to Yanqing's side.
Folding it twice like a napkin so that it becomes a quarter of its size, you run the towel over the bit of bruised skin, before covering the spot you had identified earlier. The child whines at the icy touch, but doesn't resist it either, instead angling his hip in the direction of your outstretched hand in search of more of that cool, soothing sensation.
"I can't do much else," you whisper, almost a consoling coo, "so you need to rest up. You're doing very well, Yanqing. It'll get better soon."
With that, you pull his shirt back down without covering the cool towel, and wrap his legs and feet with your blanket to keep them warm. Yanqing also stills himself, but the sternness in his features doesn't disappear. You can only imagine that he's desperately waiting for sleep to claim his pain, as well as his thoughts.
You're back in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth with fast, aggressive back-and-forth motions. There's a tingle around the perimeter of your teeth, certainly your gums screaming from being scraped raw and torn, but it's more annoying than anything else, something you easily shove in your mind's back burner.
It's all coming back to me, you think with inward disgust.
–
Haru’s soaked, his suit and loosened tie plastered to his body, his hair and ponytail stuck to his forehead, ears, and nape. There's cold sweat streaking down his temple, and his cheeks, glistening with pool water, are already an angry rouge. His chest is heaving, too, lungs working overtime to take in gasp after gasp after gasp.
You're also soaked into oblivion, and most importantly, you feel as infernally hot and angered as Haru looks. The gusts of wind that whip across the school grounds do nothing to dampen the infuriated sparks from within; they only fan the flames of everything – your resentment and frustration, your helplessness and hopelessness.
Haru's right arm flies up, and you don't even bother to brace yourself for the impact. You've been hit countless times before – you're used to it. In fact, you can almost feel the acute stinging against your jaw, accompanied with a slight ringing in your ears and a sore neck. However, in reality, his arm floats there, like a robot waiting for permission to move, to assault its target. But there's no one here to give instructions, not even teachers or staff members. It's the middle of the night, and no one should've been able to find you drowning yourself at your middle school pool.
But of course, Haru finds you. Even when the odds are stacked against him, he always manages to.
You're tempted to egg him on. Do it, you want to taunt, show me that you're no different from the rest of them. Because no matter how much we resist, we're both bred to be rotten to the core.
"No, I won't," he croaks, as if reading your mind.
You click your tongue. Like brother, like sister.
His hand drops down, hanging limply at his drenched side. A few passing clouds eclipse the moon, thus erasing the pool's reflection of the night sky – moon, stars, and all – and replacing it with an overflowing well of ink. Furthermore, in this opaque darkness, you can't make out Haru's reaction. He's never been very good with words, so you need to see his eyes in order to glean even the most superficial of his thoughts. The rest you could never decipher, hidden in the depths of his impregnable mind.
He speaks before the moon returns, his voice no more than a pained, sorrow croak. He utters your name, and it rings so hollow as echoes of it resound across the pool. Strangely, he sounds so weak and vulnerable – honest.
Another gust of wind swoops through, and ripples interlace across the darkened pool water.
Then, with a faltering voice, he chokes out, "I… get it. I totally get it. I know we live in a fucking hell, and you want to escape it. Trust me… I've tried, too. Several times, kid. I know… I know it all."
He sucks in a shaky breath.
"Kid… I don't watch over you just because I'm told to. This may be hard to believe at the moment, but… I care. I've been watching over you since the day you were fucking born, and I can't let you die before me. I won't! And – and if you did, what am I supposed to say to Hana, huh?! Tell her that I couldn't get to you in time?!"
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back his slick bangs, and as if on cue, the clouds pass. Moonlight illuminates all that stands beneath it, and you see that Haru's eyes are bloodshot and downcast. A shock of guilt zips through your body because, once again, you're inconveniencing him.
"It's only the three of us, kid… Things might be horrible right now, but once you and Hana come of age, everything will get easier. Just look at me – I can do so many more things than either of you can, and that's because I'm an adult. Wait a few more years and –"
Then, for the first time in your life, you witness Haru's dam break. For the first time in your life, Haru's shedding his persona as your personal bodyguard, and speaking to you solely as your older brother but not by blood. Nevertheless, he is someone who will always be more of a family member to you than any of your actual blood relatives.
"Shit, sorry, I'm spouting nonsense," he sobs. He dips his head, but the moonlight still catches the glints of teardrops raining down onto the pavement. There's a prickling in your eyes, too.
"Look, it-it's your choice. But, it's also my choice to butt in when I think you're doing something stupid. I'm not going to lie to you anymore and tell you things get better when you're older. You might have more independence and freedom and whatever when you reach my age, but that's all in exchange for things that are far worse.
"But, if there's anything that I haven't lied about, it's that there's only the three of us. And I can't let any of us give up, you hear? So you can stay angry, think that I'm being too meddlesome, whatever – but I'm doing all of this because I care so fucking much for you, kid. I'm always on your side, got it? And if you're really serious about wanting to leave this place, well… I-I promise we'll figure something out, yeah? I swear."
It's your turn to look down, hot tears streaming down your face out of humiliation and fear. You feel horrible for pushing Haru to his limit, but you're still extremely upset that he found you, of all times, of all places. And while the thought that you're not actually dead is relieving, you think that's more animal instinct than personal desire. And if there's anything your heart truly desires, it's to never return to that place or to the people there. You despise them all, would kill them all if you had the strength and courage, and you feel yourself on the cusp of losing it all over again when you imagine waking up to that same starless bedroom in the morning.
"I-I can't, Ha – ugh – ru," you blubber, words spilling out of your mouth before you can even pronounce them, hand clutching onto the front of your crumpled t-shirt, "I c-can't go back there, and – ha – take their shit anymore. I'd rather d-die right now, than see Mother's or Father's f-fucking f-faces. Please, please, please don't take me back there, I c-can't –"
Haru strides over, and although the both of you are freezing, it's comforting and almost warm to feel him wrap his arms tightly around you. As you struggle to breathe, gasping over and over and over again, he doesn't move, gripping onto you tighter and tighter.
Your throat feels like it's burning, as your broken sobs grow louder and more hoarse with every forced shout. You're still going on, and even you don't understand what you're trying to say. But the sentiment is more than enough – you're just throwing up all your feelings, spilling your insides out in hopes that someone else will clean up your mess on your behalf. This whole time you've been suffering alone, and you can no longer handle this pain by yourself.
"One year," Haru suddenly states. His voice is softer, but there's an evident edge to it, almost frightening in how resilient he sounds. "In exactly a year from today, I'll create an opening. That's your time to leave. Run away from this shithole, and don't look back. I promise."
Arms flying up, you shove him away, and gape at him in disbelief. "What – are you –," you sputter.
"I'm not fucking joking. I swear."
You desperately stare into his eyes, searching for signs, trying so hard to peer into his thoughts. But there's nothing to decode or decipher because, also for the first time in your life, Haru's being completely honest with you. He's laying out his true thoughts right in front you, and he's demanding that you take a good look.
You gulp, tears coming to a sudden shock.
One more year, I don't know if I can do that. But I've already survived fourteen.
"You, you promise?" you beg, hope leaking out of your tone.
He nods, and pulls you back into his embrace.
"One more year, and then you'll be free. Just focus on staying sane. Hana and I will handle everything else."
There's a flash of light, but it's not from the moon. Another flash comes, followed by approaching footsteps.
Haru curses under his breath. "We need to go," he hisses, "or else security will find us."
He tugs on your arm, but you don't budge, staying fixed to where you stand. You cast another longing glance toward the pool, the stars in the water rocking gently, enticingly, before they all smooth out into the murky indigo below.
You had chosen to die here of all places because your death would've been a cause for celebration. You're feared by your classmates, teachers, the entire town for fuck's sake, and there's no better way to spit in your family's face than to make a spectacle out of your own death.
Haru jerks your wrist one more time. His palm is beginning to sweat against your skin, as if his body's manifesting his urgent pleading.
"Do we have to go?" you mutter, regret and panic climbing up the stretch of your dry, scratchy throat. I could still do it, you think, I can just shove Haru aside and make a break for it.
He glares at you, chastising you for your cowardice. The look is stone cold, so intimidating that it quiets down the chaotic voices in your head.
"Just one more year, kid." With that, you finally relent, and Haru sprints to the chain link fence with you in tow.
Indeed, you'll wake up staring up at the same starless ceiling in the morning. But at least you'll have something to look forward to, counting down the days until you won't have to wake up in that damned room again.
–
Jing Yuan visits in the late morning. It's evident because all of the guards behave the same way they did when you first came to the estate. You figure he'd have other matters to attend to first, but it seems he's come straight to your room, knocking twice on the wooden frame of your door.
You respond flatly, "Sir, this is your home. There's no need to knock."
He chuckles lightly as he says, "That would be no way to treat a guest of mine. May I enter?"
With a mumbled affirmation on your end, he walks in with his signature slight smile, and you watch as his eyes give you and your belongings a brief once-over. Everything should be in place, you think. Waking up Yanqing at five took more effort than normal, no thanks to his injuries and overt exhaustion, but you managed to help him out of the window with an hour to spare to straighten out your room.
You also briefly scan the oyabun from the corner of your eye. He's wearing a suit this time, a crisp, white three-piece paired with a vermillion tie and black leather shoes. He also has on a pair of black gloves that fit his hands to a tee, accentuating the broad expanse of his palms and the length of his fingers. For a second, your mind wanders, entertaining the delusional fantasy of fitting your hand in his. Almost immediately, you recoil in disgust, veiled by an irritated twitch in your eye.
"Is everything alright?" Jing Yuan asks, head tilting to the side.
Your expression phases back to normal, as if your facade hadn't just slipped. "Sorry, I think an eyelash got into my eye. I'm fi –"
"Oh? Let me see."
Before you can even attempt at sidestepping his reach, Jing Yuan's already grabbed ahold of your chin, and he leans in close, closer than the last time he held you like so. Breath stolen, blood cold, heart palpitating, your body freezes, a prey stuck in a trap, waiting with palpable fear and uncertainty as he stares into the depths of your irises.
He's looking at you, yet not quite. The two of you are obviously making eye contact, but it's as if he's searching for something – the nonexistent eyelash? a moment of weakness? an opening to scrape your eyes out of their sockets?
And his touch. There's a dense warmth to it that rubs and permeates into your skin, a stinging balm that'll stick to the surface of your skin for several more hours before fading away, an imaginary mark left behind. If you don't think too hard about it, the stinging would give way to a more tolerable sensation, a faint buzzing in the background, but you rarely never have opinions about anything, and your conscience refuses to accept this warmth for what it is.
By the time he pulls away, you're almost out of air, body soon to erupt with asphyxiated tremors, and there's nothing you can do to prevent the slight gasp that escapes when he releases you from his grasp.
Jing Yuan acts like he doesn't notice. With a curious hum, he muses, "Nothing there."
You manage to push out a shaky rasp, "Ah, I… That's good…"
"Very well."
He adjusts his gloves, pulling them down towards his wrists, and you dare yourself to daydream about this murderer once more.
"I take it that your stay has been acceptable? But if my men have done something unpleasant to you, or if there is anything not to your liking, please let me know."
"Everything has been great. Thank you for your hospitality, Sir." You start to bow, but he stops you with a wave of his hand.
"No, I should be thanking you. I read through Kou's reports, and it is because of you that we were able to identify their activities. I did not expect them to invest so heavily in their brothels and clubs."
"I figured the rumors had some truth in them."
"Indeed." He breathes out, breathes in, practically tasting the spring air filtering into your room. "Would you care to join me for a bit?"
It's a request you have no means of turning down, but the specific ask puzzles you. "Yes?" you agree hesitantly.
"Do not worry. I was able to get my hands on some information earlier this morning, and I would like to… hear your thoughts."
You nod, still unsure, but you follow behind him anyway as the two of you navigate the estate to the same watsushi where you had tea with him twice. The two of you take your usual seats at the table, and as you wait for Jing Yuan to restart the conversation, you observe your surroundings.
The large hall is still undecorated and bare, and there are two guards perched at either side. The temperature is the warmest it's been all week, and it's pleasant to have the sunshine and breeze kiss and caress your skin. With the garden in full bloom, you take in the different shades of pastel pinks, yellows, reds, and greens, which you realize are the only vibrant colors in the contrasting monochromatic and bleak estate. Even Yanqing, you note, wears dark or neutral tones when not dressed in his school uniform, and you think it's a shame to grow up in such a luxuriously drab place.
"What do you think of Yanqing?" Jing Yuan asks.
You startle at the question, and tilt your head out of confusion.
He simply huffs a laugh. "Speak freely. I will not be offended if you have nothing good to say."
You chuckle nervously, though it's probably not very convincing. It’s hard not to miss the subtext in his warning.
He’ll punish me if I lie to his face. But I’d be an idiot if I’m completely honest.
You keep up your perplexed act. "I'm not sure? I haven't seen him around. If anything, he is obedient."
"That is true. He listens to me and to Tsurugi, for the most part. But I am curious – why did you go so far for him? He may be a child, but he is a stranger, no?"
Is he referring to the attempted kidnapping? His questions are too vague, and you're starting to worry that his ambiguity is intentional. Your hands are getting clammy from the cold sweat. There's a panicked itch in the back of your throat on the verge of tearing free.
You reply thickly, "It's the responsibility of adults to protect children, stranger or not."
"So how do you plan on protecting him from me?"
You’re trapped in mere moments. One of the two guards appears behind you, and presses the cold metal chamber of his gun firmly to your temple. The other remains at his position, but you can see that his hand's steadied at his holster. And the oyabun looks so nonchalant about the whole ordeal, as if everything that's unfolding before his very eyes has been planned from the beginning.
You shouldn't carelessly speak, but you choke out a horrified gasp anyway. "Y-you knew?!"
"Yes, though I will apologize, as I was not entirely transparent with you from the start. There are hidden cameras planted around the estate for security."
In other words, they’ve been monitoring you since the moment you moved in, possibly since your first visit. Obviously, then, there’s no doubt they saw Yanqing escape from his own room and tracked him as he fled to your side.
Jing Yuan continues to explain. "I do not intend to kill you immediately. I say it is only fair that you are given a bit of leeway for my duplicity."
You gulp in anticipation of his offer. You need to stall for more time, as both your body and mind are paralyzed with fear and hopelessness.
"Let us play a game, shall we? It is simple – two truths and a lie. I will ask you three questions. You may choose to answer any two with the truth and the remaining one with a lie. And vice versa. You may ask me anything, and you will not be punished for the content of your answers, unless they are irrelevant.”
You furrow your eyebrows. It's extremely difficult to focus on his instructions when there's a firearm pointed your way – the guard could shoot you at any time for any reason.
You purse your lips, collecting yourself enough to speak, before asking, slowly, "Will we need to guess which one is the lie?"
He shrugs. "No. It will be obvious."
Just how much does he know?!
"You may need some time to think of questions, so I will start us off." Suddenly, his eyes flicker open, and with a hypnotic air, he stares directly at you. This time, he isn't looking past you; he is properly looking at you, like he wants to understand you, and you regret desiring even the slightest bit of undivided attention from him earlier.
"First," he probes, slowly, "let me repeat myself. How do you plan on protecting Yanqing from me?”
The creases in your forehead deepen. What’s the point of this question? What is he after?
You should answer this one honestly; there’s no point in using up your lie over a question as comparably harmless as this one. It’s not like you have any other choice but to believe that he’ll keep his word and won’t kill you for being so outspoken. If anything, he might order the guard to shoot you for not being thorough enough with your replies.
“I… I’m not sure I can…,” you enunciate. You can feel each syllable roll off your tongue, how you have to force them out despite rising self-doubt and hesitation. But you have to push on.
“I wasn’t trying to protect Yanqing. He came to me first, and I gave into his requests because I pitied him. I have no intention of kidnapping him or turning him against you. I’m not trying to take him away from you.
“But…” You glance at him warily. Jing Yuan’s expression doesn’t falter at all. “But… I am glad that he feels comfortable around me. It’s a little saddening to me that he’s so gracious for the little kindness I’ve shown him.”
Something glows in the oyabun’s eyes. It’s almost like he’s delighted with you. However, you don’t think too deeply about it because you’re more preoccupied with straining your ears for the click of the gun’s safety. You either die now or later.
Nothing comes.
You manage to suck in a half-breath. I’m safe for now, you observe. At least he’s upholding his promise.
“My second question,” Jing Yuan muses, moving the conversation on without respite. “I would like to know what you think of me. As a reminder, please speak without inhibition.”
What do I think of him?
Shouldn’t it be obvious?
You despise him. Yakuza like him kill for a living and for entertainment. They don’t feel the slightest drop of remorse over their actions, and will not lay their brutality to rest until they themselves are slain. They will strip people of their futures, tear apart loving families, crush anyone that opposes them just for the hell of it.
And you can say with confidence that Jing Yuan is the worst of them all. The stories from your childhood already say more than enough: A man who can succeed in a country foreign to him is ruthless and disloyal, unable to tell the difference between friend and foe. Jing Yuan came into power because he had slaughtered the previous oyabun of his gang, along with all of the former boss’ lackeys.
His empire is one that he controls through fear and subjugation. He is selfish, and prideful, and doesn’t even bother to treat his people well. Not even his own heir – this, you are a witness to.
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your teeth easily tear through the flesh.
Gauze and a wet towel aren’t enough to heal the injuries smothering his body, let alone the permanent damage inflicted upon his psyche. Yanqing’s dependence on you says less about you, and all the more about Jing Yuan and his men.
He’s heartless.
You don’t notice it, but you’ve begun to quiver with rage, your body demonstrating your waning tolerance for this cruel, cruel man.
You can’t forgive him for ruining your life, too. You were a good samaritan passing by, someone he could’ve easily overlooked. But no. He decided to involve you in his spontaneous whimsies and disrupted the fractured pieces of normalcy that you had managed to collect in recent years. He had dashed your dreams before they could even realize, and that is unforgivable.
Suddenly – and perhaps this is reckless of you –, the gun to the side of your forehead doesn’t seem so daunting. For some reason, you’re convinced that Jing Yuan will play along with his game; he won’t order the guard to shoot you, as long as your response is in line with his question.
Focus on the next thing, you remind yourself. Once again, this thought seems to be your saving grace.
There’s no rush. You break away from Jing Yuan’s trance by closing your eyes, and suck in a deep breath. You hold it for a few, long seconds, before breathing out, feeling your ribcage and core deflate as the air escapes. You repeat the breathing exercise, until the quivering in your body stops.
You’re not in the clear, far from it still, but your newfound sense of resistance does wonders for your thinking and decision-making.
You make your decision – It might seem like a waste, but I need to lie here. This choice is risky, especially since you’d have to answer the final question (which could be of any nature) truthfully, but based on the questions he’s asked you thus far, they’re meant to uncover and expose and test your nature. Jing Yuan is playing this game out of sheer curiosity; he never needed your help in his plans. You have to remember – you’re prey in his grasp, and he’s simply playing around with his food before he devours it in one, clean gulp.
And you'd rather die than entertain the yakuza and their sick and twisted perversions more than you already have. You’ve made your choice.
You open up your eyes, vision illuminated with soft, spring sunlight. You don’t look back at the oyabun, though, and instead, opt to turn your cheek.
“You’re powerful,” you state tersely.
The gun’s safety clicks, and it digs painfully into your skull.
You tense up immediately, and your muscles lock up by instinct. You couldn’t attempt to flee even if you desperately wanted to.
But, if your assumptions are right, Jing Yuan’s order is merely a ruse.
With a scoff, you snap, “You said I could –”
“Is that really the extent of your feelings towards me?” Any semblance of satisfaction you thought you had seen in Jing Yuan is completely wiped. He looks disappointed, almost irritated, by your more than concise confession.
“Yes.” That’s the lie. “You hold an incredible amount of power, probably more than I could ever imagine.”
“And?” he presses.
Testing the waters, you pull a daring move – you roll your eyes. “Sure. If you care so much about a layperson’s opinion of you, then I’d say you’re meddlesome, too. It’s not wise to involve random people in your line of work.”
The guard pulls away, so that the gun is no longer shoved against your head. The gun’s safety is still off, though. At least your answer seems to assuage Jing Yuan’s annoyance, and the gold in his eyes is no longer that of a crackling, burning fire. It returns to a warm, melted ichor – an inviting color, if not for your present situation.
His contentment is all the more amplified when Jing Yuan purrs, voice dropping an octave. “I see… Very well…”
Then, he lets out a whisper.
At first, you think you misheard him. After all, what he said was nonsensical – there’s no way that could be.
He mumbles his question again, and there’s no mistaking it.
The glint in his eyes tells you you've fucked up, that you've underestimated him severely. He definitely knows more than you think he does, and you've played his game poorly.
A songbird chirps, before bursting out of a nearby maple tree. A blossoming head of white rose collapses onto the ground. Jing Yuan's gaze lowers, allowing you to catch glimpses of intrigue and amusement swirling in his molten gold irises.
With a soft exhale, he asks for the third time.
"What is your relationship with the head of your hometown syndicate, Haru?”
hii, i hope you’re doing good!! i recently got into sakamoto days and read your nagumo drabble, and the way you characterize/write him is so good😭 definitely one of the best i’ve read.
i looked through your request rules and wanted to ask if you could write nsfw or sfw of him and a female reader—your choice! wanted to give you freedom to pick, but kind of keeping that same dynamic. feel free to take your time, no pressure!
hey friend, thanks for the request! i'm very excited to write more for nagumo! i'll think about this, so get back to me if i don't post a drabble in 2 weeks max.
i feel like i'm still pretty rusty when it comes to reading characters like him, so your kind words are very encouraging! anyway, glad to see the fandom growing since i started following sakamoto days when it was like on ch 5 LOL
You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.
yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+
word count: ~13,900
cw: explicit language, explicit descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/bodily injury/etc., graphic descriptions of mental disorders (ptsd, anxiety, depression, dermatillomania), attempted suicide/suicidal ideation, domestic violence, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, implied age gap, mentions of drugs
notes: please heed the warnings!!! i know there are a lot of them, but please!!! also note that this is chapter 2! otherwise, i will say, this plot is largely for plot development oops. as always, big thanks to @staraxiaa and @pranabefall for being my permanent beta readers (i really should start paying y'all i'M SORRY I'M BROKE) and for offering top-tier insight and advice. lena grilled me on the ending, so it's perfect now. aine gave great inspo for the direction in which this story's heading. it's a long ride, so thanks for hanging on! we're halfway through now!
part i - part ii - part iii
A THUNDERSTORM reaches electrification, or its maturing stage, once the thunder cloud grows dark and grey in color. This transition is the result of increasing humidity and moisture, as air continues to rise up the cumulus cloud and brings additional water along with it. Eventually, once the raindrops have breached a certain size, the rising air will no longer be able to support the droplets’ weight, and rain will fall within the cloud.
In both nature and humankind, it seems storms start from the inside, before they're forced to pour out into the world when the turmoil can no longer be contained.
(You may not notice it anymore – the weeping of your soul second nature, your world a perpetual rainstorm.)
–
Jing Yuan is gone by the time you move in. It seems this estate's sole purpose is to house Yanqing until he graduates from elementary school, which won't be for another few years, and with most of the men gone as well, it's become vacant and spacious.
You don't do well with large, open spaces. There's too much uncertainty, too many openings for you to be wary of. Not that anyone would be after you – and you're sure that Jing Yuan has your safety (from external forces, that is) guaranteed –, but some instincts are never meant to die. Thankfully, you've been given a room of similar size to your studio, so the uneasiness doesn't bother you as much when you're on your own.
A lieutenant by the name of Kou and two of his associates assist in hauling in your singular suitcase and backpack, and in general, they seem to be your main points of contact. Judging by the permanent creases in between his brows, Kou seems to be a stern person, overly serious at all times, determined to fulfill his responsibility to squeeze every possible bit of information out of you. You make a mental note to think before you speak when he's around.
Presently, you have some downtime, about half an hour before dinner's ready. Aside from the two associates guarding your room, you're by yourself, and you take this opportunity to prepare for your first meeting with Kou later that night.
As you were packing this morning, you had time to reach a few conclusions. First, you clearly panicked too much during your meeting with Jing Yuan yesterday. Not that you would ever truly believe the words that come out of his mouth, but he personally admitted that your encounter was by coincidence. In other words, there's a possibility that he doesn't know everything there is to you.
And logically, that makes more sense. After all, Hana had told you that your parents went hysterical after your disappearance, and burned everything that reminded them of you – your photos, school uniform, and the shiromuku you were supposed to wear that following autumn. If there was anything of yours that could remain, it would be your severed left pinky, a vow you made of your own volition, a damning ultimatum to them and the shit household they raised you in, that you'd never come back. But, at this point, even your pinky would only be there in spirit, at this point having already rotted and eroded in the damp soil it rests within. You also found out you had been removed from the family register when you went to change your legal name to your current one, so there's nothing that could indicate your prior existence.
So while you did mess up, you might still have some remaining leverage (though you shouldn’t get too ahead of yourself).
As for Hana…
You can't help but bite your thumbnail, worry shading every one of your actions. You better be safe.
The two of you have a set schedule of monthly calls, so if either one of you were to break that routine, that'd be an immediate indication that something's gone wrong. Since the two of you had called barely a week ago, you were expecting her to pick up on the urgency behind the two panicked calls you left her last night. You even sent her voicemails hissing at her to give you a sign of life. She did reply a few hours later via text, but she said she couldn't call back, no thanks to a violent client that left her with high blood pressure and a chafed asshole, as well as a general lack of an empty bathroom for her to hide in.
There's no reason to assume the worst, you mentally chide. But your sense of urgency shouldn't be discarded because, while she may be fine now, she may not be in the near future, so you should move faster when you still have the chance.
And that leads to the most important question: What should you do next? Since you can't back out of helping Jing Yuan, you should use this opportunity to ensure your childhood friend's safety.
Based on the photographs the oyabun showed you, it's obvious they're snapshots of a violent takeover occurring in your hometown. You should figure out whether it's Jing Yuan's or another gang that is responsible for the conflict. Though, in the worst case, who the perpetrator is won't matter – you'll have to negotiate with Jing Yuan anyway to spare or save Hana's life. But being informed of the specifics will help you position yourself in said negotiations.
But then you reach a complicated dilemma. You have no idea how much influence you have, and there's no reason for the oyabun to actually trust you or the information you'll provide. If you're utterly useless, you have no doubt Jing Yuan's men will off you first before you can even discuss with their boss.
That means you need to get him to believe in you enough so that you'll have the ability to persuade him. However, earning his faith would require you to be honest to him to a certain degree (because the best lies are half-truths), and that's… a deeply unsettling notion.
No matter how much Jing Yuan knows about your history, you abhor the idea of having to be vulnerable about it in front of a man like him. You'd rather commit seppuku and show him your literal insides, than scoop out your inner thoughts and lay them out for his entertainment and pleasure. Sometimes, you just have to compromise, you think, with a dismal shake of your head.
You shelf this thought for now. Your first priority should be ascertaining their intentions with you, as well as determining the current state of the takeover.
You eat dinner alone before you're led to an office. Kou's already sitting at the desk, placed center and towards the back, and you assume that you're to sit in the singular chair opposite to him. Of course, you don't, not until you're directed to with a nod from his associate, and even then, you sit on the very edge of the seat. You don't feel so unnerved by Kou, but more so your impending conversation with him. It's not that you're intentionally underestimating him, but after your confrontations with Jing Yuan, everything else has paled in comparison.
Kou clears his throat, clasping his hands together on top of the desk. "This won't take long. I'm sure you're tired from all that has transpired."
The lieutenant goes through basic procedures and expectations, like he's onboarding a new employee. You're not allowed to communicate with anyone outside of the estate, and if you want to use your phone or laptop, you'll be monitored. All of the information you'll be exposed to is confidential, and you can't even talk about it with other members of the gang, as most of them are uninformed. Your job is to answer any questions asked of you truthfully, without bias or ulterior motive. And finally, following the end of your stay, you'll continue to be monitored in a non-disruptive manner for an indefinite period of time to ensure that you're not breaking non-disclosure. The terms are shoddy at best, impossible to enforce, but you agree to them anyway.
But why can't they just ask folks back home directly?
Then, you're given your first task, which is to go through several missing persons reports and see if you can recognize any of the listed individuals.
There's no need to lie about this – you recognize every single one of them. Most of them are girls, with the occasional boy with stereotypically feminine features, and the age range is between 14 and 22. You don't know any of them personally, their relations with you limited to being a former classmate or the local laundromat owner's daughter. But it doesn't matter how distant they were to you because these were faces you used to see everyday, people who used to coexist and occupy the same spaces as you. A bitterness overcomes you, a sheen of oil that coats and clings to your tongue, a taste that should be disgusting but elicits nothing more than a disapproving grimace.
You tell Kou exactly this, and in response, he probes a little deeper, asking you if you have any ideas as to where they may be. It's true that you aren't sure where they exactly are, as in you don't know which underground brothel they're a part of or the specific landfill their hollowed body parts are buried in, but approximately, all of the missing folks should remain within the larger Tokyo Metropolis prefecture. You don't inform him of the latter, though, because that's a detail only certain folks are privy to, but you inform them of the sex and human trafficking, which you frame as rumors you heard through the grapevine back when you were in school. Kou seems to find this bit helpful, as a low grumble of his, more mellow and pensive, echoes through the room.
It seems Jing Yuan and his men have yet to discover the exact nature of your hometown. Not that it's rare for a gang to participate in sex or human trafficking, but you suppose they were temporarily led astray by the also very busy arms trading that occurs in the area. After all, your hometown is a prime location for smuggling goods in and out of the affluent Roppongi neighborhood, and well, those goods could be anything.
Just as he's about to ask you another question, a series of thuds and lighter patters of feet begin to shake the floor. Kou simply sighs and dismisses you, asking for one of his men to take you back to your room. At least you were useful enough tonight, you think, relieved that you get to live to see another day.
As you leave the office, a high-pitched shriek pierces through the air. The voice can't come from anyone but a young child, so you figure Yanqing's back home.
Now that you think about it, you haven't run into the kid at all. He must've been out all day, attending school and doing whatever other things that the heir to a yakuza syndicate would do, but they wouldn't be anything like the flower arrangement and shamisen classes you had to take when you were young since he's a boy.
"Let me go!"
You wince at how shrill his voice is, and it gets more and more unbearable as the way back leads you closer to the noise.
Except you didn't expect the commotion to take place right in front of your room.
Yanqing's bolting around the rock garden, feet kicking up dust and sand, destroyed the pattern of ripples, as he zig-zags between and jumps over shrubs, wide, flat stones, and domineering men who lack in the agility department. He seems to be acting out, you observe, and you watch as five yakuza men fail over and over to capture the young heir, their arms flailing and mouths helplessly agape, spilling out gentle pleas that barely conceal their underlying curses.
It doesn't surprise you that Jing Yuan's kid is outmaneuvering men who are five times older and bigger than him. You can't imagine how dangerous Yanqing will turn out when he grows up. The distorted image bothers you – that this child with grubby hands and chubby cheeks will one day be drenched in the color and stench of crimson.
Suddenly, your eyes lock with Yanqing, and you startle a little, having not realized that you were staring at him while pondering his prescripted future. The kid, too, is caught off-guard by your onlooking gaze, and one of his bodyguards seems to notice his pause and lunges at him, hugging his frame tightly to prevent him from escaping again.
You tear your eyes away from the little boy. The bodyguards, a powerless child, the lack of freedom – the entire scene fills you with dread. You excuse yourself, bow to the associate, and slip into your room.
Immediately, you collapse onto your knees and bury your hands into your face. You thought you could fend off the reminders for much longer. It shouldn't be that hard – all you have to do is turn your cheek and pretend everything here doesn't poke and prod at the parts of you that remain raw and exposed. It should've been easy, really. But you had underestimated – ignored – how deeply everything inside still hurts and how poor your pain tolerance is, even after years of attempted "training" and grueling punishment.
Outside, the commotion continues – Yanqing's pitched yelps and his bodyguards' calls of "Young Master" farther away, no longer right outside your room, but loud enough to prick at your eardrums.
With a ragged breath, you cover your ears with the hot, sweaty planes of your palms and, for extra measure, you hunch over your tucked knees and bury your head underneath the futon covers. The fetal position makes you feel small, and your behavior, like a child, only serves to dampen your mood.
A voice among your mind's chorus sniggers – Is that all you've got?
You can't muster the energy to retort. It's not like you've ever considered yourself extraordinary or even marginally above mediocre, but the disappointment and helplessness sting like a fresh wound, as if you haven't been troubled by these feelings countless times before.
Part of you is even surprised that you've lasted up to this point. The estate and the people in it are all too familiar, in that their sheer existences are reprimanding reminders of past mistakes, taunting allusions to prior experiences that never fail to overwhelm you with dread and humiliation. Everything has been bothering you since the beginning, and seeing Yanqing in that state is what has finally set you off, triggering alarms and old, destructive habits.
Your internal monologue of nonstop deprecation and criticism drowns out everything else, and your hands fall away from the sides of your head to rejoin together, nail to dry cuticle to nail. You pull, scratch, pull until thinning skin finally gives way, and then you rip it off, finding a confusing, guilty pleasure in the act of tearing yourself apart, tiny strip by tiny strip.
And through it all – your bleeding fingers, the dead skin and crimson dots that litter the comforter, the satisfaction of killing off parts of yourself –, that dominating voice inside your head crescendos and rapidly assumes control of your brain. It coaxes and calls forth others to join it, and whispers from the past, from what you remember of your parents, join in to howl a depressing, ominous harmony – You're a failure, you'll never amount to anything, all your effort will be in vain.
Like a chant, a spell, a curse, they repeat themselves over and over, and it feels like they won't ever stop until they finally manifest the bleakest, most appalling future for you. And you're completely trapped in this hateful whirlpool, with your head permanently submerged in its dark, murky waters. Worst of all, even when common sense is saying that you shouldn’t give in, your parched throat drinks it all up, indulging in the acidic, bittersweet taste.
Eventually, unbeknownst to you, you fall asleep, and only then does your self-hatred cease.
–
You're woken up by fleeting, curious touches to the bottoms of your feet.
You don't wake immediately. It starts off as a slight discomfort, and your subconscious urges your body to move by the barest amount, enough to wiggle your feet and toes around until the itchy sensation fades away. But after a few seconds, it returns, and the cycle repeats, until eventually you're roused, eyes blinking open to see the same blackness that you saw when they were closed.
Fuck, did I black out?
Crazed and frustrated, you flail your arms around, struggling in the most inefficient manner possible to tug the futon cover off of you. You don't know how long you've been out, but you feel somewhat rested, so it's probably way past dinnertime. It didn't seem like Kou wanted to meet with you again today, but in the slimmest chance that he did, you're screwed.
However, despite several pushes and kicks, nothing works, and you let out a displeased groan as the blanket remains tightly wrapped around everything above your shoulders. I'll just have to use more force, you think, and you thrust an elbow back to free up more movement for your arm.
But then your elbow hits something, and someone yelps out in pain. You jump in surprise, and as if on cue, with a swivel of your head to look in the direction of the sound, the cover slides off of your head, as if making a grand reveal.
Because right behind you is a child, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow of the moonlight through the shoji screens, and there's only one kid that you know of that lives here.
In the fleeting moment that you have to take him in, all you can register is that he's small. Not frail, or weak, just small. You're much larger than him – you could probably curl your body around him, once, twice, with some length of limb to spare. (You're taken aback by the tenderness in your observation. It lifts your spirit, then pulls the latter crashing back down.)
"What are you doing here!" you hiss as you reach out by instinct to touch his cheek, which he's nursing with a hand, something akin to a stunned expression seizing his cherubic features. His other is clamped over his mouth, and his wide eyes beg you to stay silent, too.
There's shuffling coming down the hallway that stops outside your door.
"Is everything alright in there?" It's one of your guards, but you find it odd that he wasn't standing right outside your room like he usually is. His partner doesn't seem to be there either.
"Sorry," you call out from where you sit, "I just knocked my hand against something."
"May I come in to check?"
Yanqing's eyes widen impossibly more, and his panic causes you to stumble over your words.
"I - uh - I-I'm changing at the moment! Can you give me a minute?"
"Oh." It's a surprisingly flat sound. "Never mind then."
You breathe a sigh of relief at his quick acquiescence. Then, you shoot a glare at the kid, who's still as a rock, and the two of you have a staring-with-blinking contest that seems to last forever.
With your eyes having adjusted to the faint moonlight, you have no choice but to take a proper look at the boy as you both wait. And with one glance, there's no doubt about it – he's no biological son of Jing Yuan. His hair is thin and neat in his ponytail, unlike Jing Yuan's mess of a mane, and while it could be that he's still far too young, you don't see any traces of Jing Yuan's facial or physical traits.
Yanqing definitely lacks the oyabun's eyes. The kid's are large and round, dewy and clear, too busy taking in his surroundings to comprehend and be tainted by them. They're a bit darker in shade – probably more bronze or orange, though you can't tell for sure – compared to his foster father's gold, and it eases you a bit to see that this child looks more humane.
However, if the saying is true – that a person's eyes are honest reflections of their minds –, then you can tell that the light in Yanqing's eyes is not unperturbed. He's not foolish enough to come here without a reason, and you're not sure whether you should be thankful or not, that this eight-year-old is too mature for his nascent existence on this planet.
At the same time – and perhaps you're looking too deeply into it –, in the midst of his troubles, there's a hopeful glint in the kid's eyes, as if he's eagerly awaiting you to do something. Unlike Hana and Jing Yuan, though, you can't read Yanqing's mind, so you have no clue as to what he's expecting from you.
You feel an uptick in your pulse at your temple. It's irritating, really. It's additional pressure you didn't anticipate having to deal with, and you loathe the dreadful melancholy that returns whenever you think deeply about Yanqing's circumstances. Even though he's nothing like you, in the same way he's nothing like Jing Yuan, the two of you are similar in ways that only you can tell.
You wonder, then, in what ways he's like Jing Yuan.
You wonder if one day, those honeyed pools will harden into amber chunks. If those chunks will build static as he continues to be exposed to his foster father's ruthlessness and electric current. If those chunks will ensnare people, cities, nations for decades and decades to come, taking innocent lives as part of the gang's nefarious plans – a gang that'll continue to be at his beck and call, plans that, one day, he'll organize and execute, from start to very bloody finish.
Neither of you break away until there's another shuffle outside of your door, and the guard's paces take him back to where he came from.
Finally, you and Yanqing tear your gazes away from each other.
Cognizant that the men are never a safe distance away, you maintain a steady, low voice as you speak. "Why are you in my room?"
Yanqing clearly understands the dangers of your current situation, so he, too, in spite of his young age and lack of experience, mirrors your quiet whisper. "I brought you some snacks. You must be tired."
He turns to his left and slowly pushes a black tray carrying full bowls, plates, and utensils your way. Everything is packed to the brim, with traces of soup and shreds of vegetables spilling out, and you're sure he's overcompensating for his disturbance, having already predicted that his visit – his presence – is unwanted. (Does he feel that way at the moment, or is it a learned notion?)
You scoff. "Thank you, but you didn't have to do that at the risk of my life. Sneak back off to your room before I'm slaughtered for kidnapping you."
Speaking of which, you can't help but think – Wouldn't it be funny if I actually died for kidnapping the same brat I saved – from an attempted kidnapping? Kinda a full circle moment there, huh.
Unfortunately, the kid doesn't budge. He's shifted positions so that he's now sitting on his calves, and his hands have balled into tiny, trembling fists that rest on the tops of his thighs. Clearly, then, he's not here to deliver some goodies and throw a slumber party with you, not that it would take a genius to have figured that out.
You can't afford to be merciful. You scoff again and cross your arms over your chest, hoping to exude enough of a contemptuous and unreasonable air so that he'll give in and run off.
At first, your act did affect Yanqing. His head droops a little, and his gaze falls as well. He also shifts in his seat, rocking side to side, and you can almost feel his indecision as he struggles to choose between leaving you alone and staying rooted to his spot. In the end, though, he settles with the latter, a semblance of a dissatisfied pout ghosting his pursed lips, which leaves you with no other choice but to, at the very least, hear him out. After all, you have no intention of wrestling a kid into submission (although you're not very confident that you could beat him in a fight in the first place), nor would it be smart to kick him out lest a guard sees him.
You sigh in surrender.
"Fine," you mutter, "what do you need from me?"
Yanqing immediately perks up, and you can't help but cringe at the way he practically shines, the stars in his eyes and their metaphorical glow too bright in the presence of your comfortable dark.
"May I sleep here tonight?" He asks with such politeness and reverence that, had you been any less jaded, you would've given in.
"Absolutely not," you deadpan.
"Why not?" He huffs, and for once, he's acting like a brat.
With a blank face, you explain, "Your guards don't know that you're here, yes? So if they find you in my room, I will die."
"No, you wouldn't! They wouldn't hurt you as long as I tell them not to."
"Child, do you remember how we met?" Yanqing slips into a restless silence, so you don't press him to respond. But you do conclude by saying, "They care about your safety, so don't get yourself into too much trouble."
You're sure he has his reasons. Children don't act out unless their needs, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional, aren't being met, and you're sure he's being neglected in several ways, by nature of his environment. Especially for someone as docile as Yanqing, there's no doubt that something's bothering him, or else he wouldn't be seeking help from a stranger like you.
However, it's precisely because you're a stranger that you cannot –
That's a fucking lie, and you know it.
You press your knuckles into your eyes and rub vigorously, as a means to prevent your expression from falling. It seems you're still soft, even after all these years and the terrible experiences that have come along with them.
You shouldn't concede. You shouldn't allow him to stay. He could promise to wake up early, escape silently, whatever – but there would never be a guarantee, and it's entirely foolish to rely on a child to follow through with their word. At the same time, though, deep down in your heart, you don't want to turn him away. You want to give him an opportunity to prove himself, especially since no one gave you one. And if anything, on the very hour that you resolved you'd leave that cheap illusion of a home, you promised yourself you'd never act like them, and turning away a lonely child would be exactly something they would do.
You let your hands fall into your lap, in total defeat. If you kick the kid out, you'd never be able to face him, and more likely than not, you wouldn't be able to even think straight for the next few days, no thanks to the guilt that'd be eating you from the inside out.
"Fine."
As expected, Yanqing's face somehow lights up even brighter, and this time, you have to completely avert your gaze. There's no going back, no backpedaling on your words, no room for regret. It's obvious you're biting off more than you can chew, but you'll think about your future later. Right now, you need to tackle what comes next, and that's surviving tonight.
"I have questions," you continue. "First, do you know your way back?"
The kid nods swiftly, body angled and sharp, oozing utmost respect for you now that you're saving his ass.
"How do you plan on returning without getting caught?"
"The guards switch every three hours. They take 15 minutes to break and chat, which they really shouldn't be doing, but… that just means I can slip back in then."
"When is the next rotation?"
"Uh, Tsurugi wakes me up at 6…?"
You note Yanqing's confusion and his irrelevant response, due to your choice in vocabulary, so you urge yourself to speak more simply and softly. (Tsurugi must be the name of his primary bodyguard, who you vaguely recall.)
With a deep breath, you say, "Great. Then, just for tonight, I'll let you stay. But you have to leave by five, and if Tsurugi catches you, you're coming up with a lie. I will act like I have nothing to do with you. Am I clear?"
As if the two of you are roleplaying a children's game, he salutes you, little chest puffed out, back arched forward, cheeks round and red with excitement. You ignore it, and scooch over to make space for Yanqing to join you on your futon. He crawls over, the fabric of his pajama pants which are shy of his ankles wrinkling under the twists and turns of his knees, and plops right down, head taking up the entirety of your pillow. For a second, you part your mouth to point out that your graciousness doesn't extend to the sacrifice of your quality of sleep, but as Yanqing's eyes close, drowsiness evidently shrouding his mind, you think better than to berate the little one.
It’s not like you’re going to sleep anytime soon, anyway. You'll stay up till five, so that you can wake him on time, and then slip a few hours of rest in before breakfast.
You peek up at the doors to your room and see the faint outline of guards standing outside. Since it seemed like a shift change had just occurred, you assume that it's currently barely half past midnight, and the analog clock hanging on the wall behind you confirms it as such. If you had your phone on you, you would take this chance to attempt contacting Hana once more, but Kou had taken your device away during your meeting and locked it in a safe sitting on one of the shelves in his office.
That reminds you – they could be looking through your phone. The only thing of use they'll find in there is Hana's phone number, but even then, they likely wouldn't take the risk of potentially calling a civilian, or at least not without you. Perhaps that'll be something they'll expect you to do eventually. Anyway, for tonight, you'll have to make do with passing the hours by idly.
Yanqing has fallen into a deep sleep. Tucking the blanket underneath his chin, you dote on him a little, a small apology for your rudeness from before. Then, you straighten out his ponytail from where it curves in an unruly manner around his neck, before lying back down yourself, face tilted upward towards the ceiling.
–
There's the crack of a gunshot. A heavy thump on the dirt ground. Then, there's a few sniggers, some side comments you can't make out, all of which cease when someone barks out orders to bag the body and dispose of it immediately. Finally, silence.
Well, not total silence. If you strained your ears further, you'd hear the choked sobs of another victim or two, their animalistic and desperate pleas muffled by the black duct tape slapped across their sealed lips, along with the rustling of the men placing the corpse into a body bag that will later be burned in a large furnace in some far-off trash site.
(Not that anyone knows you know, and you're simply parroting Haru's words, so you're not entirely sure what he means. But, even without understanding the full extent of his words, you're aware that your family is in dangerous, brutal business, so you don't force yourself to listen for more.)
Even though you're only in elementary school, you've learned when you should and shouldn't wish to learn more, and more often than not, in the world that you live in, curiosity does kill the cat and will fail to bring it back.
After all, that's why all of these people are dying, no?
You roll your eyes, because you know that's not true. An explanation that simple and cold doesn't sit right even with your developing moral compass.
This discomfort that you're feeling at the moment... that's frustration directed at yourself. Because you're no different in your desperation or intrigue, except you have no excuse for behaving so recklessly, aside from your youth.
And Haru has taken extra measures to drill that into your head. He constantly reminds you that there's no need for you to worry about "adult matters," that you should immediately find him if you run into a problem, that you should be enjoying the barest bits and pieces of your childhood because "you'll never experience it again."
However, no matter how much wisdom or power he has, Haru can't solve the current issue at hand.
At that thought, your hands throb, which draws your attention away from the murders taking place outside of your room. You're grateful that no bones were broken this time, thanks to Haru and his insistence that you let the matter go once and for all. As you wiggle your fingers and ball them into fists, there's that familiar soreness and ache of bruised skin webbed with bloody cracks, muscles weathered from overuse and strain, and dulled knuckles with little strength remaining in them. The pain is beginning to spread up your wrists, the fatigue starting to weigh down the flesh and blood in your forearms, and you ponder how exactly you're going to be able to pick up a pencil at school in the morning.
You've been beaten over this issue for the past two months, ever since you started hounding your parents over it. No matter how many times you've asked your parents for permission to attend your school's annual overnight trip, they won't allow you, and this year is no different. At this rate, you'll graduate elementary school, having made zero memories with the few friends you have, and there's apparently talk of you transferring to another middle school where you won't recognize anyone.
Grumbling a little, you bore your eyes even deeper into the textured plaster of your bedroom ceiling, so that you can attribute the tears gathering at your waterline to your makeshift staring game and not the overwhelming disappointment suffocating you at the nose and throat.
That's another problem Haru can't solve for you.
I mean, he could, but I don't want to wake him up.
Haru's bedroom is right next to yours, and his breaks are limited to whenever you're (supposed to be) asleep. You know he wouldn't complain if you were to find him at this hour, but you'd feel horrible for doing so, and you definitely wouldn't be able to hold your tears back then. You'd rather not be more of a burden to Haru or Hana than you already are.
So you revert to your typical coping strategy: bite your lower lip firmly – not enough to draw blood, or else Mother will rage –, grip your hands onto the top edge of your blanket, and go over the English vocabulary you were introduced to in class earlier in the afternoon.
Because, one day, you'll leave this place far, far away. So far, where no one will quiver at the briefest mention of your last name, where parents won't scowl at you for befriending their children, where you won't have to bandage your bleeding, splitting hands every morning in fear that they'll fall apart and crumble at your feet.
And Haru and Hana will definitely come with me! Haru's fluent in English anyway, and we can just teach Hana the basics. The three of us will run away, and no one will find us.
–
You take a few deep breaths, urging the infuriated tension in your body to dissipate and your disturbed mind to stop conflating the past with the present.
I can't believe I still remember so much, you think, in equal parts disappointment and… yearning. It's not a longing for the place that you grew up in, but rather, for what the place could've been. A normal family and life was all that you wished for when you were growing up, even though you didn't have the slightest clue as to what normalcy was like. In the end, you concluded that, as long as there was Haru, Hana, and an absence of pain and blood, that would be normal enough. Of course, now that you've personally experienced somewhat of a mundane life, you roll your eyes and wish your past self was a bit more ambitious.
You typically don't allow yourself to reminisce, but since your past and present are colliding, it's impossible to recognize the parallels.
And just like that, both so slowly and so rapidly, you must wake up Yanqing.
You're grateful that the kid's so obedient, as he doesn't utter a single groan or whine when you tap on his shoulder. He simply sits up while rubbing the heels of his hand into his eyes in gentle back-and-forth motions. And even through his grogginess, he climbs out of the covers noiselessly and walks towards the attached bathroom.
Seated, you watch as he climbs onto the toilet seat and reaches up to unlock the window pane, from which he squeezes through. He then jumps down, followed by a gentle thump, then silence. Through it all, you're incredibly impressed and terrified by the amount of tenuous training this elementary schooler has already mastered. Anyway, there's no one outside your room at the moment, so you figure there's very few guards on patrol in general, so you trust that he'll sneak back into his room with no problem. Regardless, from this point onwards, it's none of your business what Yanqing does or what happens to him.
Relief washes over you, and you catch your breath for what seems like the first time since you blacked out last night. The air is still chill, as it always is in the spring, but there's a touch of slight, summer humidity that sticks pleasantly against your skin. Whether or not you're prepared, it will be that time of the year again.
–
It seems Jing Yuan's goal is to take over both gangs at once, as soon as the two merge together when they settle their contract. That way, he wouldn't just have control over your hometown, but also whatever territory the acquiring gang has. For any other syndicate, an objective like this one would be infeasible, but this is no more than a small matter for him and his men.
Swaying side to side, you stare down into the center of the marble sink, one hand placed flat on the counter and the other gripping your toothbrush, elbow hanging in the air. The tangy and minty taste of fluoride bubbles against your tongue and drools from the corners of your lips. You should spit it all out – you've been brushing for five minutes –, but you're too deep in thought.
That explains why I only have a week.
The gangs in your hometown are going to finalize the acquisition by the weekend, and he needs enough intel to ensure that the ambush is truly worth it and that he's attacking where they're most vulnerable.
With regards to the acquiring gang, you have very little idea as to who it could be. Usually, mergers and acquisitions take place between neighboring organizations. You’re aware of two candidates, but one out of the two is too conservative, disinterested in artificial growth and more fearful of internal strife than anything else, and the other one… well, you're not sure they would continue to pursue a partnership after the shitshow that went down when you left. Of course, you can't rule the latter out entirely based on conjecture, and they're the sole lead you have.
You set down your toothbrush and turn on the faucet, using the lukewarm water to wash away the toothpaste foam and gunk. You also fill up a glass cup halfway up with water and drink from it, throwing your head back so you can gurgle. You squint as you stare up at the shining LED lights lining the top of the sink mirror.
Anyway, back to Jing Yuan.
There's no doubt that he's aiming to monopolize your hometown's trade channels and connections, as that's the singular redeeming aspect of that place. The acquiring syndicate would also be involved – either as a large supplier themself or as an operations provider –, so it would also be advantageous to seize their services.
So far, you've mainly been helping Kou and his men with names and locations. You also threw in some leads, disguised as idle gossip and tales, to make yourself seem useful, even if by coincidence. For instance, you mentioned seeing groups of college boys hanging out in the alleyways between a popular cigar shop and a thrift store nobody frequents. The thrift store is useless, but if they were to look into the cigar shop, they'd easily find that it's not just a small warehouse for foreign drug imports, but there's also a tunnel in the manager's break room that connects to an underground sex shop a few blocks away. That sex shop is considered one of the larger establishments in the area, and deals frequently take place in their midst of stale cologne, spilt alcohol, and smoking gunpowder. Surely Jing Yuan would find some of those conversations valuable.
Since Kou has already been informed of the underground sex and human trafficking, if his men were to follow your trail exactly as you intended, then they should be able to deduce that your hometown gang is more than interested in becoming a major supplier themself. Given that they control the entire flow of goods in the neighborhood, if they were to succeed and begin expanding nationwide, then they might actually have a shot at amassing considerable fortune and power.
You inhale, then exhale, through your nose.
You briefly entertain the thought of what comes next. Jing Yuan's sure to execute his hostile takeover perfectly, and naturally, he'll reorganize the gangs' internal management when he seizes them. If his primary interest is the supply chain, he'll likely shut down any and all unrelated activities. That means staff will be let go. Prostitutes, independent hitmen, the occasional clueless bar owner – only those that are not directly affiliated with the gang. While the others…
Your back and shoulders stiffen at the thought. Hana easily falls in the latter group.
Water begins to flood your throat. You gag, a strangled, wobbly noise that's forced out amidst your surprise, and you throw your head back down so that you can spit into the sink. With a ragged breath, you shut your eyes firmly, and wait for the nausea to alleviate.
Suddenly, the bathroom door cracks open, and you jump as the door handle on the inside knocks into your hip. You're about to scream out loud, but when you whip your head around, you're greeted by a concerned Yanqing.
You can't help but growl. "What are you doing here?! I said last night was a one-time thing!"
The child recoils at your animosity. He tucks his chin down into his chest and takes a few steps back, though he doesn't close the bathroom door. And maybe it's just the lights again, but there's something that glitters at the corners of his eyes.
You take another inhale, letting air, still a little warm and humid from your bath earlier, fill up to the ends of your lungs, expanding all the way to the sides of your ribcage and the core of your stomach.
He's just a kid. Calm. Down.
"Sorry, Yanqing," you say, evidently softer and very apologetic. "You just surprised me, is all. But we did agree that you couldn't come over anymore."
He scrunches his nose a few times, before nodding obediently again. However, like the previous night, he anchors himself to his spot, and he probably won't leave until you give in and let him stay.
"Yanqing…," you mumble, crouching down onto the floor so that you're at eye-level with him, "is something wrong?"
It takes him a while to muster an answer. At first, it's the subtlest tremble in his upper lip, like he's deciding whether he should tell you the honest truth or not. Then, he squirms with his shoulders, thin frame shaking and swaying back and forth, and it doesn't take you long to recognize that it's out of embarrassment. However, it's critical that you don't rush him, especially if he's teetering between uncertainty and doubt. Finally, he huffs, pouts, and looks up at you with round, innocent eyes, checking one final time to see if you're the kind of person to judge him harshly.
You're not, and you nod with pursed lips to demonstrate that you'd listen to him intently.
"I don't like sleeping alone," he confesses.
You nod again, out of sympathy. When Yanqing doesn't follow up, you ask, "Is there a reason why?"
Dismayed, he shakes his head. "It's too dark."
We're alike in that respect, you mentally note. The number of similarities between the two of you is growing.
"I get that. Have you tried asking for a nightlight? Those helped me when I was young."
That's a half-lie. You never had a nightlight, per se, but when you couldn't go on your sixth grade overnight camping trip, Haru tried to make up for the loss of the experience with glow-in-the-dark stars that he stuck on the ceiling of your bedroom. Unfortunately, they didn't last for more than a week, due to an impromptu inspection from Mother, and she demanded they all be ripped off and disposed of immediately.
Yet again, Yanqing shakes his head. "I have to get used to it," he states, firmly.
You sigh, hands reaching up to smooth back some of his loose baby hairs. "But you're here."
"I know… but…" He looks up at you with a desperate, pleading look, like he's begging for you to understand him. "There are things out there in the dark. I don't feel safe."
Not just alike – the exact same.
"I see…" You stand back up and lead him to your futon, turning off the bathroom lights and closing the door behind you. You lie down on one side of the comforter, and the child mimics you, settling down across from you, making sure to fold his arms and legs close to his chest.
Words don't need to be exchanged for Yanqing to comprehend that you're giving him permission. And there's also the unspoken agreement on the same conditions you set the first night he came over.
"Relax, I'll wake you when it's time."
At that, the child unfolds himself and wriggles into a comfortable sleeping position, while you lay the blanket over his body so that he doesn't catch a cold.
"By the way," you hum, "how did you get in here this time?"
"I ran around the house and came through the main door."
"I see." You pause for a moment, before finishing, "Try not to do that. You'll get caught easily that way."
"I won't – I promise!"
The look in his eyes is set, determined, somehow ferociously loyal. In spite of his passionate spirit, you don't have the heart to offer him another piece of advice, one that you take quite to heart: Don't make promises so frequently, and unnecessarily.
A flicker of a smile appears on your face, and Yanqing takes it as a sign of affirmation. He grins himself, before turning on his side, getting comfortable for the night.
Suddenly, he jerks up, supporting his upper body with a bent elbow, and looks back over his shoulder at you. He says, "You're really kind, miss! I wish everyone here was as nice as you are!"
Before you can respond, not that it's possible for you to come up with an adequate enough reply, he flops back down.
You could speak up, if you wanted to. But – and maybe this is simply an excuse – his breathing's already transitioning into deeper, longer inhales, and just like yesterday evening, you can't find it in your heart to disturb him. After all, no child talks like that, without reason.
It's not to imply that the men here are abusing Yanqing. From the peeks of skin that you've seen, primarily that around his wrists, ankles, and neck, there aren't visible injuries. The bruises that you did catch a glance of seemed like normal injuries received from a blunt sword, most likely from exchanging blows during kendo practice.
However, that doesn't mean the people here are serving the child fully. Generally, emotional neglect is a common recurrence in East Asian cultures and traditional upbringing, and there's no doubt that it's drastically worse within yakuza households. Jing Yuan must be subjecting Yanqing to a severe and harsh training regime in order to shape the latter into a proper heir, and part of that training would require adopting a strict, apathetic attitude towards everything, including the kid's pain, frustration, and anguish. In other words, there's no other way to teach a child of less than ten years the art of masking and indifference without demonstrating it directly to them.
All told, it's highly possible that you're the only adult that Yanqing has encountered in a long while who is so open with their expressions and thoughts. And you can't help but think – What a pitiful existence.
–
When rainfall occurs, the cumulus cloud becomes a cumulonimbus cloud. As the rain droplets fall, they'll also push air particles downwards, forming a cycle of up and downdrafts within the cloud. As a result, fallen rain will settle on the bottom, while those that remain at the top freeze into ice particles. This cycle is what allows electrification to build up.
What is most notable at this point in the development stage is the widening of the top of the storm cloud, as positively charged ice crystals fan out and form what is termed as the "anvil."
In blacksmithing, anvils are tough by nature, made to withstand the brutal hammering and battering of metal against metal. At the same time, it is also used to cut and shape, flatten and curve – to manipulate. In the context of thunderstorms, the anvil signals the storm's maturity, and the more spread out it is, the more turbulent the weather will be. In that sense, the anvil also manipulates – it draws out a sense of foreboding and gloom from the radius of towns, homes, and people it casts its looming shadow over, victims that will have to bear the storm's incessant rain and lightning.
And while there's no scientific basis for Japanese folklore, it is suggested in countless tales that these lightning strikes are signals from the heavens to the mortals, that punishment for their transgressions is impending.
Imminent.
–
It's your fifth day at the estate, and Yanqing's visits have become habitual. You no longer chastise him for putting you in danger, and he listens to you more often than not. And to make sure he doesn't get caught, the two of you decide on a more refined routine to conceal his presence and your knowing of it.
You wait until a few minutes before or after the guards' shift change to go into your bathroom to begin your nightly routine. That way, you can help Yanqing down as he sneaks through the bathroom window, and the sounds of your bath filling up are more than enough to overpower the slight squeak of the window pane whenever it slides open.
Today, though, Yanqing seems more haggard than usual. The droop in his shoulders, along with the shadows under his eyes, are telltale signs of his exhaustion. He doesn't even bother to greet you with his usual toothy grin, no "Good evening, Miss!" to be heard. You pick at your left thumb’s cuticle, wondering if it's because of his nightly escapades to your room. Yet, he looked more rested than when he was staving off sleepless nights alone, you internally debate.
Suddenly, as Yanqing steps down from the toilet, bending at an angle at the waist, he lets out a timid weep of pain.
Urgently, you reach over to steady him and avoid making contact with his midriff. The pain seems to linger, by the insistent crease between his eyebrows, so whatever injury he's sustained must be quite stubborn.
"Hold on to my shoulders," you instruct. Looping an arm under his knees and placing the other on his back, you heave him up and rush to lay him down on your futon.
"Where does it hurt?" You pat your hands lightly around his ribs, glancing back and forth between his wrinkled nightshirt and his rapidly blinking eyes.
"Right side –," he squirms just as your hand smooths over the spot right between his last rib and the dip in his torso, "– there!"
You lift your arm and hover your palm over the spot. "Can I take a look?" you inquire, and the boy immediately lets out a whimper in confirmation.
You shimmy his shirt up and find bandages wrapped around his stomach. On the right side, as Yanqing directed, there are a few specks of blood, and there's a purplish blob peeking out from the upper border of the gauze. There are probably several more cuts and bruises underneath the off-white wraps, and you swallow thickly at the sight.
Your vision blurs and dims, and for a moment, it feels like you're losing your balance. It continues to contort, swirling, while the world slips from its axis.
Fuck! Now's not the time!
You didn't handle this so well during your first night, and you feel a rush of panic as you question if you'd be able to withstand it this time. You pause, close your eyes, and frantically search for your center of gravity to re-ground yourself.
The water's still running, that's suspicious –
I don't have a first aid kit, what am I supposed to do!
Is the window still open? I should double-check –
You shove all of these thoughts aside. They're important, yes, and you'll get to them. But what's most important is gauging Yanqing's condition, you remind yourself, and you open your eyes, opting to simply do rather than think.
Your survival instincts kick in. The first and necessary step is to survey your surroundings. The bandages are neatly arranged and knotted, so you can't take them off. But even through the polyester fabric of the gauze, there's a noticeable heat that seeps through, so at the very least, you can help cool him off.
Robotically, you stand up and mutter, "I'll be right back."
You pace back to your bathroom and grab your hand towel hanging from the rack. You turn off the bathwater, the bath almost filled up to the brim, and leave it be. Then, you turn towards the sink, and let it run with cold water while you soak up the towel. Simultaneously, you're able to check the window and are relieved to find it closed, with its glass panes fogged up from condensation. Finally, with a few rough twists and pulls, you drain enough from the towel so that it doesn't drip, and rush back to Yanqing's side.
Folding it twice like a napkin so that it becomes a quarter of its size, you run the towel over the bit of bruised skin, before covering the spot you had identified earlier. The child whines at the icy touch, but doesn't resist it either, instead angling his hip in the direction of your outstretched hand in search of more of that cool, soothing sensation.
"I can't do much else," you whisper, almost a consoling coo, "so you need to rest up. You're doing very well, Yanqing. It'll get better soon."
With that, you pull his shirt back down without covering the cool towel, and wrap his legs and feet with your blanket to keep them warm. Yanqing also stills himself, but the sternness in his features doesn't disappear. You can only imagine that he's desperately waiting for sleep to claim his pain, as well as his thoughts.
You're back in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth with fast, aggressive back-and-forth motions. There's a tingle around the perimeter of your teeth, certainly your gums screaming from being scraped raw and torn, but it's more annoying than anything else, something you easily shove in your mind's back burner.
It's all coming back to me, you think with inward disgust.
–
Haru’s soaked, his suit and loosened tie plastered to his body, his hair and ponytail stuck to his forehead, ears, and nape. There's cold sweat streaking down his temple, and his cheeks, glistening with pool water, are already an angry rouge. His chest is heaving, too, lungs working overtime to take in gasp after gasp after gasp.
You're also soaked into oblivion, and most importantly, you feel as infernally hot and angered as Haru looks. The gusts of wind that whip across the school grounds do nothing to dampen the infuriated sparks from within; they only fan the flames of everything – your resentment and frustration, your helplessness and hopelessness.
Haru's right arm flies up, and you don't even bother to brace yourself for the impact. You've been hit countless times before – you're used to it. In fact, you can almost feel the acute stinging against your jaw, accompanied with a slight ringing in your ears and a sore neck. However, in reality, his arm floats there, like a robot waiting for permission to move, to assault its target. But there's no one here to give instructions, not even teachers or staff members. It's the middle of the night, and no one should've been able to find you drowning yourself at your middle school pool.
But of course, Haru finds you. Even when the odds are stacked against him, he always manages to.
You're tempted to egg him on. Do it, you want to taunt, show me that you're no different from the rest of them. Because no matter how much we resist, we're both bred to be rotten to the core.
"No, I won't," he croaks, as if reading your mind.
You click your tongue. Like brother, like sister.
His hand drops down, hanging limply at his drenched side. A few passing clouds eclipse the moon, thus erasing the pool's reflection of the night sky – moon, stars, and all – and replacing it with an overflowing well of ink. Furthermore, in this opaque darkness, you can't make out Haru's reaction. He's never been very good with words, so you need to see his eyes in order to glean even the most superficial of his thoughts. The rest you could never decipher, hidden in the depths of his impregnable mind.
He speaks before the moon returns, his voice no more than a pained, sorrow croak. He utters your name, and it rings so hollow as echoes of it resound across the pool. Strangely, he sounds so weak and vulnerable – honest.
Another gust of wind swoops through, and ripples interlace across the darkened pool water.
Then, with a faltering voice, he chokes out, "I… get it. I totally get it. I know we live in a fucking hell, and you want to escape it. Trust me… I've tried, too. Several times, kid. I know… I know it all."
He sucks in a shaky breath.
"Kid… I don't watch over you just because I'm told to. This may be hard to believe at the moment, but… I care. I've been watching over you since the day you were fucking born, and I can't let you die before me. I won't! And – and if you did, what am I supposed to say to Hana, huh?! Tell her that I couldn't get to you in time?!"
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back his slick bangs, and as if on cue, the clouds pass. Moonlight illuminates all that stands beneath it, and you see that Haru's eyes are bloodshot and downcast. A shock of guilt zips through your body because, once again, you're inconveniencing him.
"It's only the three of us, kid… Things might be horrible right now, but once you and Hana come of age, everything will get easier. Just look at me – I can do so many more things than either of you can, and that's because I'm an adult. Wait a few more years and –"
Then, for the first time in your life, you witness Haru's dam break. For the first time in your life, Haru's shedding his persona as your personal bodyguard, and speaking to you solely as your older brother but not by blood. Nevertheless, he is someone who will always be more of a family member to you than any of your actual blood relatives.
"Shit, sorry, I'm spouting nonsense," he sobs. He dips his head, but the moonlight still catches the glints of teardrops raining down onto the pavement. There's a prickling in your eyes, too.
"Look, it-it's your choice. But, it's also my choice to butt in when I think you're doing something stupid. I'm not going to lie to you anymore and tell you things get better when you're older. You might have more independence and freedom and whatever when you reach my age, but that's all in exchange for things that are far worse.
"But, if there's anything that I haven't lied about, it's that there's only the three of us. And I can't let any of us give up, you hear? So you can stay angry, think that I'm being too meddlesome, whatever – but I'm doing all of this because I care so fucking much for you, kid. I'm always on your side, got it? And if you're really serious about wanting to leave this place, well… I-I promise we'll figure something out, yeah? I swear."
It's your turn to look down, hot tears streaming down your face out of humiliation and fear. You feel horrible for pushing Haru to his limit, but you're still extremely upset that he found you, of all times, of all places. And while the thought that you're not actually dead is relieving, you think that's more animal instinct than personal desire. And if there's anything your heart truly desires, it's to never return to that place or to the people there. You despise them all, would kill them all if you had the strength and courage, and you feel yourself on the cusp of losing it all over again when you imagine waking up to that same starless bedroom in the morning.
"I-I can't, Ha – ugh – ru," you blubber, words spilling out of your mouth before you can even pronounce them, hand clutching onto the front of your crumpled t-shirt, "I c-can't go back there, and – ha – take their shit anymore. I'd rather d-die right now, than see Mother's or Father's f-fucking f-faces. Please, please, please don't take me back there, I c-can't –"
Haru strides over, and although the both of you are freezing, it's comforting and almost warm to feel him wrap his arms tightly around you. As you struggle to breathe, gasping over and over and over again, he doesn't move, gripping onto you tighter and tighter.
Your throat feels like it's burning, as your broken sobs grow louder and more hoarse with every forced shout. You're still going on, and even you don't understand what you're trying to say. But the sentiment is more than enough – you're just throwing up all your feelings, spilling your insides out in hopes that someone else will clean up your mess on your behalf. This whole time you've been suffering alone, and you can no longer handle this pain by yourself.
"One year," Haru suddenly states. His voice is softer, but there's an evident edge to it, almost frightening in how resilient he sounds. "In exactly a year from today, I'll create an opening. That's your time to leave. Run away from this shithole, and don't look back. I promise."
Arms flying up, you shove him away, and gape at him in disbelief. "What – are you –," you sputter.
"I'm not fucking joking. I swear."
You desperately stare into his eyes, searching for signs, trying so hard to peer into his thoughts. But there's nothing to decode or decipher because, also for the first time in your life, Haru's being completely honest with you. He's laying out his true thoughts right in front you, and he's demanding that you take a good look.
You gulp, tears coming to a sudden shock.
One more year, I don't know if I can do that. But I've already survived fourteen.
"You, you promise?" you beg, hope leaking out of your tone.
He nods, and pulls you back into his embrace.
"One more year, and then you'll be free. Just focus on staying sane. Hana and I will handle everything else."
There's a flash of light, but it's not from the moon. Another flash comes, followed by approaching footsteps.
Haru curses under his breath. "We need to go," he hisses, "or else security will find us."
He tugs on your arm, but you don't budge, staying fixed to where you stand. You cast another longing glance toward the pool, the stars in the water rocking gently, enticingly, before they all smooth out into the murky indigo below.
You had chosen to die here of all places because your death would've been a cause for celebration. You're feared by your classmates, teachers, the entire town for fuck's sake, and there's no better way to spit in your family's face than to make a spectacle out of your own death.
Haru jerks your wrist one more time. His palm is beginning to sweat against your skin, as if his body's manifesting his urgent pleading.
"Do we have to go?" you mutter, regret and panic climbing up the stretch of your dry, scratchy throat. I could still do it, you think, I can just shove Haru aside and make a break for it.
He glares at you, chastising you for your cowardice. The look is stone cold, so intimidating that it quiets down the chaotic voices in your head.
"Just one more year, kid." With that, you finally relent, and Haru sprints to the chain link fence with you in tow.
Indeed, you'll wake up staring up at the same starless ceiling in the morning. But at least you'll have something to look forward to, counting down the days until you won't have to wake up in that damned room again.
–
Jing Yuan visits in the late morning. It's evident because all of the guards behave the same way they did when you first came to the estate. You figure he'd have other matters to attend to first, but it seems he's come straight to your room, knocking twice on the wooden frame of your door.
You respond flatly, "Sir, this is your home. There's no need to knock."
He chuckles lightly as he says, "That would be no way to treat a guest of mine. May I enter?"
With a mumbled affirmation on your end, he walks in with his signature slight smile, and you watch as his eyes give you and your belongings a brief once-over. Everything should be in place, you think. Waking up Yanqing at five took more effort than normal, no thanks to his injuries and overt exhaustion, but you managed to help him out of the window with an hour to spare to straighten out your room.
You also briefly scan the oyabun from the corner of your eye. He's wearing a suit this time, a crisp, white three-piece paired with a vermillion tie and black leather shoes. He also has on a pair of black gloves that fit his hands to a tee, accentuating the broad expanse of his palms and the length of his fingers. For a second, your mind wanders, entertaining the delusional fantasy of fitting your hand in his. Almost immediately, you recoil in disgust, veiled by an irritated twitch in your eye.
"Is everything alright?" Jing Yuan asks, head tilting to the side.
Your expression phases back to normal, as if your facade hadn't just slipped. "Sorry, I think an eyelash got into my eye. I'm fi –"
"Oh? Let me see."
Before you can even attempt at sidestepping his reach, Jing Yuan's already grabbed ahold of your chin, and he leans in close, closer than the last time he held you like so. Breath stolen, blood cold, heart palpitating, your body freezes, a prey stuck in a trap, waiting with palpable fear and uncertainty as he stares into the depths of your irises.
He's looking at you, yet not quite. The two of you are obviously making eye contact, but it's as if he's searching for something – the nonexistent eyelash? a moment of weakness? an opening to scrape your eyes out of their sockets?
And his touch. There's a dense warmth to it that rubs and permeates into your skin, a stinging balm that'll stick to the surface of your skin for several more hours before fading away, an imaginary mark left behind. If you don't think too hard about it, the stinging would give way to a more tolerable sensation, a faint buzzing in the background, but you rarely never have opinions about anything, and your conscience refuses to accept this warmth for what it is.
By the time he pulls away, you're almost out of air, body soon to erupt with asphyxiated tremors, and there's nothing you can do to prevent the slight gasp that escapes when he releases you from his grasp.
Jing Yuan acts like he doesn't notice. With a curious hum, he muses, "Nothing there."
You manage to push out a shaky rasp, "Ah, I… That's good…"
"Very well."
He adjusts his gloves, pulling them down towards his wrists, and you dare yourself to daydream about this murderer once more.
"I take it that your stay has been acceptable? But if my men have done something unpleasant to you, or if there is anything not to your liking, please let me know."
"Everything has been great. Thank you for your hospitality, Sir." You start to bow, but he stops you with a wave of his hand.
"No, I should be thanking you. I read through Kou's reports, and it is because of you that we were able to identify their activities. I did not expect them to invest so heavily in their brothels and clubs."
"I figured the rumors had some truth in them."
"Indeed." He breathes out, breathes in, practically tasting the spring air filtering into your room. "Would you care to join me for a bit?"
It's a request you have no means of turning down, but the specific ask puzzles you. "Yes?" you agree hesitantly.
"Do not worry. I was able to get my hands on some information earlier this morning, and I would like to… hear your thoughts."
You nod, still unsure, but you follow behind him anyway as the two of you navigate the estate to the same watsushi where you had tea with him twice. The two of you take your usual seats at the table, and as you wait for Jing Yuan to restart the conversation, you observe your surroundings.
The large hall is still undecorated and bare, and there are two guards perched at either side. The temperature is the warmest it's been all week, and it's pleasant to have the sunshine and breeze kiss and caress your skin. With the garden in full bloom, you take in the different shades of pastel pinks, yellows, reds, and greens, which you realize are the only vibrant colors in the contrasting monochromatic and bleak estate. Even Yanqing, you note, wears dark or neutral tones when not dressed in his school uniform, and you think it's a shame to grow up in such a luxuriously drab place.
"What do you think of Yanqing?" Jing Yuan asks.
You startle at the question, and tilt your head out of confusion.
He simply huffs a laugh. "Speak freely. I will not be offended if you have nothing good to say."
You chuckle nervously, though it's probably not very convincing. It’s hard not to miss the subtext in his warning.
He’ll punish me if I lie to his face. But I’d be an idiot if I’m completely honest.
You keep up your perplexed act. "I'm not sure? I haven't seen him around. If anything, he is obedient."
"That is true. He listens to me and to Tsurugi, for the most part. But I am curious – why did you go so far for him? He may be a child, but he is a stranger, no?"
Is he referring to the attempted kidnapping? His questions are too vague, and you're starting to worry that his ambiguity is intentional. Your hands are getting clammy from the cold sweat. There's a panicked itch in the back of your throat on the verge of tearing free.
You reply thickly, "It's the responsibility of adults to protect children, stranger or not."
"So how do you plan on protecting him from me?"
You’re trapped in mere moments. One of the two guards appears behind you, and presses the cold metal chamber of his gun firmly to your temple. The other remains at his position, but you can see that his hand's steadied at his holster. And the oyabun looks so nonchalant about the whole ordeal, as if everything that's unfolding before his very eyes has been planned from the beginning.
You shouldn't carelessly speak, but you choke out a horrified gasp anyway. "Y-you knew?!"
"Yes, though I will apologize, as I was not entirely transparent with you from the start. There are hidden cameras planted around the estate for security."
In other words, they’ve been monitoring you since the moment you moved in, possibly since your first visit. Obviously, then, there’s no doubt they saw Yanqing escape from his own room and tracked him as he fled to your side.
Jing Yuan continues to explain. "I do not intend to kill you immediately. I say it is only fair that you are given a bit of leeway for my duplicity."
You gulp in anticipation of his offer. You need to stall for more time, as both your body and mind are paralyzed with fear and hopelessness.
"Let us play a game, shall we? It is simple – two truths and a lie. I will ask you three questions. You may choose to answer any two with the truth and the remaining one with a lie. And vice versa. You may ask me anything, and you will not be punished for the content of your answers, unless they are irrelevant.”
You furrow your eyebrows. It's extremely difficult to focus on his instructions when there's a firearm pointed your way – the guard could shoot you at any time for any reason.
You purse your lips, collecting yourself enough to speak, before asking, slowly, "Will we need to guess which one is the lie?"
He shrugs. "No. It will be obvious."
Just how much does he know?!
"You may need some time to think of questions, so I will start us off." Suddenly, his eyes flicker open, and with a hypnotic air, he stares directly at you. This time, he isn't looking past you; he is properly looking at you, like he wants to understand you, and you regret desiring even the slightest bit of undivided attention from him earlier.
"First," he probes, slowly, "let me repeat myself. How do you plan on protecting Yanqing from me?”
The creases in your forehead deepen. What’s the point of this question? What is he after?
You should answer this one honestly; there’s no point in using up your lie over a question as comparably harmless as this one. It’s not like you have any other choice but to believe that he’ll keep his word and won’t kill you for being so outspoken. If anything, he might order the guard to shoot you for not being thorough enough with your replies.
“I… I’m not sure I can…,” you enunciate. You can feel each syllable roll off your tongue, how you have to force them out despite rising self-doubt and hesitation. But you have to push on.
“I wasn’t trying to protect Yanqing. He came to me first, and I gave into his requests because I pitied him. I have no intention of kidnapping him or turning him against you. I’m not trying to take him away from you.
“But…” You glance at him warily. Jing Yuan’s expression doesn’t falter at all. “But… I am glad that he feels comfortable around me. It’s a little saddening to me that he’s so gracious for the little kindness I’ve shown him.”
Something glows in the oyabun’s eyes. It’s almost like he’s delighted with you. However, you don’t think too deeply about it because you’re more preoccupied with straining your ears for the click of the gun’s safety. You either die now or later.
Nothing comes.
You manage to suck in a half-breath. I’m safe for now, you observe. At least he’s upholding his promise.
“My second question,” Jing Yuan muses, moving the conversation on without respite. “I would like to know what you think of me. As a reminder, please speak without inhibition.”
What do I think of him?
Shouldn’t it be obvious?
You despise him. Yakuza like him kill for a living and for entertainment. They don’t feel the slightest drop of remorse over their actions, and will not lay their brutality to rest until they themselves are slain. They will strip people of their futures, tear apart loving families, crush anyone that opposes them just for the hell of it.
And you can say with confidence that Jing Yuan is the worst of them all. The stories from your childhood already say more than enough: A man who can succeed in a country foreign to him is ruthless and disloyal, unable to tell the difference between friend and foe. Jing Yuan came into power because he had slaughtered the previous oyabun of his gang, along with all of the former boss’ lackeys.
His empire is one that he controls through fear and subjugation. He is selfish, and prideful, and doesn’t even bother to treat his people well. Not even his own heir – this, you are a witness to.
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your teeth easily tear through the flesh.
Gauze and a wet towel aren’t enough to heal the injuries smothering his body, let alone the permanent damage inflicted upon his psyche. Yanqing’s dependence on you says less about you, and all the more about Jing Yuan and his men.
He’s heartless.
You don’t notice it, but you’ve begun to quiver with rage, your body demonstrating your waning tolerance for this cruel, cruel man.
You can’t forgive him for ruining your life, too. You were a good samaritan passing by, someone he could’ve easily overlooked. But no. He decided to involve you in his spontaneous whimsies and disrupted the fractured pieces of normalcy that you had managed to collect in recent years. He had dashed your dreams before they could even realize, and that is unforgivable.
Suddenly – and perhaps this is reckless of you –, the gun to the side of your forehead doesn’t seem so daunting. For some reason, you’re convinced that Jing Yuan will play along with his game; he won’t order the guard to shoot you, as long as your response is in line with his question.
Focus on the next thing, you remind yourself. Once again, this thought seems to be your saving grace.
There’s no rush. You break away from Jing Yuan’s trance by closing your eyes, and suck in a deep breath. You hold it for a few, long seconds, before breathing out, feeling your ribcage and core deflate as the air escapes. You repeat the breathing exercise, until the quivering in your body stops.
You’re not in the clear, far from it still, but your newfound sense of resistance does wonders for your thinking and decision-making.
You make your decision – It might seem like a waste, but I need to lie here. This choice is risky, especially since you’d have to answer the final question (which could be of any nature) truthfully, but based on the questions he’s asked you thus far, they’re meant to uncover and expose and test your nature. Jing Yuan is playing this game out of sheer curiosity; he never needed your help in his plans. You have to remember – you’re prey in his grasp, and he’s simply playing around with his food before he devours it in one, clean gulp.
And you'd rather die than entertain the yakuza and their sick and twisted perversions more than you already have. You’ve made your choice.
You open up your eyes, vision illuminated with soft, spring sunlight. You don’t look back at the oyabun, though, and instead, opt to turn your cheek.
“You’re powerful,” you state tersely.
The gun’s safety clicks, and it digs painfully into your skull.
You tense up immediately, and your muscles lock up by instinct. You couldn’t attempt to flee even if you desperately wanted to.
But, if your assumptions are right, Jing Yuan’s order is merely a ruse.
With a scoff, you snap, “You said I could –”
“Is that really the extent of your feelings towards me?” Any semblance of satisfaction you thought you had seen in Jing Yuan is completely wiped. He looks disappointed, almost irritated, by your more than concise confession.
“Yes.” That’s the lie. “You hold an incredible amount of power, probably more than I could ever imagine.”
“And?” he presses.
Testing the waters, you pull a daring move – you roll your eyes. “Sure. If you care so much about a layperson’s opinion of you, then I’d say you’re meddlesome, too. It’s not wise to involve random people in your line of work.”
The guard pulls away, so that the gun is no longer shoved against your head. The gun’s safety is still off, though. At least your answer seems to assuage Jing Yuan’s annoyance, and the gold in his eyes is no longer that of a crackling, burning fire. It returns to a warm, melted ichor – an inviting color, if not for your present situation.
His contentment is all the more amplified when Jing Yuan purrs, voice dropping an octave. “I see… Very well…”
Then, he lets out a whisper.
At first, you think you misheard him. After all, what he said was nonsensical – there’s no way that could be.
He mumbles his question again, and there’s no mistaking it.
The glint in his eyes tells you you've fucked up, that you've underestimated him severely. He definitely knows more than you think he does, and you've played his game poorly.
A songbird chirps, before bursting out of a nearby maple tree. A blossoming head of white rose collapses onto the ground. Jing Yuan's gaze lowers, allowing you to catch glimpses of intrigue and amusement swirling in his molten gold irises.
With a soft exhale, he asks for the third time.
"What is your relationship with the head of your hometown syndicate, Haru?”
You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.
yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+
word count: ~13,900
cw: explicit language, explicit descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/bodily injury/etc., graphic descriptions of mental disorders (ptsd, anxiety, depression, dermatillomania), attempted suicide/suicidal ideation, domestic violence, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, implied age gap, mentions of drugs
notes: please heed the warnings!!! i know there are a lot of them, but please!!! also note that this is chapter 2! otherwise, i will say, this plot is largely for plot development oops. as always, big thanks to @staraxiaa and @pranabefall for being my permanent beta readers (i really should start paying y'all i'M SORRY I'M BROKE) and for offering top-tier insight and advice. lena grilled me on the ending, so it's perfect now. aine gave great inspo for the direction in which this story's heading. it's a long ride, so thanks for hanging on! we're halfway through now!
part i - part ii - part iii
A THUNDERSTORM reaches electrification, or its maturing stage, once the thunder cloud grows dark and grey in color. This transition is the result of increasing humidity and moisture, as air continues to rise up the cumulus cloud and brings additional water along with it. Eventually, once the raindrops have breached a certain size, the rising air will no longer be able to support the droplets’ weight, and rain will fall within the cloud.
In both nature and humankind, it seems storms start from the inside, before they're forced to pour out into the world when the turmoil can no longer be contained.
(You may not notice it anymore – the weeping of your soul second nature, your world a perpetual rainstorm.)
–
Jing Yuan is gone by the time you move in. It seems this estate's sole purpose is to house Yanqing until he graduates from elementary school, which won't be for another few years, and with most of the men gone as well, it's become vacant and spacious.
You don't do well with large, open spaces. There's too much uncertainty, too many openings for you to be wary of. Not that anyone would be after you – and you're sure that Jing Yuan has your safety (from external forces, that is) guaranteed –, but some instincts are never meant to die. Thankfully, you've been given a room of similar size to your studio, so the uneasiness doesn't bother you as much when you're on your own.
A lieutenant by the name of Kou and two of his associates assist in hauling in your singular suitcase and backpack, and in general, they seem to be your main points of contact. Judging by the permanent creases in between his brows, Kou seems to be a stern person, overly serious at all times, determined to fulfill his responsibility to squeeze every possible bit of information out of you. You make a mental note to think before you speak when he's around.
Presently, you have some downtime, about half an hour before dinner's ready. Aside from the two associates guarding your room, you're by yourself, and you take this opportunity to prepare for your first meeting with Kou later that night.
As you were packing this morning, you had time to reach a few conclusions. First, you clearly panicked too much during your meeting with Jing Yuan yesterday. Not that you would ever truly believe the words that come out of his mouth, but he personally admitted that your encounter was by coincidence. In other words, there's a possibility that he doesn't know everything there is to you.
And logically, that makes more sense. After all, Hana had told you that your parents went hysterical after your disappearance, and burned everything that reminded them of you – your photos, school uniform, and the shiromuku you were supposed to wear that following autumn. If there was anything of yours that could remain, it would be your severed left pinky, a vow you made of your own volition, a damning ultimatum to them and the shit household they raised you in, that you'd never come back. But, at this point, even your pinky would only be there in spirit, at this point having already rotted and eroded in the damp soil it rests within. You also found out you had been removed from the family register when you went to change your legal name to your current one, so there's nothing that could indicate your prior existence.
So while you did mess up, you might still have some remaining leverage (though you shouldn’t get too ahead of yourself).
As for Hana…
You can't help but bite your thumbnail, worry shading every one of your actions. You better be safe.
The two of you have a set schedule of monthly calls, so if either one of you were to break that routine, that'd be an immediate indication that something's gone wrong. Since the two of you had called barely a week ago, you were expecting her to pick up on the urgency behind the two panicked calls you left her last night. You even sent her voicemails hissing at her to give you a sign of life. She did reply a few hours later via text, but she said she couldn't call back, no thanks to a violent client that left her with high blood pressure and a chafed asshole, as well as a general lack of an empty bathroom for her to hide in.
There's no reason to assume the worst, you mentally chide. But your sense of urgency shouldn't be discarded because, while she may be fine now, she may not be in the near future, so you should move faster when you still have the chance.
And that leads to the most important question: What should you do next? Since you can't back out of helping Jing Yuan, you should use this opportunity to ensure your childhood friend's safety.
Based on the photographs the oyabun showed you, it's obvious they're snapshots of a violent takeover occurring in your hometown. You should figure out whether it's Jing Yuan's or another gang that is responsible for the conflict. Though, in the worst case, who the perpetrator is won't matter – you'll have to negotiate with Jing Yuan anyway to spare or save Hana's life. But being informed of the specifics will help you position yourself in said negotiations.
But then you reach a complicated dilemma. You have no idea how much influence you have, and there's no reason for the oyabun to actually trust you or the information you'll provide. If you're utterly useless, you have no doubt Jing Yuan's men will off you first before you can even discuss with their boss.
That means you need to get him to believe in you enough so that you'll have the ability to persuade him. However, earning his faith would require you to be honest to him to a certain degree (because the best lies are half-truths), and that's… a deeply unsettling notion.
No matter how much Jing Yuan knows about your history, you abhor the idea of having to be vulnerable about it in front of a man like him. You'd rather commit seppuku and show him your literal insides, than scoop out your inner thoughts and lay them out for his entertainment and pleasure. Sometimes, you just have to compromise, you think, with a dismal shake of your head.
You shelf this thought for now. Your first priority should be ascertaining their intentions with you, as well as determining the current state of the takeover.
You eat dinner alone before you're led to an office. Kou's already sitting at the desk, placed center and towards the back, and you assume that you're to sit in the singular chair opposite to him. Of course, you don't, not until you're directed to with a nod from his associate, and even then, you sit on the very edge of the seat. You don't feel so unnerved by Kou, but more so your impending conversation with him. It's not that you're intentionally underestimating him, but after your confrontations with Jing Yuan, everything else has paled in comparison.
Kou clears his throat, clasping his hands together on top of the desk. "This won't take long. I'm sure you're tired from all that has transpired."
The lieutenant goes through basic procedures and expectations, like he's onboarding a new employee. You're not allowed to communicate with anyone outside of the estate, and if you want to use your phone or laptop, you'll be monitored. All of the information you'll be exposed to is confidential, and you can't even talk about it with other members of the gang, as most of them are uninformed. Your job is to answer any questions asked of you truthfully, without bias or ulterior motive. And finally, following the end of your stay, you'll continue to be monitored in a non-disruptive manner for an indefinite period of time to ensure that you're not breaking non-disclosure. The terms are shoddy at best, impossible to enforce, but you agree to them anyway.
But why can't they just ask folks back home directly?
Then, you're given your first task, which is to go through several missing persons reports and see if you can recognize any of the listed individuals.
There's no need to lie about this – you recognize every single one of them. Most of them are girls, with the occasional boy with stereotypically feminine features, and the age range is between 14 and 22. You don't know any of them personally, their relations with you limited to being a former classmate or the local laundromat owner's daughter. But it doesn't matter how distant they were to you because these were faces you used to see everyday, people who used to coexist and occupy the same spaces as you. A bitterness overcomes you, a sheen of oil that coats and clings to your tongue, a taste that should be disgusting but elicits nothing more than a disapproving grimace.
You tell Kou exactly this, and in response, he probes a little deeper, asking you if you have any ideas as to where they may be. It's true that you aren't sure where they exactly are, as in you don't know which underground brothel they're a part of or the specific landfill their hollowed body parts are buried in, but approximately, all of the missing folks should remain within the larger Tokyo Metropolis prefecture. You don't inform him of the latter, though, because that's a detail only certain folks are privy to, but you inform them of the sex and human trafficking, which you frame as rumors you heard through the grapevine back when you were in school. Kou seems to find this bit helpful, as a low grumble of his, more mellow and pensive, echoes through the room.
It seems Jing Yuan and his men have yet to discover the exact nature of your hometown. Not that it's rare for a gang to participate in sex or human trafficking, but you suppose they were temporarily led astray by the also very busy arms trading that occurs in the area. After all, your hometown is a prime location for smuggling goods in and out of the affluent Roppongi neighborhood, and well, those goods could be anything.
Just as he's about to ask you another question, a series of thuds and lighter patters of feet begin to shake the floor. Kou simply sighs and dismisses you, asking for one of his men to take you back to your room. At least you were useful enough tonight, you think, relieved that you get to live to see another day.
As you leave the office, a high-pitched shriek pierces through the air. The voice can't come from anyone but a young child, so you figure Yanqing's back home.
Now that you think about it, you haven't run into the kid at all. He must've been out all day, attending school and doing whatever other things that the heir to a yakuza syndicate would do, but they wouldn't be anything like the flower arrangement and shamisen classes you had to take when you were young since he's a boy.
"Let me go!"
You wince at how shrill his voice is, and it gets more and more unbearable as the way back leads you closer to the noise.
Except you didn't expect the commotion to take place right in front of your room.
Yanqing's bolting around the rock garden, feet kicking up dust and sand, destroyed the pattern of ripples, as he zig-zags between and jumps over shrubs, wide, flat stones, and domineering men who lack in the agility department. He seems to be acting out, you observe, and you watch as five yakuza men fail over and over to capture the young heir, their arms flailing and mouths helplessly agape, spilling out gentle pleas that barely conceal their underlying curses.
It doesn't surprise you that Jing Yuan's kid is outmaneuvering men who are five times older and bigger than him. You can't imagine how dangerous Yanqing will turn out when he grows up. The distorted image bothers you – that this child with grubby hands and chubby cheeks will one day be drenched in the color and stench of crimson.
Suddenly, your eyes lock with Yanqing, and you startle a little, having not realized that you were staring at him while pondering his prescripted future. The kid, too, is caught off-guard by your onlooking gaze, and one of his bodyguards seems to notice his pause and lunges at him, hugging his frame tightly to prevent him from escaping again.
You tear your eyes away from the little boy. The bodyguards, a powerless child, the lack of freedom – the entire scene fills you with dread. You excuse yourself, bow to the associate, and slip into your room.
Immediately, you collapse onto your knees and bury your hands into your face. You thought you could fend off the reminders for much longer. It shouldn't be that hard – all you have to do is turn your cheek and pretend everything here doesn't poke and prod at the parts of you that remain raw and exposed. It should've been easy, really. But you had underestimated – ignored – how deeply everything inside still hurts and how poor your pain tolerance is, even after years of attempted "training" and grueling punishment.
Outside, the commotion continues – Yanqing's pitched yelps and his bodyguards' calls of "Young Master" farther away, no longer right outside your room, but loud enough to prick at your eardrums.
With a ragged breath, you cover your ears with the hot, sweaty planes of your palms and, for extra measure, you hunch over your tucked knees and bury your head underneath the futon covers. The fetal position makes you feel small, and your behavior, like a child, only serves to dampen your mood.
A voice among your mind's chorus sniggers – Is that all you've got?
You can't muster the energy to retort. It's not like you've ever considered yourself extraordinary or even marginally above mediocre, but the disappointment and helplessness sting like a fresh wound, as if you haven't been troubled by these feelings countless times before.
Part of you is even surprised that you've lasted up to this point. The estate and the people in it are all too familiar, in that their sheer existences are reprimanding reminders of past mistakes, taunting allusions to prior experiences that never fail to overwhelm you with dread and humiliation. Everything has been bothering you since the beginning, and seeing Yanqing in that state is what has finally set you off, triggering alarms and old, destructive habits.
Your internal monologue of nonstop deprecation and criticism drowns out everything else, and your hands fall away from the sides of your head to rejoin together, nail to dry cuticle to nail. You pull, scratch, pull until thinning skin finally gives way, and then you rip it off, finding a confusing, guilty pleasure in the act of tearing yourself apart, tiny strip by tiny strip.
And through it all – your bleeding fingers, the dead skin and crimson dots that litter the comforter, the satisfaction of killing off parts of yourself –, that dominating voice inside your head crescendos and rapidly assumes control of your brain. It coaxes and calls forth others to join it, and whispers from the past, from what you remember of your parents, join in to howl a depressing, ominous harmony – You're a failure, you'll never amount to anything, all your effort will be in vain.
Like a chant, a spell, a curse, they repeat themselves over and over, and it feels like they won't ever stop until they finally manifest the bleakest, most appalling future for you. And you're completely trapped in this hateful whirlpool, with your head permanently submerged in its dark, murky waters. Worst of all, even when common sense is saying that you shouldn’t give in, your parched throat drinks it all up, indulging in the acidic, bittersweet taste.
Eventually, unbeknownst to you, you fall asleep, and only then does your self-hatred cease.
–
You're woken up by fleeting, curious touches to the bottoms of your feet.
You don't wake immediately. It starts off as a slight discomfort, and your subconscious urges your body to move by the barest amount, enough to wiggle your feet and toes around until the itchy sensation fades away. But after a few seconds, it returns, and the cycle repeats, until eventually you're roused, eyes blinking open to see the same blackness that you saw when they were closed.
Fuck, did I black out?
Crazed and frustrated, you flail your arms around, struggling in the most inefficient manner possible to tug the futon cover off of you. You don't know how long you've been out, but you feel somewhat rested, so it's probably way past dinnertime. It didn't seem like Kou wanted to meet with you again today, but in the slimmest chance that he did, you're screwed.
However, despite several pushes and kicks, nothing works, and you let out a displeased groan as the blanket remains tightly wrapped around everything above your shoulders. I'll just have to use more force, you think, and you thrust an elbow back to free up more movement for your arm.
But then your elbow hits something, and someone yelps out in pain. You jump in surprise, and as if on cue, with a swivel of your head to look in the direction of the sound, the cover slides off of your head, as if making a grand reveal.
Because right behind you is a child, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow of the moonlight through the shoji screens, and there's only one kid that you know of that lives here.
In the fleeting moment that you have to take him in, all you can register is that he's small. Not frail, or weak, just small. You're much larger than him – you could probably curl your body around him, once, twice, with some length of limb to spare. (You're taken aback by the tenderness in your observation. It lifts your spirit, then pulls the latter crashing back down.)
"What are you doing here!" you hiss as you reach out by instinct to touch his cheek, which he's nursing with a hand, something akin to a stunned expression seizing his cherubic features. His other is clamped over his mouth, and his wide eyes beg you to stay silent, too.
There's shuffling coming down the hallway that stops outside your door.
"Is everything alright in there?" It's one of your guards, but you find it odd that he wasn't standing right outside your room like he usually is. His partner doesn't seem to be there either.
"Sorry," you call out from where you sit, "I just knocked my hand against something."
"May I come in to check?"
Yanqing's eyes widen impossibly more, and his panic causes you to stumble over your words.
"I - uh - I-I'm changing at the moment! Can you give me a minute?"
"Oh." It's a surprisingly flat sound. "Never mind then."
You breathe a sigh of relief at his quick acquiescence. Then, you shoot a glare at the kid, who's still as a rock, and the two of you have a staring-with-blinking contest that seems to last forever.
With your eyes having adjusted to the faint moonlight, you have no choice but to take a proper look at the boy as you both wait. And with one glance, there's no doubt about it – he's no biological son of Jing Yuan. His hair is thin and neat in his ponytail, unlike Jing Yuan's mess of a mane, and while it could be that he's still far too young, you don't see any traces of Jing Yuan's facial or physical traits.
Yanqing definitely lacks the oyabun's eyes. The kid's are large and round, dewy and clear, too busy taking in his surroundings to comprehend and be tainted by them. They're a bit darker in shade – probably more bronze or orange, though you can't tell for sure – compared to his foster father's gold, and it eases you a bit to see that this child looks more humane.
However, if the saying is true – that a person's eyes are honest reflections of their minds –, then you can tell that the light in Yanqing's eyes is not unperturbed. He's not foolish enough to come here without a reason, and you're not sure whether you should be thankful or not, that this eight-year-old is too mature for his nascent existence on this planet.
At the same time – and perhaps you're looking too deeply into it –, in the midst of his troubles, there's a hopeful glint in the kid's eyes, as if he's eagerly awaiting you to do something. Unlike Hana and Jing Yuan, though, you can't read Yanqing's mind, so you have no clue as to what he's expecting from you.
You feel an uptick in your pulse at your temple. It's irritating, really. It's additional pressure you didn't anticipate having to deal with, and you loathe the dreadful melancholy that returns whenever you think deeply about Yanqing's circumstances. Even though he's nothing like you, in the same way he's nothing like Jing Yuan, the two of you are similar in ways that only you can tell.
You wonder, then, in what ways he's like Jing Yuan.
You wonder if one day, those honeyed pools will harden into amber chunks. If those chunks will build static as he continues to be exposed to his foster father's ruthlessness and electric current. If those chunks will ensnare people, cities, nations for decades and decades to come, taking innocent lives as part of the gang's nefarious plans – a gang that'll continue to be at his beck and call, plans that, one day, he'll organize and execute, from start to very bloody finish.
Neither of you break away until there's another shuffle outside of your door, and the guard's paces take him back to where he came from.
Finally, you and Yanqing tear your gazes away from each other.
Cognizant that the men are never a safe distance away, you maintain a steady, low voice as you speak. "Why are you in my room?"
Yanqing clearly understands the dangers of your current situation, so he, too, in spite of his young age and lack of experience, mirrors your quiet whisper. "I brought you some snacks. You must be tired."
He turns to his left and slowly pushes a black tray carrying full bowls, plates, and utensils your way. Everything is packed to the brim, with traces of soup and shreds of vegetables spilling out, and you're sure he's overcompensating for his disturbance, having already predicted that his visit – his presence – is unwanted. (Does he feel that way at the moment, or is it a learned notion?)
You scoff. "Thank you, but you didn't have to do that at the risk of my life. Sneak back off to your room before I'm slaughtered for kidnapping you."
Speaking of which, you can't help but think – Wouldn't it be funny if I actually died for kidnapping the same brat I saved – from an attempted kidnapping? Kinda a full circle moment there, huh.
Unfortunately, the kid doesn't budge. He's shifted positions so that he's now sitting on his calves, and his hands have balled into tiny, trembling fists that rest on the tops of his thighs. Clearly, then, he's not here to deliver some goodies and throw a slumber party with you, not that it would take a genius to have figured that out.
You can't afford to be merciful. You scoff again and cross your arms over your chest, hoping to exude enough of a contemptuous and unreasonable air so that he'll give in and run off.
At first, your act did affect Yanqing. His head droops a little, and his gaze falls as well. He also shifts in his seat, rocking side to side, and you can almost feel his indecision as he struggles to choose between leaving you alone and staying rooted to his spot. In the end, though, he settles with the latter, a semblance of a dissatisfied pout ghosting his pursed lips, which leaves you with no other choice but to, at the very least, hear him out. After all, you have no intention of wrestling a kid into submission (although you're not very confident that you could beat him in a fight in the first place), nor would it be smart to kick him out lest a guard sees him.
You sigh in surrender.
"Fine," you mutter, "what do you need from me?"
Yanqing immediately perks up, and you can't help but cringe at the way he practically shines, the stars in his eyes and their metaphorical glow too bright in the presence of your comfortable dark.
"May I sleep here tonight?" He asks with such politeness and reverence that, had you been any less jaded, you would've given in.
"Absolutely not," you deadpan.
"Why not?" He huffs, and for once, he's acting like a brat.
With a blank face, you explain, "Your guards don't know that you're here, yes? So if they find you in my room, I will die."
"No, you wouldn't! They wouldn't hurt you as long as I tell them not to."
"Child, do you remember how we met?" Yanqing slips into a restless silence, so you don't press him to respond. But you do conclude by saying, "They care about your safety, so don't get yourself into too much trouble."
You're sure he has his reasons. Children don't act out unless their needs, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional, aren't being met, and you're sure he's being neglected in several ways, by nature of his environment. Especially for someone as docile as Yanqing, there's no doubt that something's bothering him, or else he wouldn't be seeking help from a stranger like you.
However, it's precisely because you're a stranger that you cannot –
That's a fucking lie, and you know it.
You press your knuckles into your eyes and rub vigorously, as a means to prevent your expression from falling. It seems you're still soft, even after all these years and the terrible experiences that have come along with them.
You shouldn't concede. You shouldn't allow him to stay. He could promise to wake up early, escape silently, whatever – but there would never be a guarantee, and it's entirely foolish to rely on a child to follow through with their word. At the same time, though, deep down in your heart, you don't want to turn him away. You want to give him an opportunity to prove himself, especially since no one gave you one. And if anything, on the very hour that you resolved you'd leave that cheap illusion of a home, you promised yourself you'd never act like them, and turning away a lonely child would be exactly something they would do.
You let your hands fall into your lap, in total defeat. If you kick the kid out, you'd never be able to face him, and more likely than not, you wouldn't be able to even think straight for the next few days, no thanks to the guilt that'd be eating you from the inside out.
"Fine."
As expected, Yanqing's face somehow lights up even brighter, and this time, you have to completely avert your gaze. There's no going back, no backpedaling on your words, no room for regret. It's obvious you're biting off more than you can chew, but you'll think about your future later. Right now, you need to tackle what comes next, and that's surviving tonight.
"I have questions," you continue. "First, do you know your way back?"
The kid nods swiftly, body angled and sharp, oozing utmost respect for you now that you're saving his ass.
"How do you plan on returning without getting caught?"
"The guards switch every three hours. They take 15 minutes to break and chat, which they really shouldn't be doing, but… that just means I can slip back in then."
"When is the next rotation?"
"Uh, Tsurugi wakes me up at 6…?"
You note Yanqing's confusion and his irrelevant response, due to your choice in vocabulary, so you urge yourself to speak more simply and softly. (Tsurugi must be the name of his primary bodyguard, who you vaguely recall.)
With a deep breath, you say, "Great. Then, just for tonight, I'll let you stay. But you have to leave by five, and if Tsurugi catches you, you're coming up with a lie. I will act like I have nothing to do with you. Am I clear?"
As if the two of you are roleplaying a children's game, he salutes you, little chest puffed out, back arched forward, cheeks round and red with excitement. You ignore it, and scooch over to make space for Yanqing to join you on your futon. He crawls over, the fabric of his pajama pants which are shy of his ankles wrinkling under the twists and turns of his knees, and plops right down, head taking up the entirety of your pillow. For a second, you part your mouth to point out that your graciousness doesn't extend to the sacrifice of your quality of sleep, but as Yanqing's eyes close, drowsiness evidently shrouding his mind, you think better than to berate the little one.
It’s not like you’re going to sleep anytime soon, anyway. You'll stay up till five, so that you can wake him on time, and then slip a few hours of rest in before breakfast.
You peek up at the doors to your room and see the faint outline of guards standing outside. Since it seemed like a shift change had just occurred, you assume that it's currently barely half past midnight, and the analog clock hanging on the wall behind you confirms it as such. If you had your phone on you, you would take this chance to attempt contacting Hana once more, but Kou had taken your device away during your meeting and locked it in a safe sitting on one of the shelves in his office.
That reminds you – they could be looking through your phone. The only thing of use they'll find in there is Hana's phone number, but even then, they likely wouldn't take the risk of potentially calling a civilian, or at least not without you. Perhaps that'll be something they'll expect you to do eventually. Anyway, for tonight, you'll have to make do with passing the hours by idly.
Yanqing has fallen into a deep sleep. Tucking the blanket underneath his chin, you dote on him a little, a small apology for your rudeness from before. Then, you straighten out his ponytail from where it curves in an unruly manner around his neck, before lying back down yourself, face tilted upward towards the ceiling.
–
There's the crack of a gunshot. A heavy thump on the dirt ground. Then, there's a few sniggers, some side comments you can't make out, all of which cease when someone barks out orders to bag the body and dispose of it immediately. Finally, silence.
Well, not total silence. If you strained your ears further, you'd hear the choked sobs of another victim or two, their animalistic and desperate pleas muffled by the black duct tape slapped across their sealed lips, along with the rustling of the men placing the corpse into a body bag that will later be burned in a large furnace in some far-off trash site.
(Not that anyone knows you know, and you're simply parroting Haru's words, so you're not entirely sure what he means. But, even without understanding the full extent of his words, you're aware that your family is in dangerous, brutal business, so you don't force yourself to listen for more.)
Even though you're only in elementary school, you've learned when you should and shouldn't wish to learn more, and more often than not, in the world that you live in, curiosity does kill the cat and will fail to bring it back.
After all, that's why all of these people are dying, no?
You roll your eyes, because you know that's not true. An explanation that simple and cold doesn't sit right even with your developing moral compass.
This discomfort that you're feeling at the moment... that's frustration directed at yourself. Because you're no different in your desperation or intrigue, except you have no excuse for behaving so recklessly, aside from your youth.
And Haru has taken extra measures to drill that into your head. He constantly reminds you that there's no need for you to worry about "adult matters," that you should immediately find him if you run into a problem, that you should be enjoying the barest bits and pieces of your childhood because "you'll never experience it again."
However, no matter how much wisdom or power he has, Haru can't solve the current issue at hand.
At that thought, your hands throb, which draws your attention away from the murders taking place outside of your room. You're grateful that no bones were broken this time, thanks to Haru and his insistence that you let the matter go once and for all. As you wiggle your fingers and ball them into fists, there's that familiar soreness and ache of bruised skin webbed with bloody cracks, muscles weathered from overuse and strain, and dulled knuckles with little strength remaining in them. The pain is beginning to spread up your wrists, the fatigue starting to weigh down the flesh and blood in your forearms, and you ponder how exactly you're going to be able to pick up a pencil at school in the morning.
You've been beaten over this issue for the past two months, ever since you started hounding your parents over it. No matter how many times you've asked your parents for permission to attend your school's annual overnight trip, they won't allow you, and this year is no different. At this rate, you'll graduate elementary school, having made zero memories with the few friends you have, and there's apparently talk of you transferring to another middle school where you won't recognize anyone.
Grumbling a little, you bore your eyes even deeper into the textured plaster of your bedroom ceiling, so that you can attribute the tears gathering at your waterline to your makeshift staring game and not the overwhelming disappointment suffocating you at the nose and throat.
That's another problem Haru can't solve for you.
I mean, he could, but I don't want to wake him up.
Haru's bedroom is right next to yours, and his breaks are limited to whenever you're (supposed to be) asleep. You know he wouldn't complain if you were to find him at this hour, but you'd feel horrible for doing so, and you definitely wouldn't be able to hold your tears back then. You'd rather not be more of a burden to Haru or Hana than you already are.
So you revert to your typical coping strategy: bite your lower lip firmly – not enough to draw blood, or else Mother will rage –, grip your hands onto the top edge of your blanket, and go over the English vocabulary you were introduced to in class earlier in the afternoon.
Because, one day, you'll leave this place far, far away. So far, where no one will quiver at the briefest mention of your last name, where parents won't scowl at you for befriending their children, where you won't have to bandage your bleeding, splitting hands every morning in fear that they'll fall apart and crumble at your feet.
And Haru and Hana will definitely come with me! Haru's fluent in English anyway, and we can just teach Hana the basics. The three of us will run away, and no one will find us.
–
You take a few deep breaths, urging the infuriated tension in your body to dissipate and your disturbed mind to stop conflating the past with the present.
I can't believe I still remember so much, you think, in equal parts disappointment and… yearning. It's not a longing for the place that you grew up in, but rather, for what the place could've been. A normal family and life was all that you wished for when you were growing up, even though you didn't have the slightest clue as to what normalcy was like. In the end, you concluded that, as long as there was Haru, Hana, and an absence of pain and blood, that would be normal enough. Of course, now that you've personally experienced somewhat of a mundane life, you roll your eyes and wish your past self was a bit more ambitious.
You typically don't allow yourself to reminisce, but since your past and present are colliding, it's impossible to recognize the parallels.
And just like that, both so slowly and so rapidly, you must wake up Yanqing.
You're grateful that the kid's so obedient, as he doesn't utter a single groan or whine when you tap on his shoulder. He simply sits up while rubbing the heels of his hand into his eyes in gentle back-and-forth motions. And even through his grogginess, he climbs out of the covers noiselessly and walks towards the attached bathroom.
Seated, you watch as he climbs onto the toilet seat and reaches up to unlock the window pane, from which he squeezes through. He then jumps down, followed by a gentle thump, then silence. Through it all, you're incredibly impressed and terrified by the amount of tenuous training this elementary schooler has already mastered. Anyway, there's no one outside your room at the moment, so you figure there's very few guards on patrol in general, so you trust that he'll sneak back into his room with no problem. Regardless, from this point onwards, it's none of your business what Yanqing does or what happens to him.
Relief washes over you, and you catch your breath for what seems like the first time since you blacked out last night. The air is still chill, as it always is in the spring, but there's a touch of slight, summer humidity that sticks pleasantly against your skin. Whether or not you're prepared, it will be that time of the year again.
–
It seems Jing Yuan's goal is to take over both gangs at once, as soon as the two merge together when they settle their contract. That way, he wouldn't just have control over your hometown, but also whatever territory the acquiring gang has. For any other syndicate, an objective like this one would be infeasible, but this is no more than a small matter for him and his men.
Swaying side to side, you stare down into the center of the marble sink, one hand placed flat on the counter and the other gripping your toothbrush, elbow hanging in the air. The tangy and minty taste of fluoride bubbles against your tongue and drools from the corners of your lips. You should spit it all out – you've been brushing for five minutes –, but you're too deep in thought.
That explains why I only have a week.
The gangs in your hometown are going to finalize the acquisition by the weekend, and he needs enough intel to ensure that the ambush is truly worth it and that he's attacking where they're most vulnerable.
With regards to the acquiring gang, you have very little idea as to who it could be. Usually, mergers and acquisitions take place between neighboring organizations. You’re aware of two candidates, but one out of the two is too conservative, disinterested in artificial growth and more fearful of internal strife than anything else, and the other one… well, you're not sure they would continue to pursue a partnership after the shitshow that went down when you left. Of course, you can't rule the latter out entirely based on conjecture, and they're the sole lead you have.
You set down your toothbrush and turn on the faucet, using the lukewarm water to wash away the toothpaste foam and gunk. You also fill up a glass cup halfway up with water and drink from it, throwing your head back so you can gurgle. You squint as you stare up at the shining LED lights lining the top of the sink mirror.
Anyway, back to Jing Yuan.
There's no doubt that he's aiming to monopolize your hometown's trade channels and connections, as that's the singular redeeming aspect of that place. The acquiring syndicate would also be involved – either as a large supplier themself or as an operations provider –, so it would also be advantageous to seize their services.
So far, you've mainly been helping Kou and his men with names and locations. You also threw in some leads, disguised as idle gossip and tales, to make yourself seem useful, even if by coincidence. For instance, you mentioned seeing groups of college boys hanging out in the alleyways between a popular cigar shop and a thrift store nobody frequents. The thrift store is useless, but if they were to look into the cigar shop, they'd easily find that it's not just a small warehouse for foreign drug imports, but there's also a tunnel in the manager's break room that connects to an underground sex shop a few blocks away. That sex shop is considered one of the larger establishments in the area, and deals frequently take place in their midst of stale cologne, spilt alcohol, and smoking gunpowder. Surely Jing Yuan would find some of those conversations valuable.
Since Kou has already been informed of the underground sex and human trafficking, if his men were to follow your trail exactly as you intended, then they should be able to deduce that your hometown gang is more than interested in becoming a major supplier themself. Given that they control the entire flow of goods in the neighborhood, if they were to succeed and begin expanding nationwide, then they might actually have a shot at amassing considerable fortune and power.
You inhale, then exhale, through your nose.
You briefly entertain the thought of what comes next. Jing Yuan's sure to execute his hostile takeover perfectly, and naturally, he'll reorganize the gangs' internal management when he seizes them. If his primary interest is the supply chain, he'll likely shut down any and all unrelated activities. That means staff will be let go. Prostitutes, independent hitmen, the occasional clueless bar owner – only those that are not directly affiliated with the gang. While the others…
Your back and shoulders stiffen at the thought. Hana easily falls in the latter group.
Water begins to flood your throat. You gag, a strangled, wobbly noise that's forced out amidst your surprise, and you throw your head back down so that you can spit into the sink. With a ragged breath, you shut your eyes firmly, and wait for the nausea to alleviate.
Suddenly, the bathroom door cracks open, and you jump as the door handle on the inside knocks into your hip. You're about to scream out loud, but when you whip your head around, you're greeted by a concerned Yanqing.
You can't help but growl. "What are you doing here?! I said last night was a one-time thing!"
The child recoils at your animosity. He tucks his chin down into his chest and takes a few steps back, though he doesn't close the bathroom door. And maybe it's just the lights again, but there's something that glitters at the corners of his eyes.
You take another inhale, letting air, still a little warm and humid from your bath earlier, fill up to the ends of your lungs, expanding all the way to the sides of your ribcage and the core of your stomach.
He's just a kid. Calm. Down.
"Sorry, Yanqing," you say, evidently softer and very apologetic. "You just surprised me, is all. But we did agree that you couldn't come over anymore."
He scrunches his nose a few times, before nodding obediently again. However, like the previous night, he anchors himself to his spot, and he probably won't leave until you give in and let him stay.
"Yanqing…," you mumble, crouching down onto the floor so that you're at eye-level with him, "is something wrong?"
It takes him a while to muster an answer. At first, it's the subtlest tremble in his upper lip, like he's deciding whether he should tell you the honest truth or not. Then, he squirms with his shoulders, thin frame shaking and swaying back and forth, and it doesn't take you long to recognize that it's out of embarrassment. However, it's critical that you don't rush him, especially if he's teetering between uncertainty and doubt. Finally, he huffs, pouts, and looks up at you with round, innocent eyes, checking one final time to see if you're the kind of person to judge him harshly.
You're not, and you nod with pursed lips to demonstrate that you'd listen to him intently.
"I don't like sleeping alone," he confesses.
You nod again, out of sympathy. When Yanqing doesn't follow up, you ask, "Is there a reason why?"
Dismayed, he shakes his head. "It's too dark."
We're alike in that respect, you mentally note. The number of similarities between the two of you is growing.
"I get that. Have you tried asking for a nightlight? Those helped me when I was young."
That's a half-lie. You never had a nightlight, per se, but when you couldn't go on your sixth grade overnight camping trip, Haru tried to make up for the loss of the experience with glow-in-the-dark stars that he stuck on the ceiling of your bedroom. Unfortunately, they didn't last for more than a week, due to an impromptu inspection from Mother, and she demanded they all be ripped off and disposed of immediately.
Yet again, Yanqing shakes his head. "I have to get used to it," he states, firmly.
You sigh, hands reaching up to smooth back some of his loose baby hairs. "But you're here."
"I know… but…" He looks up at you with a desperate, pleading look, like he's begging for you to understand him. "There are things out there in the dark. I don't feel safe."
Not just alike – the exact same.
"I see…" You stand back up and lead him to your futon, turning off the bathroom lights and closing the door behind you. You lie down on one side of the comforter, and the child mimics you, settling down across from you, making sure to fold his arms and legs close to his chest.
Words don't need to be exchanged for Yanqing to comprehend that you're giving him permission. And there's also the unspoken agreement on the same conditions you set the first night he came over.
"Relax, I'll wake you when it's time."
At that, the child unfolds himself and wriggles into a comfortable sleeping position, while you lay the blanket over his body so that he doesn't catch a cold.
"By the way," you hum, "how did you get in here this time?"
"I ran around the house and came through the main door."
"I see." You pause for a moment, before finishing, "Try not to do that. You'll get caught easily that way."
"I won't – I promise!"
The look in his eyes is set, determined, somehow ferociously loyal. In spite of his passionate spirit, you don't have the heart to offer him another piece of advice, one that you take quite to heart: Don't make promises so frequently, and unnecessarily.
A flicker of a smile appears on your face, and Yanqing takes it as a sign of affirmation. He grins himself, before turning on his side, getting comfortable for the night.
Suddenly, he jerks up, supporting his upper body with a bent elbow, and looks back over his shoulder at you. He says, "You're really kind, miss! I wish everyone here was as nice as you are!"
Before you can respond, not that it's possible for you to come up with an adequate enough reply, he flops back down.
You could speak up, if you wanted to. But – and maybe this is simply an excuse – his breathing's already transitioning into deeper, longer inhales, and just like yesterday evening, you can't find it in your heart to disturb him. After all, no child talks like that, without reason.
It's not to imply that the men here are abusing Yanqing. From the peeks of skin that you've seen, primarily that around his wrists, ankles, and neck, there aren't visible injuries. The bruises that you did catch a glance of seemed like normal injuries received from a blunt sword, most likely from exchanging blows during kendo practice.
However, that doesn't mean the people here are serving the child fully. Generally, emotional neglect is a common recurrence in East Asian cultures and traditional upbringing, and there's no doubt that it's drastically worse within yakuza households. Jing Yuan must be subjecting Yanqing to a severe and harsh training regime in order to shape the latter into a proper heir, and part of that training would require adopting a strict, apathetic attitude towards everything, including the kid's pain, frustration, and anguish. In other words, there's no other way to teach a child of less than ten years the art of masking and indifference without demonstrating it directly to them.
All told, it's highly possible that you're the only adult that Yanqing has encountered in a long while who is so open with their expressions and thoughts. And you can't help but think – What a pitiful existence.
–
When rainfall occurs, the cumulus cloud becomes a cumulonimbus cloud. As the rain droplets fall, they'll also push air particles downwards, forming a cycle of up and downdrafts within the cloud. As a result, fallen rain will settle on the bottom, while those that remain at the top freeze into ice particles. This cycle is what allows electrification to build up.
What is most notable at this point in the development stage is the widening of the top of the storm cloud, as positively charged ice crystals fan out and form what is termed as the "anvil."
In blacksmithing, anvils are tough by nature, made to withstand the brutal hammering and battering of metal against metal. At the same time, it is also used to cut and shape, flatten and curve – to manipulate. In the context of thunderstorms, the anvil signals the storm's maturity, and the more spread out it is, the more turbulent the weather will be. In that sense, the anvil also manipulates – it draws out a sense of foreboding and gloom from the radius of towns, homes, and people it casts its looming shadow over, victims that will have to bear the storm's incessant rain and lightning.
And while there's no scientific basis for Japanese folklore, it is suggested in countless tales that these lightning strikes are signals from the heavens to the mortals, that punishment for their transgressions is impending.
Imminent.
–
It's your fifth day at the estate, and Yanqing's visits have become habitual. You no longer chastise him for putting you in danger, and he listens to you more often than not. And to make sure he doesn't get caught, the two of you decide on a more refined routine to conceal his presence and your knowing of it.
You wait until a few minutes before or after the guards' shift change to go into your bathroom to begin your nightly routine. That way, you can help Yanqing down as he sneaks through the bathroom window, and the sounds of your bath filling up are more than enough to overpower the slight squeak of the window pane whenever it slides open.
Today, though, Yanqing seems more haggard than usual. The droop in his shoulders, along with the shadows under his eyes, are telltale signs of his exhaustion. He doesn't even bother to greet you with his usual toothy grin, no "Good evening, Miss!" to be heard. You pick at your left thumb’s cuticle, wondering if it's because of his nightly escapades to your room. Yet, he looked more rested than when he was staving off sleepless nights alone, you internally debate.
Suddenly, as Yanqing steps down from the toilet, bending at an angle at the waist, he lets out a timid weep of pain.
Urgently, you reach over to steady him and avoid making contact with his midriff. The pain seems to linger, by the insistent crease between his eyebrows, so whatever injury he's sustained must be quite stubborn.
"Hold on to my shoulders," you instruct. Looping an arm under his knees and placing the other on his back, you heave him up and rush to lay him down on your futon.
"Where does it hurt?" You pat your hands lightly around his ribs, glancing back and forth between his wrinkled nightshirt and his rapidly blinking eyes.
"Right side –," he squirms just as your hand smooths over the spot right between his last rib and the dip in his torso, "– there!"
You lift your arm and hover your palm over the spot. "Can I take a look?" you inquire, and the boy immediately lets out a whimper in confirmation.
You shimmy his shirt up and find bandages wrapped around his stomach. On the right side, as Yanqing directed, there are a few specks of blood, and there's a purplish blob peeking out from the upper border of the gauze. There are probably several more cuts and bruises underneath the off-white wraps, and you swallow thickly at the sight.
Your vision blurs and dims, and for a moment, it feels like you're losing your balance. It continues to contort, swirling, while the world slips from its axis.
Fuck! Now's not the time!
You didn't handle this so well during your first night, and you feel a rush of panic as you question if you'd be able to withstand it this time. You pause, close your eyes, and frantically search for your center of gravity to re-ground yourself.
The water's still running, that's suspicious –
I don't have a first aid kit, what am I supposed to do!
Is the window still open? I should double-check –
You shove all of these thoughts aside. They're important, yes, and you'll get to them. But what's most important is gauging Yanqing's condition, you remind yourself, and you open your eyes, opting to simply do rather than think.
Your survival instincts kick in. The first and necessary step is to survey your surroundings. The bandages are neatly arranged and knotted, so you can't take them off. But even through the polyester fabric of the gauze, there's a noticeable heat that seeps through, so at the very least, you can help cool him off.
Robotically, you stand up and mutter, "I'll be right back."
You pace back to your bathroom and grab your hand towel hanging from the rack. You turn off the bathwater, the bath almost filled up to the brim, and leave it be. Then, you turn towards the sink, and let it run with cold water while you soak up the towel. Simultaneously, you're able to check the window and are relieved to find it closed, with its glass panes fogged up from condensation. Finally, with a few rough twists and pulls, you drain enough from the towel so that it doesn't drip, and rush back to Yanqing's side.
Folding it twice like a napkin so that it becomes a quarter of its size, you run the towel over the bit of bruised skin, before covering the spot you had identified earlier. The child whines at the icy touch, but doesn't resist it either, instead angling his hip in the direction of your outstretched hand in search of more of that cool, soothing sensation.
"I can't do much else," you whisper, almost a consoling coo, "so you need to rest up. You're doing very well, Yanqing. It'll get better soon."
With that, you pull his shirt back down without covering the cool towel, and wrap his legs and feet with your blanket to keep them warm. Yanqing also stills himself, but the sternness in his features doesn't disappear. You can only imagine that he's desperately waiting for sleep to claim his pain, as well as his thoughts.
You're back in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth with fast, aggressive back-and-forth motions. There's a tingle around the perimeter of your teeth, certainly your gums screaming from being scraped raw and torn, but it's more annoying than anything else, something you easily shove in your mind's back burner.
It's all coming back to me, you think with inward disgust.
–
Haru’s soaked, his suit and loosened tie plastered to his body, his hair and ponytail stuck to his forehead, ears, and nape. There's cold sweat streaking down his temple, and his cheeks, glistening with pool water, are already an angry rouge. His chest is heaving, too, lungs working overtime to take in gasp after gasp after gasp.
You're also soaked into oblivion, and most importantly, you feel as infernally hot and angered as Haru looks. The gusts of wind that whip across the school grounds do nothing to dampen the infuriated sparks from within; they only fan the flames of everything – your resentment and frustration, your helplessness and hopelessness.
Haru's right arm flies up, and you don't even bother to brace yourself for the impact. You've been hit countless times before – you're used to it. In fact, you can almost feel the acute stinging against your jaw, accompanied with a slight ringing in your ears and a sore neck. However, in reality, his arm floats there, like a robot waiting for permission to move, to assault its target. But there's no one here to give instructions, not even teachers or staff members. It's the middle of the night, and no one should've been able to find you drowning yourself at your middle school pool.
But of course, Haru finds you. Even when the odds are stacked against him, he always manages to.
You're tempted to egg him on. Do it, you want to taunt, show me that you're no different from the rest of them. Because no matter how much we resist, we're both bred to be rotten to the core.
"No, I won't," he croaks, as if reading your mind.
You click your tongue. Like brother, like sister.
His hand drops down, hanging limply at his drenched side. A few passing clouds eclipse the moon, thus erasing the pool's reflection of the night sky – moon, stars, and all – and replacing it with an overflowing well of ink. Furthermore, in this opaque darkness, you can't make out Haru's reaction. He's never been very good with words, so you need to see his eyes in order to glean even the most superficial of his thoughts. The rest you could never decipher, hidden in the depths of his impregnable mind.
He speaks before the moon returns, his voice no more than a pained, sorrow croak. He utters your name, and it rings so hollow as echoes of it resound across the pool. Strangely, he sounds so weak and vulnerable – honest.
Another gust of wind swoops through, and ripples interlace across the darkened pool water.
Then, with a faltering voice, he chokes out, "I… get it. I totally get it. I know we live in a fucking hell, and you want to escape it. Trust me… I've tried, too. Several times, kid. I know… I know it all."
He sucks in a shaky breath.
"Kid… I don't watch over you just because I'm told to. This may be hard to believe at the moment, but… I care. I've been watching over you since the day you were fucking born, and I can't let you die before me. I won't! And – and if you did, what am I supposed to say to Hana, huh?! Tell her that I couldn't get to you in time?!"
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back his slick bangs, and as if on cue, the clouds pass. Moonlight illuminates all that stands beneath it, and you see that Haru's eyes are bloodshot and downcast. A shock of guilt zips through your body because, once again, you're inconveniencing him.
"It's only the three of us, kid… Things might be horrible right now, but once you and Hana come of age, everything will get easier. Just look at me – I can do so many more things than either of you can, and that's because I'm an adult. Wait a few more years and –"
Then, for the first time in your life, you witness Haru's dam break. For the first time in your life, Haru's shedding his persona as your personal bodyguard, and speaking to you solely as your older brother but not by blood. Nevertheless, he is someone who will always be more of a family member to you than any of your actual blood relatives.
"Shit, sorry, I'm spouting nonsense," he sobs. He dips his head, but the moonlight still catches the glints of teardrops raining down onto the pavement. There's a prickling in your eyes, too.
"Look, it-it's your choice. But, it's also my choice to butt in when I think you're doing something stupid. I'm not going to lie to you anymore and tell you things get better when you're older. You might have more independence and freedom and whatever when you reach my age, but that's all in exchange for things that are far worse.
"But, if there's anything that I haven't lied about, it's that there's only the three of us. And I can't let any of us give up, you hear? So you can stay angry, think that I'm being too meddlesome, whatever – but I'm doing all of this because I care so fucking much for you, kid. I'm always on your side, got it? And if you're really serious about wanting to leave this place, well… I-I promise we'll figure something out, yeah? I swear."
It's your turn to look down, hot tears streaming down your face out of humiliation and fear. You feel horrible for pushing Haru to his limit, but you're still extremely upset that he found you, of all times, of all places. And while the thought that you're not actually dead is relieving, you think that's more animal instinct than personal desire. And if there's anything your heart truly desires, it's to never return to that place or to the people there. You despise them all, would kill them all if you had the strength and courage, and you feel yourself on the cusp of losing it all over again when you imagine waking up to that same starless bedroom in the morning.
"I-I can't, Ha – ugh – ru," you blubber, words spilling out of your mouth before you can even pronounce them, hand clutching onto the front of your crumpled t-shirt, "I c-can't go back there, and – ha – take their shit anymore. I'd rather d-die right now, than see Mother's or Father's f-fucking f-faces. Please, please, please don't take me back there, I c-can't –"
Haru strides over, and although the both of you are freezing, it's comforting and almost warm to feel him wrap his arms tightly around you. As you struggle to breathe, gasping over and over and over again, he doesn't move, gripping onto you tighter and tighter.
Your throat feels like it's burning, as your broken sobs grow louder and more hoarse with every forced shout. You're still going on, and even you don't understand what you're trying to say. But the sentiment is more than enough – you're just throwing up all your feelings, spilling your insides out in hopes that someone else will clean up your mess on your behalf. This whole time you've been suffering alone, and you can no longer handle this pain by yourself.
"One year," Haru suddenly states. His voice is softer, but there's an evident edge to it, almost frightening in how resilient he sounds. "In exactly a year from today, I'll create an opening. That's your time to leave. Run away from this shithole, and don't look back. I promise."
Arms flying up, you shove him away, and gape at him in disbelief. "What – are you –," you sputter.
"I'm not fucking joking. I swear."
You desperately stare into his eyes, searching for signs, trying so hard to peer into his thoughts. But there's nothing to decode or decipher because, also for the first time in your life, Haru's being completely honest with you. He's laying out his true thoughts right in front you, and he's demanding that you take a good look.
You gulp, tears coming to a sudden shock.
One more year, I don't know if I can do that. But I've already survived fourteen.
"You, you promise?" you beg, hope leaking out of your tone.
He nods, and pulls you back into his embrace.
"One more year, and then you'll be free. Just focus on staying sane. Hana and I will handle everything else."
There's a flash of light, but it's not from the moon. Another flash comes, followed by approaching footsteps.
Haru curses under his breath. "We need to go," he hisses, "or else security will find us."
He tugs on your arm, but you don't budge, staying fixed to where you stand. You cast another longing glance toward the pool, the stars in the water rocking gently, enticingly, before they all smooth out into the murky indigo below.
You had chosen to die here of all places because your death would've been a cause for celebration. You're feared by your classmates, teachers, the entire town for fuck's sake, and there's no better way to spit in your family's face than to make a spectacle out of your own death.
Haru jerks your wrist one more time. His palm is beginning to sweat against your skin, as if his body's manifesting his urgent pleading.
"Do we have to go?" you mutter, regret and panic climbing up the stretch of your dry, scratchy throat. I could still do it, you think, I can just shove Haru aside and make a break for it.
He glares at you, chastising you for your cowardice. The look is stone cold, so intimidating that it quiets down the chaotic voices in your head.
"Just one more year, kid." With that, you finally relent, and Haru sprints to the chain link fence with you in tow.
Indeed, you'll wake up staring up at the same starless ceiling in the morning. But at least you'll have something to look forward to, counting down the days until you won't have to wake up in that damned room again.
–
Jing Yuan visits in the late morning. It's evident because all of the guards behave the same way they did when you first came to the estate. You figure he'd have other matters to attend to first, but it seems he's come straight to your room, knocking twice on the wooden frame of your door.
You respond flatly, "Sir, this is your home. There's no need to knock."
He chuckles lightly as he says, "That would be no way to treat a guest of mine. May I enter?"
With a mumbled affirmation on your end, he walks in with his signature slight smile, and you watch as his eyes give you and your belongings a brief once-over. Everything should be in place, you think. Waking up Yanqing at five took more effort than normal, no thanks to his injuries and overt exhaustion, but you managed to help him out of the window with an hour to spare to straighten out your room.
You also briefly scan the oyabun from the corner of your eye. He's wearing a suit this time, a crisp, white three-piece paired with a vermillion tie and black leather shoes. He also has on a pair of black gloves that fit his hands to a tee, accentuating the broad expanse of his palms and the length of his fingers. For a second, your mind wanders, entertaining the delusional fantasy of fitting your hand in his. Almost immediately, you recoil in disgust, veiled by an irritated twitch in your eye.
"Is everything alright?" Jing Yuan asks, head tilting to the side.
Your expression phases back to normal, as if your facade hadn't just slipped. "Sorry, I think an eyelash got into my eye. I'm fi –"
"Oh? Let me see."
Before you can even attempt at sidestepping his reach, Jing Yuan's already grabbed ahold of your chin, and he leans in close, closer than the last time he held you like so. Breath stolen, blood cold, heart palpitating, your body freezes, a prey stuck in a trap, waiting with palpable fear and uncertainty as he stares into the depths of your irises.
He's looking at you, yet not quite. The two of you are obviously making eye contact, but it's as if he's searching for something – the nonexistent eyelash? a moment of weakness? an opening to scrape your eyes out of their sockets?
And his touch. There's a dense warmth to it that rubs and permeates into your skin, a stinging balm that'll stick to the surface of your skin for several more hours before fading away, an imaginary mark left behind. If you don't think too hard about it, the stinging would give way to a more tolerable sensation, a faint buzzing in the background, but you rarely never have opinions about anything, and your conscience refuses to accept this warmth for what it is.
By the time he pulls away, you're almost out of air, body soon to erupt with asphyxiated tremors, and there's nothing you can do to prevent the slight gasp that escapes when he releases you from his grasp.
Jing Yuan acts like he doesn't notice. With a curious hum, he muses, "Nothing there."
You manage to push out a shaky rasp, "Ah, I… That's good…"
"Very well."
He adjusts his gloves, pulling them down towards his wrists, and you dare yourself to daydream about this murderer once more.
"I take it that your stay has been acceptable? But if my men have done something unpleasant to you, or if there is anything not to your liking, please let me know."
"Everything has been great. Thank you for your hospitality, Sir." You start to bow, but he stops you with a wave of his hand.
"No, I should be thanking you. I read through Kou's reports, and it is because of you that we were able to identify their activities. I did not expect them to invest so heavily in their brothels and clubs."
"I figured the rumors had some truth in them."
"Indeed." He breathes out, breathes in, practically tasting the spring air filtering into your room. "Would you care to join me for a bit?"
It's a request you have no means of turning down, but the specific ask puzzles you. "Yes?" you agree hesitantly.
"Do not worry. I was able to get my hands on some information earlier this morning, and I would like to… hear your thoughts."
You nod, still unsure, but you follow behind him anyway as the two of you navigate the estate to the same watsushi where you had tea with him twice. The two of you take your usual seats at the table, and as you wait for Jing Yuan to restart the conversation, you observe your surroundings.
The large hall is still undecorated and bare, and there are two guards perched at either side. The temperature is the warmest it's been all week, and it's pleasant to have the sunshine and breeze kiss and caress your skin. With the garden in full bloom, you take in the different shades of pastel pinks, yellows, reds, and greens, which you realize are the only vibrant colors in the contrasting monochromatic and bleak estate. Even Yanqing, you note, wears dark or neutral tones when not dressed in his school uniform, and you think it's a shame to grow up in such a luxuriously drab place.
"What do you think of Yanqing?" Jing Yuan asks.
You startle at the question, and tilt your head out of confusion.
He simply huffs a laugh. "Speak freely. I will not be offended if you have nothing good to say."
You chuckle nervously, though it's probably not very convincing. It’s hard not to miss the subtext in his warning.
He’ll punish me if I lie to his face. But I’d be an idiot if I’m completely honest.
You keep up your perplexed act. "I'm not sure? I haven't seen him around. If anything, he is obedient."
"That is true. He listens to me and to Tsurugi, for the most part. But I am curious – why did you go so far for him? He may be a child, but he is a stranger, no?"
Is he referring to the attempted kidnapping? His questions are too vague, and you're starting to worry that his ambiguity is intentional. Your hands are getting clammy from the cold sweat. There's a panicked itch in the back of your throat on the verge of tearing free.
You reply thickly, "It's the responsibility of adults to protect children, stranger or not."
"So how do you plan on protecting him from me?"
You’re trapped in mere moments. One of the two guards appears behind you, and presses the cold metal chamber of his gun firmly to your temple. The other remains at his position, but you can see that his hand's steadied at his holster. And the oyabun looks so nonchalant about the whole ordeal, as if everything that's unfolding before his very eyes has been planned from the beginning.
You shouldn't carelessly speak, but you choke out a horrified gasp anyway. "Y-you knew?!"
"Yes, though I will apologize, as I was not entirely transparent with you from the start. There are hidden cameras planted around the estate for security."
In other words, they’ve been monitoring you since the moment you moved in, possibly since your first visit. Obviously, then, there’s no doubt they saw Yanqing escape from his own room and tracked him as he fled to your side.
Jing Yuan continues to explain. "I do not intend to kill you immediately. I say it is only fair that you are given a bit of leeway for my duplicity."
You gulp in anticipation of his offer. You need to stall for more time, as both your body and mind are paralyzed with fear and hopelessness.
"Let us play a game, shall we? It is simple – two truths and a lie. I will ask you three questions. You may choose to answer any two with the truth and the remaining one with a lie. And vice versa. You may ask me anything, and you will not be punished for the content of your answers, unless they are irrelevant.”
You furrow your eyebrows. It's extremely difficult to focus on his instructions when there's a firearm pointed your way – the guard could shoot you at any time for any reason.
You purse your lips, collecting yourself enough to speak, before asking, slowly, "Will we need to guess which one is the lie?"
He shrugs. "No. It will be obvious."
Just how much does he know?!
"You may need some time to think of questions, so I will start us off." Suddenly, his eyes flicker open, and with a hypnotic air, he stares directly at you. This time, he isn't looking past you; he is properly looking at you, like he wants to understand you, and you regret desiring even the slightest bit of undivided attention from him earlier.
"First," he probes, slowly, "let me repeat myself. How do you plan on protecting Yanqing from me?”
The creases in your forehead deepen. What’s the point of this question? What is he after?
You should answer this one honestly; there’s no point in using up your lie over a question as comparably harmless as this one. It’s not like you have any other choice but to believe that he’ll keep his word and won’t kill you for being so outspoken. If anything, he might order the guard to shoot you for not being thorough enough with your replies.
“I… I’m not sure I can…,” you enunciate. You can feel each syllable roll off your tongue, how you have to force them out despite rising self-doubt and hesitation. But you have to push on.
“I wasn’t trying to protect Yanqing. He came to me first, and I gave into his requests because I pitied him. I have no intention of kidnapping him or turning him against you. I’m not trying to take him away from you.
“But…” You glance at him warily. Jing Yuan’s expression doesn’t falter at all. “But… I am glad that he feels comfortable around me. It’s a little saddening to me that he’s so gracious for the little kindness I’ve shown him.”
Something glows in the oyabun’s eyes. It’s almost like he’s delighted with you. However, you don’t think too deeply about it because you’re more preoccupied with straining your ears for the click of the gun’s safety. You either die now or later.
Nothing comes.
You manage to suck in a half-breath. I’m safe for now, you observe. At least he’s upholding his promise.
“My second question,” Jing Yuan muses, moving the conversation on without respite. “I would like to know what you think of me. As a reminder, please speak without inhibition.”
What do I think of him?
Shouldn’t it be obvious?
You despise him. Yakuza like him kill for a living and for entertainment. They don’t feel the slightest drop of remorse over their actions, and will not lay their brutality to rest until they themselves are slain. They will strip people of their futures, tear apart loving families, crush anyone that opposes them just for the hell of it.
And you can say with confidence that Jing Yuan is the worst of them all. The stories from your childhood already say more than enough: A man who can succeed in a country foreign to him is ruthless and disloyal, unable to tell the difference between friend and foe. Jing Yuan came into power because he had slaughtered the previous oyabun of his gang, along with all of the former boss’ lackeys.
His empire is one that he controls through fear and subjugation. He is selfish, and prideful, and doesn’t even bother to treat his people well. Not even his own heir – this, you are a witness to.
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your teeth easily tear through the flesh.
Gauze and a wet towel aren’t enough to heal the injuries smothering his body, let alone the permanent damage inflicted upon his psyche. Yanqing’s dependence on you says less about you, and all the more about Jing Yuan and his men.
He’s heartless.
You don’t notice it, but you’ve begun to quiver with rage, your body demonstrating your waning tolerance for this cruel, cruel man.
You can’t forgive him for ruining your life, too. You were a good samaritan passing by, someone he could’ve easily overlooked. But no. He decided to involve you in his spontaneous whimsies and disrupted the fractured pieces of normalcy that you had managed to collect in recent years. He had dashed your dreams before they could even realize, and that is unforgivable.
Suddenly – and perhaps this is reckless of you –, the gun to the side of your forehead doesn’t seem so daunting. For some reason, you’re convinced that Jing Yuan will play along with his game; he won’t order the guard to shoot you, as long as your response is in line with his question.
Focus on the next thing, you remind yourself. Once again, this thought seems to be your saving grace.
There’s no rush. You break away from Jing Yuan’s trance by closing your eyes, and suck in a deep breath. You hold it for a few, long seconds, before breathing out, feeling your ribcage and core deflate as the air escapes. You repeat the breathing exercise, until the quivering in your body stops.
You’re not in the clear, far from it still, but your newfound sense of resistance does wonders for your thinking and decision-making.
You make your decision – It might seem like a waste, but I need to lie here. This choice is risky, especially since you’d have to answer the final question (which could be of any nature) truthfully, but based on the questions he’s asked you thus far, they’re meant to uncover and expose and test your nature. Jing Yuan is playing this game out of sheer curiosity; he never needed your help in his plans. You have to remember – you’re prey in his grasp, and he’s simply playing around with his food before he devours it in one, clean gulp.
And you'd rather die than entertain the yakuza and their sick and twisted perversions more than you already have. You’ve made your choice.
You open up your eyes, vision illuminated with soft, spring sunlight. You don’t look back at the oyabun, though, and instead, opt to turn your cheek.
“You’re powerful,” you state tersely.
The gun’s safety clicks, and it digs painfully into your skull.
You tense up immediately, and your muscles lock up by instinct. You couldn’t attempt to flee even if you desperately wanted to.
But, if your assumptions are right, Jing Yuan’s order is merely a ruse.
With a scoff, you snap, “You said I could –”
“Is that really the extent of your feelings towards me?” Any semblance of satisfaction you thought you had seen in Jing Yuan is completely wiped. He looks disappointed, almost irritated, by your more than concise confession.
“Yes.” That’s the lie. “You hold an incredible amount of power, probably more than I could ever imagine.”
“And?” he presses.
Testing the waters, you pull a daring move – you roll your eyes. “Sure. If you care so much about a layperson’s opinion of you, then I’d say you’re meddlesome, too. It’s not wise to involve random people in your line of work.”
The guard pulls away, so that the gun is no longer shoved against your head. The gun’s safety is still off, though. At least your answer seems to assuage Jing Yuan’s annoyance, and the gold in his eyes is no longer that of a crackling, burning fire. It returns to a warm, melted ichor – an inviting color, if not for your present situation.
His contentment is all the more amplified when Jing Yuan purrs, voice dropping an octave. “I see… Very well…”
Then, he lets out a whisper.
At first, you think you misheard him. After all, what he said was nonsensical – there’s no way that could be.
He mumbles his question again, and there’s no mistaking it.
The glint in his eyes tells you you've fucked up, that you've underestimated him severely. He definitely knows more than you think he does, and you've played his game poorly.
A songbird chirps, before bursting out of a nearby maple tree. A blossoming head of white rose collapses onto the ground. Jing Yuan's gaze lowers, allowing you to catch glimpses of intrigue and amusement swirling in his molten gold irises.
With a soft exhale, he asks for the third time.
"What is your relationship with the head of your hometown syndicate, Haru?”
You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.
yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+
word count: ~10,600
cw: explicit language, mentions and descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/etc., symptoms of severe ptsd + anxiety, stalking, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, suggestive tension, implied age gap, ocs as side characters
notes: i'm surprised this made it out of the wip vault. it's my birthday, so here's my gift to everyone. infinite thank yous to my wonderful betas, @staraxiaa and @pranabefall, because they both read through 4-5 different drafts, and entertained my jy brain worms and gaping plot holes throughout the entire process. i always feel so loved by the two of you. thank you to @lorelune as well for your very informative yandere jy thoughts, which helped form the basis of jy's and reader's characters in this au. this story is likely going to come in 3-4 parts, and each part will be around this length, if not longer, so please be patient with me. thank you for your support, and i will take a shot after i post this.
part i - part ii
LIGHTNING IS electrical discharge that occurs between charges within a thunderstorm cloud or between the cloud and the ground. Thunder is the sound that lightning produces, and depending on the length of silence between seeing a spark and hearing its subsequent boom, you can estimate how far away a strike was from you.
While thunderstorms are not something to worry about, it is necessary to take precautions. As such, safety protocols for when you are outdoors are as follows: seek shelter as soon as possible, such as a car or a building, but if not available, find an open space away from bodies of water and stick as low to the ground without lying down.
You will know if where you are located is in grave danger of a lightning strike if you can see and feel the hairs on your body stick up. Get as far away as possible as soon as you recognize the signs.
–
"Child, haven't your folks ever taught you to not follow strangers?"
There are two people in front of you: a man dressed head to toe in black and a child with dirty blonde hair carrying his backpack on the front. You can't identify the man, thanks to his baseball cap, tinted sunglasses, and mask, and if you weren't trying to intervene in the situation as you are right now, you'd scoff at how stupid the kid is. Speaking of the latter, he looks like an elementary schooler, probably attending the academy two blocks south from here. From what you can recall, the academy is prestigious in the prefecture, so you also pity him because, out of all of the school children who are walking home at the moment, he was picked.
The kidnapper (there's no doubt about that) snarls, and you're grateful he's wearing his mask or else he probably would've spit in your face. "Hey, I'm not a stranger. You know me, right?"
He stretches an arm out to the boy, as if beckoning the two of them to hold hands. It might just be a passionate gesture instead, but you couldn't care less about the difference, so you lean your weight onto one leg and wait for the younger one's reaction.
To your dismay, the kid nods. However, at the same time, his grip on his backpack tightens, pale knuckles and joints pulling taut and red, and as children are, untrained in deception and falsehood, a grimace spreads across his round cheeks.
You glance around. There are a few guardians looking your way, and most of the unaccompanied children have scuttled away at this point. If you don't finish and leave soon, you might be mistaken as an accomplice.
Squatting down, you lower yourself so that you're face to face with the elementary schooler. Someone, a long time ago, said that was the best way to communicate with children without instilling fear or intimidation. With a jut of your chin, in the direction of the kidnapper, you ask, "How do you know this bastard?"
"B-bastard?! You –"
The boy doesn't bat an eye at your crude choice of insult. "He's been following me around after school for the past week."
Clearly, aside from being a kidnapper, this guy also sucks ass at his job.
You decide to not say that thought out loud and proceed asking the boy questions. "So it's your first time speaking to him?"
"Yeah." The child nods, body and backpack jostling in unison. You've always thought those randoserus were too massive.
"Verdict's out, then," you say, holding your forearms up as if in surrender. Then, with a deep sigh, you stand back up and shoot the kidnapper a confrontational glare.
Without a word, the man lurches for the young boy, but having foretold his rashness and stupidity, with a quick duck, a jab of your elbow against his solar plexus, and a swift uppercut to the underside of his jaw, you disable the man's balance enough for him to fall over. Then, with a tug of your phone to release it from your back pocket, you activate an SOS alert.
"Child," you say, not even a beat later, as if nothing had happened, "I've notified the police. Next time, tell someone, before it's too late."
However, instead of relief, which you expected, the child visibly jumps at the word "police," eyes bursting wide open, mouth parting for rapid, shallow inhales, hands tomato red. He's panicking, way more than at any moment throughout his interaction with his almost-kidnapper. You wonder if it's just a delayed response to a traumatic event, but before you can even attempt to calm the kid down, he grabs you by your pants, and with a force that only energetic, tireless children have, he drags you down the block and around the corner.
"What the actual fuck – Stop fucking dragging me – Are you –"
You almost fall over when the kid suddenly lets go, friction and momentum ploughing into one another at your center of balance, and by the time you collect yourself, you've realized he's brought you to a parked car. It reminds you of the man from earlier – dressed and designed to conceal what's inside. The boy has left you to wrap himself around the leg of a man in a pressed suit, who's also wearing sunglasses. You're starting to wonder if you've accidentally stumbled onto a movie set or, worse, isekai-ed into some shitty Western Men in Black alternate universe without having been run over by a truck.
Anywho, you'd like to go home, so you need to extricate yourself from this situation as soon as possible.
Arms out by your side, hands and fingers spread out to show that you're not holding anything, you clear your throat to speak. "Hi, I, uh, helped that child escape from a suspicious person. I also called the police, but, well, um…" You sense two more individuals come up behind you. "It seems like the authorities won't be necessary anymore."
The man that the kid's clinging onto bends down. "Young Master, is that true?"
The boy nods, fiercely rubbing his flushed face into the crisp fabric of who you intuit is his primary bodyguard.
"I see."
With a flick of the primary bodyguard's wrist, the two behind you walk over and open the doors to the back row of the car. It seems like you've done a sufficient job to not be suspected, so with an informal bow, you excuse yourself and begin to turn around to navigate your way back.
“Could you wait for a moment?”
For a minute, the primary bodyguard turns around to face away from you, and from his hand that hovers over his right ear, he's mumbling into his earpiece, likely inquiring for further instructions from his employer or whoever's in charge. After a few minutes, he turns back around, and without making eye contact, you can sense his line of sight trained on the back of your head. In the meantime, you hear the kid shuffle into his seat, a door shutting behind him.
That means the other door remains open. Even with the engine grumbling, the body of the car thrumming for velocity and acceleration, it's clear they're not going to leave without you.
But you have no intention to comply. You fold your arms over your chest, and the space between your eyebrows divots into a frown. You spin back around and, in a firm tone, though without sounding too demanding, you state, "I’m on shift right now. I need to get back to my workplace."
The primary bodyguard doesn’t budge. "The Young Master would like you to accompany him home."
Your face wrinkles even more. The situation's becoming unnecessarily complex, and if you let them sway you now, there's bound to be more problems that'll occur later down the line that will complicate your life in irreversible ways.
You weren't expecting to save a kid that had adults at his beck and call, and even so, there's no reason for them to invite you over. Their stubbornness is problematic, and you want nothing to do with it.
"I really need to head back now. I'm not sure if your Young Master would like a stranger to accompany him, after all that has happened as of late."
The primary bodyguard fishes for something in the inner pocket of his blazer. You watch as he pulls out a pin resting in the curve of his palm, no larger than the pad of your thumb, flashing onyx and gold whenever it catches the trickles of sunlight that manage to seep through the wall of white concertinaed fencing and trimmed leafy hedges lining the road.
You bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to pierce through the uppermost layer of skin. You didn't save a kid from an esteemed household; you saved the next head of a yakuza gang.
Just my fucking luck.
You curse yourself for your impolite behavior, even if it was deserved. At this point, you have no other choice than to comply because you wouldn’t survive a brawl with three trained bodyguards.
I’ll leave as quickly as I can and never bother with them again.
With uneasy steps, you approach the car and slide into the seat next to the young boy. The primary bodyguard also joins, sitting in the front passenger seat.
The kid's strapped into his seat, still hugging his backpack close to his chest. Now you understand why that is the case. From this close of a distance, you can see the thick lining of the backpack more clearly, and the color is more matte compared to the usual shine of a typical randoseru. This boy knows there are numerous targets on his head, and he's making full use of the bag's bulletproof casing, designed to defend him during violent encounters.
"You're coming with?" he asks, voice more placid than before. In fact, you'd even go as far as to say that he's demonstrating interest in a stranger like yourself, but if you were to utter that observation aloud, you'd probably be dead.
"Yeah," you breathe, holding back any snark, and stare out the window, elaborating no further.
Promptly, the car peels away and rolls onto the main road.
The drive doesn't take long. The neighborhood is large, a residential area that spans the cleared side of a sloping mountain, and you watch as the car weaves through local streets before curving onto a private path that leads upwards. You've always been aware that there are filthy rich families settled in this part of town, but you never knew one of these properties belonged to a gang.
Actually, it's more like you had hoped a gang wouldn’t have settled in this city at all. There's that statistic you heard way back in middle school – that, on average, one in seven people are sociopaths –, and from your experience, the sentiment's partially realistic. In any case, the yakuza are more present in normal society than you'd believe.
On that note, not all yakuza gangs are bad. Just like how not every person's born a genius and not every business can succeed, not every band of yakuzas can scale up to become massive syndicates. For that matter, some gangs don't even start off with that goal in mind, and prefer to play vigilante in protecting and guarding their territory. But you can't speak much to these "nicer" groups since you've never mingled with them before.
Regardless, it seems all yakuzas have the same taste in traditional Japanese architecture: aged hinoki and red pine, raked rock gardens of sandy white, ponds with speckled koi fish. The car pulls onto the property through automatic wooden gates and parks on the vast driveway.
You take a deep breath. For the most part, you remember your way back. You can’t help but feel grateful that you know this town so well – worst comes to worst, you can run home through various shortcuts and alleyways.
The driver speaks up, and it’s a little jarring, given that no one had spoken throughout the entire drive. "We have arrived, Young Master. Please let us help you out."
But the boy doesn't wait, already unbuckling his seatbelt and wiggling the handle of the door until his pops open. You, on the other hand, don't move, as you haven't been instructed to do anything yet. You watch as the kid pushes himself out of the car, stumbling over his feet when he initially lands on the concrete, and dashes into the estate as soon as he rights himself, the thumping of the heavy-duty backpack against his chest echoing even when you can't see him anymore. Without a moment to spare, the primary bodyguard paces after him.
"You," the driver grunts, as if you're a chore, "follow me."
As you step out of the car, you note a door to the side that leads out to the main road.
There are men everywhere. They stand uniform along the engawa, and all within your vicinity stare hawkishly at you. Most are in what seems to be the standard suit attire, but there are also those who are less prim and have opted for untucked white shirts and dirty sneakers. But the few deviants don't matter – it's clear this group works like an armed force, militaristic in aura, efficient in behavior, and no doubt merciless in combat. So far, you’ve walked past over a dozen, so it’s best that you don’t engage in any reckless fighting.
Almost instinctively, your nose scrunches in disdain. This atmosphere brings back a flood of unpleasant childhood memories, mainly of where you grew up and the people who raised you. It can't be helped, you suppose, with how eerily familiar everything is, and your expression subsequently smooths out back into one of caution and wariness.
You replace the flashbacks with inane observations, like the driver's habit of pulling his lighter out of his pocket before stowing it away again, almost like he's paranoid it'll be pickpocketed, an area of the mansion that's walled off for renovation, the distant honks of a train chugging by. Objectively, it's a neat and established place, and that makes this syndicate all the more terrifying. Yakuzas are only as rich as the number of lives they take.
You're brought to a grand washitsu, but you don't sit, as there's no one else in the room yet. There are four doors to this room, one at each corner, but they’re all guarded from the outside as well, so you can’t escape. At this rate, you’re going to have to wait for an opening, and that’s entirely out of your control.
Strangely, there's no interior decor, aside from a long floor table and some cushions for seating positioned in the center of the room. You're not sure who you're going to meet, so you brace yourself for the worst.
Someone approaches the guard who led you here. There's a quick exchange of nods in greeting, along with brief whispers, before the former takes his leave immediately. You don't have time to surmise their conversation because the driver tells you.
"Our oyabun will be late. Take a seat first."
You have to pinch the inside of your wrist to prevent yourself from openly rolling your eyes and releasing a strangled groan.
Their boss?! Just! My! Fucking! Luck!
You do as you're told. As you tuck your calves underneath your thighs, the driver-guard shuffles some of the tea ware on the table around and pours your porcelain cup three-quarters full with floral tea. On the outside, the cups are glazed an indigo blue, overlaid with splatters of white and streaks of gray, and the interior is a muted navy, making the tea that reflects transparent chartreuse in open light appear murky and inky inside the cup. The drink itself is hot, tendrils of steam wafting into the air and moistening your fingertips that hover around the rim of the teacup, but you're not a connoisseur by any means, so you can't tell what kind it is by fragrance only. Not that you would drink it to find out, you think, because who the hell would be stupid enough to consume something that's prepared by strangers?
However, your unwillingness to consume the tea must be concealed. Otherwise, these people would take it as a sign of hostility, and then they'd have one more reason to treat you with distrust and suspicion. In times like these, you've learned, you just have to take it in stride.
You roll back your shoulders, stretching out and temporarily easing the knots and strain that are ingrained in your deltoids and trapezius. Then, picking your cup up with one hand wrapped around the side and the other plating the base, you hold the tea up to your nose and breathe the aroma in. It's a soothing scent, one that complements breezy spring afternoons that carry hints of summertime.
Summer… You pause, another flicker of a memory rousing your mind. It will be that time of the year again. You shrug the thought off, though, and go back to enjoying the humid sensation of the steam collecting droplets on the tip of your nose and the familiar, pervading scent of white flowers (is it jasmine? rose? maybe camellia?).
Just as you're tipping back your head, ready to fake a sip of your drink, you hear the collective shuffling of men standing upright, tensing into stillness. At first, you think it's to appear proper and cohesive, but with one look at those nearest to you, you notice their nervous grimaces. You consider the possibility that you're projecting and overanalyzing – Maybe that's how they all look when they're serious –, but again, your trained observations beg to differ. All of them are nervous, arguably intimidated by their approaching boss, and it's like they want to disappear. Even if they're holding you captive, you feel a little sympathy for these subordinates, and you prepare yourself as well.
From around a bend, you hear distant conversation. You can't make anything out, aside from a pitched, affirmative "Yessir!", but there's no time for you to guess because, abruptly, all four doors to the washitsu slide open, the sound of wood zipping against thick rug reverberating through the air and floor. A strong gust from outside spins through the room, which, combined with everything else, startles you. As a result, some of your drink sloshes out and burns your hand. You bite your tongue and place the teacup down onto the table, before turning your head around back and forth to see where the boss could be.
You continue to look around, but after a few circles, you give up, opting to still yourself and look ahead. I have to stay composed, you think. You don't hear any incoming footsteps either, so the oyabun’s probably making a stop elsewhere in the estate first.
Unfortunately, despite your rationale, you can see your quivering hands as they rest on the table. But they feel numb, as if your blood has stopped circulating through the joints and muscle and flesh there, and you take in a shuddering breath, the fresh current of spring air cool and minty against your teeth. You begin to work your hands, hoping light movement will assuage your anxiety.
You also figure that you should finally drink your tea. You take a few more moments to yourself before you reach for your cup.
But you never manage to touch the cup. Because, in a blink of an eye, across from you, sitting with one knee propped up to support an arm, a relaxed posture that either suggests a lack of interest or confidence in his ability or both, is the oyabun of this yakuza gang.
It’s by no means a new sensation, but the last time you felt this way was several summers ago, and it overpowers you instantaneously.
There's a dryness in your throat that no water can satiate, a neverending drop in the pit of your stomach, and a heaviness in your legs that chains you to your seat. And for once, your thoughts are gathered. But they're unanimous and concentrated on a singular definite, horrifying truth, one that weak prey are intimately familiar with when faced with an overpowered predator: you're on the brink of death.
It feels as if your death is guaranteed, and even if it isn’t, it's futile to bet on a yakuza's fickle emotions. Anything you do or say, or the lack thereof, can set them off. This is another lesson you’ve learned, over and over and over.
The oyabun's playful chuckle shakes you out of your shell shock, but it magnifies the fear that controls your entire body.
"Be at ease. You are not in danger."
You're not surprised that he responds so aptly, as if he can read your mind. This man is accustomed to killing, and is well-acquainted with the ghastly, terrified faces of individuals who are aware that they're about to meet their end. And judging by the way he entered this room without even alerting you, if he wanted to, he would’ve finished you before your mind could’ve even begun to process your death.
Even if following his instructions could save your life, you're not exactly sure you can "be at ease." Barely a nod, you dip your chin and avert your eyes, instinctively submitting to his presence.
He laughs again as he pours some tea into his cup. "Well, I understand that that is difficult to do. I know how dangerous it is to lower your guard in unfamiliar territory."
You hear the chalky slide of glazed porcelain against porcelain, followed by his satisfied hum as he takes a sip.
"Do you enjoy tea?" he asks.
Every nerve in your body is screaming at you because surely you're going to lose your life over an untouched cup of tea.
Please – I need my hands to move!
You gulp, though there's no saliva for you to swallow and your throat stings with the contraction, as if you are sick with a cold, as if there are deep cracks and lacerations left behind by the dryness plaguing the length of your esophagus.
"Y-yes…" It's a half-assed response at best. Not that you're lying, but uttering even a single word is difficult for you at the moment. The placement of your tongue, the aperture of your lips, the opening and closing of your mouth have all become unfamiliar, your ability to speak stolen by the spring breeze and the personification of death it has brought along.
"Feel free to help yourself. I am quite a fan of it myself, and throughout all my years here, I have been delighted to enjoy a variety of high-grade teas."
He's foreign?
It's unspeakable for a foreigner, of all people, to be in command of a domestic criminal organization. In fact, due to national pride, foreign members struggle to receive even typical hierarchical promotions in order to give Japanese members priority. The only time you heard of a foreigner coming into power was when you were incredibly young, and everyone was stunned to hear of an ex-Chinese Triad member joining the kanbu of a Japanese syndicate.
You wonder where this person is from, but of course, there's no way you could pry information out of your soon-to-be-murderer. Regardless, your number one priority is to get the fuck out of this place.
"I-I see…" With shaking hands, you manage to pick up your teacup and drink, drink, drink until you've consumed everything, even the last dregs of petal and stem residue. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that he's observing you with an unperturbed smile.
When your cup is placed back onto its matching saucer, which takes an erroneous amount of focus and effort on your end, the oyabun continues talking. "I understand you may be quite confused as to why you are here."
He bows, and you lower yourself as well.
"My men and I want to extend our deepest gratitude to you for saving Yanqing."
"Please," you wheeze, voice wobbling, brain barely capable of a coherent thought, "there is no need. I-I am sure somebody else would ha-have helped."
The yakuza boss, now almost wearing a pained expression, shakes his head. "We cannot always rely on others to save our people. We will pay closer attention to ensure that Yanqing is safe in the future. You will be rewarded handsomely for your kindness."
"N-no, I don't want anything in return."
How do I get out, how do I get out, how –
The boss hums again. This time, it sounds more neutral, lacking the pleasantness from the first time around. It's still rich, a gentle rumbling from deep within his chest, but it's neither reproachful nor approving, and you fear that this impersonal response is leading to a third undesirable outcome.
"Mm, are you sure?" he asks, pressing his cheek deeper into his upturned palm. You didn’t notice earlier, but now, you can't help noting the peculiar silver of his hair and the placement of a mole underneath the outer corner of his left eye. Speaking of which, his eyes aren't even open, but you're sure that he can already see far deep inside of you without even trying. This man has so many unusual characteristics, yet at the same time, either because you're losing it or defenseless or both, they blend together into something familiar.
Truly, it's as if all the fight in you, the resilience and attitude you had earlier when dealing with his subordinates, is rapidly escaping you. Or, it might be more fitting to say that the man in front of you is silencing those parts of you, slowly extinguishing all semblance of hope, leaving you bare and vulnerable and wholly at his mercy. Even your voice of reason has vanished, becoming mute because you don't know what to do in this kind of situation.
"Yes," but it sounds more like a question. You're not sure if you should agree or disagree, acquiesce or refrain, take or pass on his offering. You stand by what you said, but you'd change your answer in a flash if that'd mean saving your life, and after all that you've been through, you need to live.
For once, the oyabun doesn't say anything in turn. Instead, as he straightens out his back and sits upright, several of his men scramble away, leaving only two who stay rooted to their position, likely executives of this gang's kanbu. The doors to the watsushi are not blocked anymore, but as long as you’re in the boss’ vicinity, there is no actual opening that you can take advantage of.
You’ve been ignoring this thought, but with every passing second, it becomes more and more impossible to deny – you’re stuck. Not only did you go into enemy territory on your own with no backup plan, but you also walked straight into the lion’s den. And the lion is simply taunting you, playing with you until he gets bored, after which he’ll promptly dispose of you.
How can I stay alive?
He pours himself another cup as he says, "My apologies, I should have sent them away earlier. I hope you can speak more openly now."
Truthfully, you wish you could ask for permission to leave, but at this point, given how long this conversation has been going on for, you've lost your chance. Inwardly, you bemoan your foolishness and regret not having played the role of a terrorized normal citizen. That way, they probably would've released you to save the hassle of having to deal with a hysterical layperson. Then again, maybe they would’ve killed you on the spot. Regardless, the reality is that your leave will have to wait until the boss decides to let you go, if he wants to at all.
You manage to stammer, "Uh, no worries. Thanks…"
As you trail the end of your sentence, you realize you haven't been addressing him. There's no need for you to call him "boss" as you're not in his gang, and there's no way you can ask for his name either. You ponder, searching for a term that suggests formality and detachment.
In the meantime, it's silent in the watsushi. If he was any less intimidating, you'd think this scene – an objectively attractive man wearing a loose white kimono, his silver hair tied into a ponytail with a striking red cord, sitting motionless and quiet against a backdrop of uniform shoji screens – would seem serene.
Regardless, for better or for worse, it seems your bearings are returning, body and mind growing accustomed to the pressure in the room, so you're more capable of rational thought. Yet again, you urge yourself to keep it together.
It looks like the oyabun has no intention of re-initiating the conversation, so you figure he's gauging your next steps.
Sucking in a deep breath, you speak in your most polite tone. You still have no idea as to how you’re going to survive, but it wouldn’t hurt to buy as much time as you can and pay your respects. "Sir, I appreciate your generosity, and I've given it some thought. I'd be grateful to try any teas that are in season, if you happen to have any on hand."
For the first time, his eyes flutter open, and it feels like you've been struck by a bolt of lightning. Smelted gold, as thick and molten as the ichor of Greek immortals, far more dazzling than beams of sun. Your first thought is one of awe – how is it possible for a human to be capable of such unassailable power and beauty? Your second is one that’s far more bone chilling, an icy jet of adrenaline pumped straight into your veins.
For he is the foreigner in the rumors from your childhood, a cold-blooded man who single-handedly beheaded three dozen associates with ease to earn his role as an executive in his gang. Even if you had never witnessed the slaughtering firsthand, like a deafening clap of thunder that can travel as far as ten to twelve miles away, deep in your rattling skull, you realize that this man kills both with and without purpose. This is no longer about predictability, as there is nothing emotional or practical about this man. Brutality and carnage are intrinsic to his nature, and his carnal desires must be satisfied for his own needs.
You've gotten carried away once more. In fact, the moment your self-assurance came back, you unintentionally downplayed the gravity of your situation. Just because he hasn't done anything yet doesn't mean he won't do anything.
Yet, in spite of your insolence, it seems the oyabun is merciful. He dismisses you with an unreadable stare, along with an understanding hum from his still-smiling lips. One of the two men leaves before returning with a wrapped box that, from the cover reads, is from Hokkaido and contains sachets of plum and cherry green tea. You don’t even remember how you gathered the strength to stand, but you do, and through an alternating series of walkways and right-degree turns, you are brought to the entrance of the estate. Like a habit, like the manners that were beaten into your hands, feet, and back when you were young, you bow at the hips, hold it for three prolonged seconds, and, before you can bid the guards farewell, you sprint down the road that you came up from who knows how long ago.
You run, run, and run, pumping your lungs and legs until they feel as if they are about to rip off, and even then, you push them harder, all the way until you reach the door of your apartment. Relieved to find your keys lodged in your back pocket like they always are, you wrench them out and, after many failed attempts, open the lock to stagger into the entrance of your studio.
You collapse onto the floor. A shoe rack shakes as a corner of it bumps against your elbow as you face plant onto the hardwood floor.
It’s all unbelievable. Your encounter with the ex-Triad member of your childhood nightmares, the long sprint home, the fact that you actually made it out alive and are back home – the past few hours seem surreal. It still feels like you need to keep running away, like they’ll find and catch you if you stop moving.
But you can’t muster any more strength. Your whole body feels sore and on fire, like you've doused yourself with gasoline and self-immolated, like there's electricity coursing through your heart, leaving first-degree burns in its wake.
But you don't believe this pain's solely the result of your mad dash home. Yet there was no static, no crackling sounds, not even a single hair raised.
Lightning can still strike, even if there are no preceding signs.
–
Like all weather events, it takes time for a thunderstorm to develop, and it dispels as soon as it can no longer rage on. Thunderstorms specifically go through four phases: growth, development, electrification, and dissipation.
Growth and development, together known as the developing or building stage, begin when warm, moist air rises in an updraft, and at a certain altitude, combines to form a large cumulus cloud. If the warm air inside the cloud is at a higher temperature than that of the exterior, condensation takes place and droplets form, but rain does not fall.
At this stage, the cumulus is only four to seven kilometres in height and five to eight in length on average, so to any onlooker, it has yet to look like a storm cloud.
–
Your phone buzzes as soon as you drop down onto the couch. While the restaurant owner takes her usual lunch hour nap, you choose to decompress in the backroom that looks more like a senior citizen's living room, no thanks to its old 2000s TV with grainy display, bulkish frames, and broken speakers, an unplugged kotatsu, and a large shelf full of dust-covered books and miscellaneous figurines from grandchildren located a bullet train away in Tokyo. After rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you check to find a text message notification from your closest friend.
Hana: wanna call
You: aren't u at work
Hana: fck work
She picks up on the first ring of your video call.
"Don't tell me you're in the fucking bathroom again," you groan as you lean further into the deflated back of the couch.
Hana scowls and flips you off. "You know this is the only place at work I can call you from without getting caught."
"Well, you've been caught once before –"
"Only because that blind ass bat decided to use this toilet for, like, the first time ever. Never again since."
You shrug. Your friend's always been spitfire incarnate, tongue a cutting thing, glares yet sharper. You suppose it's her expertise, aggravating others with only her presence. She's also incredibly impatient, and when you don't give her a vocal response, she snaps.
"Say something! I'm getting in trouble because of you!"
You stifle a honk of a laugh by clearing your throat instead. "My most beloved goddess, Hana the Terminator, thank you for bestowing me your time and grace."
"I’m not that unforgiving – you've been watching too many movies again," she spits, along with a slap to her forehead.
Despite all her controversial traits, though, she's your most trusted confidant – the only remnant from your past that you keep in touch with.
Hana quirks her eyebrow, to urge you to speak your mind because she already knows something's plaguing you. After all these years, you're convinced she can read minds.
You sigh. "Hana."
Paying no mind, she presses onward. "What happened? Did a customer throw their plate at you again?"
"No, work's fine."
Her eyes narrow. "Alright. Is it something we can't talk about?"
When you ran away, you made Hana promise that the two of you would never talk about anything of the past or your childhood again. After all, you escaped with the intent to leave everything you knew behind, and one necessary step was to never think about it all anymore. And she's made good on that promise this whole time, so it’s hypocritical that you’re breaking it.
You look away from the screen and mumble, "I know I said I never wanted to talk about it again, but… I was wondering if I could ask you a question."
She snorts. "Sure."
Your eyes flicker back to the screen, and you see that Hana's switched off her camera, most likely so that she can hold the call to her ear and lower the volume to prevent any eavesdropping.
"I think this happened when we were nine? Ten? It definitely happened when we were in the middle of that turf war, and then we suddenly got news that all these guys in the other prefecture got fucking oblitered by an ex-Triad member. Do you remember?"
You hear her suck in a breath through gritted teeth. "Fucking course. Shit – why are you asking about this?"
Hana's harsh whisper sounds… thin, like a leaf shaking in autumn, its stem clinging onto a branch right before it's about to snap and float to the ground, only to be trodden over and torn apart into several pieces, never whole again. After having met the person yourself, you understand why even a mere mention of him can send anyone spiraling.
Ignoring her question, you press, "What was his name?"
It's almost comedic how audible her gulp is – guttural, like she's about to vomit into the toilet bowl that she's sitting on. "Jing Yuan."
"What group –"
Suddenly, there's background noise that interrupts you. There's the clicking of heels, knocks against a bathroom stall, some garbled words made worse by a bad signal.
"Shit," Hana hisses. "That bat's back again – whatever you do, stay away from that motherfucker, alright? I love you."
And the call ends. You didn't even get a chance to parrot "love you" back, but it can't be helped, you think. You’ll call again next month, and there’s no doubt she'll drill you on your questions and the intent behind them. Anyway, for now, your focus is to ensure that your peaceful life won't be disturbed again. Even without Hana's warning, you've already experienced enough to know that you never want to cross paths with Jing Yuan ever again.
Nighttime falls before you know it. After the lunch break, you and the restaurant owner spent the late afternoon prepping for the dinner rush, and ever since the only other apprentice quit three weeks ago, the two of you have been busier than before.
It's not uncommon for young people to go without a college degree, as the national law only requires at minimum a middle school diploma, so when you left home on an arbitrary Tuesday night in the middle of your first year in high school, the only way to support yourself was to get a job. You had enough of an allowance to hop on a random train to a more remote town, and once you arrived here, you rotated between jobs as a cashier at a convenience store, a dishwasher and waitress at multiple diners and izakayas, as well as a librarian. Now that you're in your 20s, you've settled down in this restaurant as an apprentice, and eventually, when the owner decides to step down, you'll take over.
This place has grown on you, and you'd really like to stay.
There are no angry customers or broken dishes throughout the evening, and aside from a few hiccups with the cash register, you get off work without a hitch. On a good day like today, you can leave by 10PM.
Your place is just a five-minute walk away, and upon you return, you're greeted by a dark room that contains nothing except for a kitchen, a mattress, a computer charging in the corner, and a tall stack of borrowed books you plan to finish over the upcoming weekend.
There's also that box of Hokkaido tea sachets that's resting on your kitchen countertop. For some reason, in the month since you received it, you haven't been able to throw it away. You've already discarded the wrapping paper, and the box doesn't look like it's been tampered with. In fact, it looks new, as if Jing Yuan himself received it as a respectable present of sorts, but you never know what it could contain, and you don't intend to find out.
You're just relieved that you haven't been bothered by Jing Yuan or his gang since your encounter. Initially, you were paranoid, so disturbed and worried that they'd come after you to the point that you called in sick and didn't leave your room for a whole week. Then, you had no choice but to do your best to resume work and other parts of your usual routine, but you refused to make any deliveries (and still do, too). After all, the whole reason why you were in the neighborhood where you met Yanqing was because you were on your way back from dropping off an order, and you never want to go back there ever again.
It's a shame, you think, still staring at the large printed words on the cover of the box. I might have to leave this place soon.
–
Weekends are more relaxed because the restaurant’s only open for lunch. The owner reserves her weekend evenings to spend time with her son and granddaughter, and you're not skilled enough to run the establishment on your own yet.
You're awoken by the sound of your doorbell buzzing. Disoriented, you sit up with a jolt, the room spinning a little as you strain to clear your head. It rings again. With a shout – "One moment, please!" –, you roll out of your covers and hobble towards the front door.
From your peephole, you see that a deliveryman is waiting outside your front door with a package in his arms. It's a dark cardboard box with logos dotting the exterior in diagonals, but you don't recognize the design nor are there other legible clues for you to discern.
"Ma'am, I need you to sign this slip," the deliveryman announces.
You furrow your bows and, through your half-conscious daze, struggle to recount if you've ordered anything as of late. Try as you might, nothing comes to mind. You see the worker glancing at his wristwatch, and you feel bad for keeping him waiting. Fueled by guilt, you end up opening the door and signing the slip.
It could be the owner, you think. Sometimes, she likes to send you things without notice, so you figure it might be another load of cherries or a few hand-me-down shirts from her daughter-in-law who she's convinced is around your height. Anyway, with an impatient nod and a snatch of the sheet in your hand, the deliveryman leaves you alone to haul the package back into your apartment.
You heave it over and drop it next to your mattress for a closer inspection. You're almost tempted to look over it later and resume your post-shift nap, but common sense wins, and you need to confirm the nature of this mystery delivery. The packaging label tells you the sender seems to be a store located in Kyoto. More specifically, as you search them up on your phone, it's a pottery shop. By now, it's clear this package isn't something you had bought for yourself, and you doubt it's from the restaurant owner either. For a second, you consider the possibility that the deliveryman made a mistake, misread your apartment number or something, but another glance at the packaging label and your name is legibly printed on it.
You click onto the shop website where you learn that customers can go in to make their own creations, as well as purchase already-made goods, which you check out next. The catalog is a few pages long, but the products are all of the same thing: tea sets.
Struck with a chilling sense of fear and despair, you jump in your skin and choke out a horrified gasp.
How is that possible?
With wide eyes, your neck snaps to the side, towards the kitchen, at the box sitting on the countertop. You're on your feet within a second, and stride over to it. Without a single ounce of care or consideration, you rip the box open, shredding the cover into two uneven halves, and your eyes bore so deeply into the four columns of tea sachets that your vision begins darkening. But still, nothing seems out of place. You then dump all of the tea sachets into the sink, wondering if there's anything hidden beneath them. Yet again, nothing appears, so there's either nothing or a device so small that you can't discern it simply by looking.
Leaving the mess in your kitchen, you stalk back to the delivery you just received, and with sheer brute force that you can only summon when enraged, your nails tear through the packing tape and rip open the flaps of the package. You toss out the top layer of bubble wrap to unveil a white box with a translucent top that has an envelope taped onto it.
At first glance, it seems like an obligatory thank you card that small businesses usually send with every purchase. However, the printed silver cursive reads: "A special gift to a special someone!"
It's tough choosing between laughing in disbelief and yelling disgusted expletives, so you opt to remain silent, a blankness that can mean nothing and everything all at once. You tear off the card and flip it over to find a longer message.
To a dear friend. I hope this present suits your taste, and may we find another time to converse over tea again.
The building stage of a thunderstorm can take as short as an hour. In other words, it's possible for a clear, sunny day to suddenly become overcast, an impending storm ready to unleash, no longer an impossibility beyond the horizon.
Just like how you were able to turn yourself around in one night, it is equally feasible for your current life to be disrupted, uprooted, and made into a hell, all within an afternoon.
–
In the development stage, the air within the stormcloud and between the earth has an insulatory property to combat the mess of swirling particles of both positive and negative charges. The magnetism between the opposite charges is not great enough to cause electrical discharge, so like river water flowing between pieces of driftwood that dream of the whole they've broken off from, the air keeps the particles separate enough to further delay the inevitable sparks and flashes of electricity, of the cloud's heated turmoil.
–
Jing Yuan can be an incredibly talkative person, you learn. From your last meeting, he seemed like someone who wouldn't mind awkward silence, but as you kneel across from him on the other side of the same low-rise table in the same watsushi, with your hands clasped together in your lap, you listen as he explains Yanqing's situation.
His eyes are closed again.
"We managed to apprehend the man. He was a mediocre hitman desperate to pay off a debt he owed to his landlord, so he was by no means difficult to track or dispose of. I apologize, again, for the trouble Yanqing had caused you. I have reminded him to tell us when he is in danger."
Because of how terrified you were before, you couldn't pay much attention to Jing Yuan, other than the grossly intimidating aura he encased the whole estate and everything within it. It's not like you're not scared of him this time, but it's clear that he has no intention of killing you. This, you know for sure, is not based on urges as flimsy as idealized delusion or optimistic preconception, but rather by the fact that Jing Yuan has, like the volume of a speaker, lowered his display of domineering might and is making space for actual conversation.
Listening, you nod once.
He continues, "Yanqing is still exceedingly young, so he may not know what is best for him. He has acute instincts that can alert him of danger, but I am afraid he lacks experience in properly responding and protecting himself."
His voice is smooth, thoughtful, like that of a quiet, concerned father. But there's also an edge of dissatisfaction – a warning, but to whom, you're not sure. Still, it comes off as generally easygoing and warm, a savoring of warm brandy on a full belly, and if you were daringly reckless, you would've suggested he switch careers to become an audiobook narrator instead. In the context of the yakuza world, though, you have no doubt that this soothing, borderline seductive tone of his has drawn out countless dangerous secrets and several pieces of classified information from lustful tongues and fatigued minds. You wonder, then, what he wants from you.
It looks like it's your turn to finally say something. After all, since your arrival 15 minutes ago, you haven't uttered a single word.
"I'm sure he's learning, Sir. He's in good hands."
Not that any of these people are good.
"We will see. He did mention that you advised him to speak up as well, so I figured there was no need for me to repeat myself too many times."
"Ah," your voice cracks as you lower your head, "I overstepped."
"No, it is quite alright. I am not his actual father, so I appreciate help from others. It is important for him to learn from as many adults as he can, from their successes, as well as their silly wiles."
You feel a lurch within your upper body, the familiar emetic sensation from a month ago hitting you again. While you're not an immediate threat, it seems he still has his reservations.
"Anyway," the oyabun transitions, "I wanted to ask. How do you like the gift I mailed to you? I hope the whole set came intact."
Frankly, you haven't spared the tea set another glance. All of your thoughts were ensnared by the laminated note card, and you still can't believe he went so far as to find your address.
The need to escape rests heavily on your mind, but the matter is no longer as simple as leaving the estate. Since he knows where you live, the only option that remains is for you to move away, and it’s not as spontaneously easy to run away as it once was when you were a teenager. You have to communicate and apologize to the restaurant owner, clean out your apartment, and find a new place to start anew – all of which require at least a few hours.
I’ll leave tomorrow night. I just need to play along and not get killed today. By tomorrow night, I’ll be safe.
The thought placates you sufficiently, and you redirect your full attention to Jing Yuan.
With a palm over your heart, you say, "They're beautiful, though I haven't had the chance to use them. Thank you so much for the generous gift."
He chuckles, though they sound more like a lion's heavy purrs. It's a rich sound, as obscene and dense as melted dark chocolate. "No rush, you received it just yesterday. I know they may appear simple, but mashikos are made with stark red clay from the town they are named after and are appreciated for their captivating minimalism. I hope you can find daily use in them."
You nod once more, fully knowing they'll never be touched – just like the torrent of questions swirling around and around in your head.
Jing Yuan speaks, as if aware of the conclusion you've come to. "Initially, I was hesitant in sending you the gift. But I am glad I chose to. While I do not mean to indebt you to us, I was wondering if I could discuss a matter… with you.”
With feigned stoicism, the kind that only years of practice can produce, you acquiesce, "Sure, but I do not know if I can be of much help."
You watch as he picks up a thin folder that’s laid on the ground to his right and sets it on top of the center of the table. He then opens it to reveal a neat pile of glossy photographs bound together by a paper clip.
"I am curious to know if you recognize anything in these photographs," he instructs as he lays four out in a row. "It can be any of the individuals or objects in the background. Anything that can tell you of the general setting."
Your ears begin to drum loudly as your head pounds and pounds with intensifying force and rhythm. It hurts so much that you can't resist the need to wince as beads of sweat form at your temples. It's as if you're the main character of a movie who's suffering from amnesia, and you're experiencing a brief moment of recollection, stabbing prickles of familiarity and bright flashes of images that slip away almost immediately. Except your flashbacks don't slip away. They linger and haunt, meandering and taunting you when you try to make them disappear. Even after all these years, all these kilometers of distance, the regret and guilt hit you with the same brutality, a bone-crushing punch in the stomach that wrecks your organs and renders you helpless and panicked.
Not now, you think, but your internal pleas are futile. You’re utterly helpless, and escape is no longer a priority, the possibility of succeeding having long been impossible.
The first photo, starting from the right, is a scenic snapshot of a hillside overpass. In late elementary school, you frequented this place every night with Hana and her older brother, Haru, demanding that you be brought here to see the sun set before you retreated home for the day.
How does he know?
The second is blurrier, the flash of the camera mostly blinding everything but the edges out. There are several flags with store signs waving out front, and if you're reading them correctly, some of the names are restaurants in the downtown area of your hometown. You never went downtown often as there were always way too many people, but you know all the store owners feared your family.
How does he know?!
You don't recognize the third, which shows a four-story office building.
The fourth, however, causes you to still. Anyone looking at the image would, too, with the amount of blood and specks of flesh smeared against the wall, the emptied shells of bullets lying on the floor, and, in the center of it all, a man's face that’s half-bruised, a disturbing palette of waste green, toxic purple, and old yellow.
But your blood runs cold primarily for another reason. The other half of the man's face is less damaged, features more intact and, therefore, recognizable. You don't know him, per se, in that he doesn't jog any sense of familiarity, doesn't trigger an "aha!" moments where a lightbulb goes off and a new memory plays in your mind's theatre. You can't put a name to his face or pick him out among the crowds in your memories.
What you do recognize is the pin hanging loosely from the lapel of his torn blazer. Despite the camera flash, its reflection is dim, no thanks to the dried blood smeared entirely over it. Though it doesn't matter. Even if that pin was caked in layers of mud or glazed over with pitch black paint to create an opacity so deep it absorbs all light, you're sure you'd still be able to see the pen strokes, the exact points at which they overlap and interstice to form the kanji character that you abandoned at age 20.
HOW DOES HE KNOW WHO I AM.
If you could, you'd snatch the photo to see this man – who is closer than a stranger but too distant to be family – and sob out at once. Your hands would be shaking, one might even come up to cover your gaping mouth, and you'd continue to struggle to see the image clearly enough through your flooding tears.
It takes you a few seconds to realize that your reactions are not figments of your imagination. This battered mess of a man, albeit only a photograph of his aftermath, is pinched between your shaking fingers, your fingerprint smeared against the edges, and painful whimpers escape from under your breath. You don't want to think about how much you're crying.
There are a few moments of heavy silence before Jing Yuan's voice pierces through your grief. "I see you are aware."
Your eyes flicker to him. There's no smile stretching his lips, but he doesn't look like he pities or sympathizes with you. He's just waiting until you are capable of conversation again. You're sure that, internally, he's pleased, at the very least, that you’re finally playing his game.
You should be angry. Furious, even. Of course, you can't rage or else you'll get killed, but still, flames of wrath should be searing the back of your throat and pulsing through your arms, licking at your stone-cold feet to just fucking wake up and Run! – to Jing Yuan, to your apartment, to somewhere far, far away.
But there are no fires. There is no hint of rage. Instead, you ring hollow, outplayed and defeated in a game you never asked to be born into.
With a tumor in your throat, you croak, "How did you find out?"
"I did not."
His answer surprises you, but it withers away into indifference nonetheless. Though, maybe you're misunderstanding him, the oyabun sounds oddly candid.
"In China," he continues, "the people largely believe in this concept called yuan fen. I believe it is called en in Japan, which is very similar to the symbol of yuan. I am not as spiritualistic as I used to be, but I believe, in certain matters, that fate can be a source of interference. And in this case, this relationship between you" – his voice drops and thins out, louder than a whisper, dimmer than his usual speech – "and me may be a result of fate's fickle tricks. It is a result of our yuan fen that we have connected as such."
Your head drops. The photo's crumpled from your unrelenting hold, so you set it on the table to prevent further damage. You've already caused so much harm, not just within this tatami room, so if you can spare anyone any more pain, you'd like to refrain from humiliating yourself further. All you can do is wait for this motherfucker to tell you what's to come next.
"Though, at present, I am sure my words are meaningless and serve barely any comfort," Jing Yuan says.
When you don't respond, he hums. It's a thoughtful rumble, as he ruminates on how he should proceed.
You save him the effort and, through drying, cracked tears, croak, "I grew up in this town. If it is information or connections you want, I can try to help, but just know that I have not been back there in years."
Even though you're no longer looking at him, you can hear the smile – unperturbed, sickeningly mild – on his face. "That sounds like the perfect arrangement."
With a brush of his ponytail behind his shoulder, a subordinate paces over and stands at attention. You wonder how wilted you must look to the guards surrounding your perimeter, how lifeless and placid and bleak you've become within minutes, even if none of them have known you for more than a day.
The oyabun instructs, "Prepare a room for our guest. We will be relying on her, so treat her well. Tell Yanqing, too, that he should be mindful not to disturb her."
Unfazed, you raise your hand, which causes Jing Yuan to turn his attention back to you.
"Yes?"
"How long will I be staying here for?" you ask.
"We would like to move on from this matter within a week. Will that be a problem for you?"
There are no promises of leaving you alone afterwards or compensating you or, at minimum, apologizing for the mental anguish he's inflicted on you from everything that's transpired. Those promises would be empty anyway, but that's not the point. Jing Yuan is demanding because he intends to be. He’s consciously taking full advantage of the fact that you can't refuse even the most outrageous of his requests, while going so far as to sugarcoat his exploitation with a charming voice and an irritating smirk when he doesn't need to. Every single action is premeditated to help you realize how powerless you are.
But you already know. You've always been too weak. You've never let yourself forget.
You shake your head. "Not at all."
One by one, his subordinates take off, until only the two of you remain. You find that a little odd, as to dismiss all of his men means he is exposing himself to being ambushed, but you shrug, figuring that Jing Yuan is more than capable of defending himself. It wouldn't surprise you if he's able to catch a flying bullet and tear apart limbs with his bare hands.
"One last question," Jing Yuan states.
You peer up at him, to find that he has stood up and is rounding around to your side of the table. Naturally, your body tenses up, muscles and joints locking up, and you follow his frame with rapt dread as he makes his way to you.
He sits down right beside you, and with a downward tilt of his chin, opens his eyes to gaze at you. He has only just decided that you are worth being seen, being perceived, and you wish you could spit in his face.
Instead, you bite down on your lower lip with gritted teeth and a jaw so tense it shakes with strain. And when you watch his hand come up to trace the hollows of your cheek, you have to pierce your nails into your palms to prevent the screams bubbling up your throat. Even worse, when he leans closer, enough for his slow, tempered exhales to tickle your forehead, you freeze, body paralyzed from the lightning of his eyes.
"In order for this arrangement to work," Jing Yuan mutters, though with the way he's speaking into your ears, it sounds like a ravenous purr, "we need to be transparent with each other, yes?"
Out of sheer instinct, your hands fly up, about to push the man away. But simultaneously, you have no urge to touch the man, or have him touch you, so they simply pause midair.
Another rumble of amusement resounds from his chest and reverberates through your ears. You can feel his fingers cascade down the side of your face before his hand wraps around to settle at the base of your neck, with his thumb propped underneath your jaw to lift your head up. You want to tear yourself from his hold, but the unwavering steadiness in his hand – not a single tremble, surgical in precision – and the unfamiliar warm touch warn you not to, beckoning you to savor the murky sensations instead.
You're cheek to cheek, so close that you can catch the scent of something green, and musky, then metallic. And, like the final gust of chilling wind right before a storm unleashes, he breathes, deafening and hushed all at once, "Can you promise me your utmost honesty and sincerity?"
There's no air in your lungs. He already knows your answer.
You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.
yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+
word count: ~10,600
cw: explicit language, mentions and descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/etc., symptoms of severe ptsd + anxiety, stalking, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, suggestive tension, implied age gap, ocs as side characters
notes: i'm surprised this made it out of the wip vault. it's my birthday, so here's my gift to everyone. infinite thank yous to my wonderful betas, @staraxiaa and @pranabefall, because they both read through 4-5 different drafts, and entertained my jy brain worms and gaping plot holes throughout the entire process. i always feel so loved by the two of you. thank you to @lorelune as well for your very informative yandere jy thoughts, which helped form the basis of jy's and reader's characters in this au. this story is likely going to come in 3-4 parts, and each part will be around this length, if not longer, so please be patient with me. thank you for your support, and i will take a shot after i post this.
part i - part ii
LIGHTNING IS electrical discharge that occurs between charges within a thunderstorm cloud or between the cloud and the ground. Thunder is the sound that lightning produces, and depending on the length of silence between seeing a spark and hearing its subsequent boom, you can estimate how far away a strike was from you.
While thunderstorms are not something to worry about, it is necessary to take precautions. As such, safety protocols for when you are outdoors are as follows: seek shelter as soon as possible, such as a car or a building, but if not available, find an open space away from bodies of water and stick as low to the ground without lying down.
You will know if where you are located is in grave danger of a lightning strike if you can see and feel the hairs on your body stick up. Get as far away as possible as soon as you recognize the signs.
–
"Child, haven't your folks ever taught you to not follow strangers?"
There are two people in front of you: a man dressed head to toe in black and a child with dirty blonde hair carrying his backpack on the front. You can't identify the man, thanks to his baseball cap, tinted sunglasses, and mask, and if you weren't trying to intervene in the situation as you are right now, you'd scoff at how stupid the kid is. Speaking of the latter, he looks like an elementary schooler, probably attending the academy two blocks south from here. From what you can recall, the academy is prestigious in the prefecture, so you also pity him because, out of all of the school children who are walking home at the moment, he was picked.
The kidnapper (there's no doubt about that) snarls, and you're grateful he's wearing his mask or else he probably would've spit in your face. "Hey, I'm not a stranger. You know me, right?"
He stretches an arm out to the boy, as if beckoning the two of them to hold hands. It might just be a passionate gesture instead, but you couldn't care less about the difference, so you lean your weight onto one leg and wait for the younger one's reaction.
To your dismay, the kid nods. However, at the same time, his grip on his backpack tightens, pale knuckles and joints pulling taut and red, and as children are, untrained in deception and falsehood, a grimace spreads across his round cheeks.
You glance around. There are a few guardians looking your way, and most of the unaccompanied children have scuttled away at this point. If you don't finish and leave soon, you might be mistaken as an accomplice.
Squatting down, you lower yourself so that you're face to face with the elementary schooler. Someone, a long time ago, said that was the best way to communicate with children without instilling fear or intimidation. With a jut of your chin, in the direction of the kidnapper, you ask, "How do you know this bastard?"
"B-bastard?! You –"
The boy doesn't bat an eye at your crude choice of insult. "He's been following me around after school for the past week."
Clearly, aside from being a kidnapper, this guy also sucks ass at his job.
You decide to not say that thought out loud and proceed asking the boy questions. "So it's your first time speaking to him?"
"Yeah." The child nods, body and backpack jostling in unison. You've always thought those randoserus were too massive.
"Verdict's out, then," you say, holding your forearms up as if in surrender. Then, with a deep sigh, you stand back up and shoot the kidnapper a confrontational glare.
Without a word, the man lurches for the young boy, but having foretold his rashness and stupidity, with a quick duck, a jab of your elbow against his solar plexus, and a swift uppercut to the underside of his jaw, you disable the man's balance enough for him to fall over. Then, with a tug of your phone to release it from your back pocket, you activate an SOS alert.
"Child," you say, not even a beat later, as if nothing had happened, "I've notified the police. Next time, tell someone, before it's too late."
However, instead of relief, which you expected, the child visibly jumps at the word "police," eyes bursting wide open, mouth parting for rapid, shallow inhales, hands tomato red. He's panicking, way more than at any moment throughout his interaction with his almost-kidnapper. You wonder if it's just a delayed response to a traumatic event, but before you can even attempt to calm the kid down, he grabs you by your pants, and with a force that only energetic, tireless children have, he drags you down the block and around the corner.
"What the actual fuck – Stop fucking dragging me – Are you –"
You almost fall over when the kid suddenly lets go, friction and momentum ploughing into one another at your center of balance, and by the time you collect yourself, you've realized he's brought you to a parked car. It reminds you of the man from earlier – dressed and designed to conceal what's inside. The boy has left you to wrap himself around the leg of a man in a pressed suit, who's also wearing sunglasses. You're starting to wonder if you've accidentally stumbled onto a movie set or, worse, isekai-ed into some shitty Western Men in Black alternate universe without having been run over by a truck.
Anywho, you'd like to go home, so you need to extricate yourself from this situation as soon as possible.
Arms out by your side, hands and fingers spread out to show that you're not holding anything, you clear your throat to speak. "Hi, I, uh, helped that child escape from a suspicious person. I also called the police, but, well, um…" You sense two more individuals come up behind you. "It seems like the authorities won't be necessary anymore."
The man that the kid's clinging onto bends down. "Young Master, is that true?"
The boy nods, fiercely rubbing his flushed face into the crisp fabric of who you intuit is his primary bodyguard.
"I see."
With a flick of the primary bodyguard's wrist, the two behind you walk over and open the doors to the back row of the car. It seems like you've done a sufficient job to not be suspected, so with an informal bow, you excuse yourself and begin to turn around to navigate your way back.
“Could you wait for a moment?”
For a minute, the primary bodyguard turns around to face away from you, and from his hand that hovers over his right ear, he's mumbling into his earpiece, likely inquiring for further instructions from his employer or whoever's in charge. After a few minutes, he turns back around, and without making eye contact, you can sense his line of sight trained on the back of your head. In the meantime, you hear the kid shuffle into his seat, a door shutting behind him.
That means the other door remains open. Even with the engine grumbling, the body of the car thrumming for velocity and acceleration, it's clear they're not going to leave without you.
But you have no intention to comply. You fold your arms over your chest, and the space between your eyebrows divots into a frown. You spin back around and, in a firm tone, though without sounding too demanding, you state, "I’m on shift right now. I need to get back to my workplace."
The primary bodyguard doesn’t budge. "The Young Master would like you to accompany him home."
Your face wrinkles even more. The situation's becoming unnecessarily complex, and if you let them sway you now, there's bound to be more problems that'll occur later down the line that will complicate your life in irreversible ways.
You weren't expecting to save a kid that had adults at his beck and call, and even so, there's no reason for them to invite you over. Their stubbornness is problematic, and you want nothing to do with it.
"I really need to head back now. I'm not sure if your Young Master would like a stranger to accompany him, after all that has happened as of late."
The primary bodyguard fishes for something in the inner pocket of his blazer. You watch as he pulls out a pin resting in the curve of his palm, no larger than the pad of your thumb, flashing onyx and gold whenever it catches the trickles of sunlight that manage to seep through the wall of white concertinaed fencing and trimmed leafy hedges lining the road.
You bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to pierce through the uppermost layer of skin. You didn't save a kid from an esteemed household; you saved the next head of a yakuza gang.
Just my fucking luck.
You curse yourself for your impolite behavior, even if it was deserved. At this point, you have no other choice than to comply because you wouldn’t survive a brawl with three trained bodyguards.
I’ll leave as quickly as I can and never bother with them again.
With uneasy steps, you approach the car and slide into the seat next to the young boy. The primary bodyguard also joins, sitting in the front passenger seat.
The kid's strapped into his seat, still hugging his backpack close to his chest. Now you understand why that is the case. From this close of a distance, you can see the thick lining of the backpack more clearly, and the color is more matte compared to the usual shine of a typical randoseru. This boy knows there are numerous targets on his head, and he's making full use of the bag's bulletproof casing, designed to defend him during violent encounters.
"You're coming with?" he asks, voice more placid than before. In fact, you'd even go as far as to say that he's demonstrating interest in a stranger like yourself, but if you were to utter that observation aloud, you'd probably be dead.
"Yeah," you breathe, holding back any snark, and stare out the window, elaborating no further.
Promptly, the car peels away and rolls onto the main road.
The drive doesn't take long. The neighborhood is large, a residential area that spans the cleared side of a sloping mountain, and you watch as the car weaves through local streets before curving onto a private path that leads upwards. You've always been aware that there are filthy rich families settled in this part of town, but you never knew one of these properties belonged to a gang.
Actually, it's more like you had hoped a gang wouldn’t have settled in this city at all. There's that statistic you heard way back in middle school – that, on average, one in seven people are sociopaths –, and from your experience, the sentiment's partially realistic. In any case, the yakuza are more present in normal society than you'd believe.
On that note, not all yakuza gangs are bad. Just like how not every person's born a genius and not every business can succeed, not every band of yakuzas can scale up to become massive syndicates. For that matter, some gangs don't even start off with that goal in mind, and prefer to play vigilante in protecting and guarding their territory. But you can't speak much to these "nicer" groups since you've never mingled with them before.
Regardless, it seems all yakuzas have the same taste in traditional Japanese architecture: aged hinoki and red pine, raked rock gardens of sandy white, ponds with speckled koi fish. The car pulls onto the property through automatic wooden gates and parks on the vast driveway.
You take a deep breath. For the most part, you remember your way back. You can’t help but feel grateful that you know this town so well – worst comes to worst, you can run home through various shortcuts and alleyways.
The driver speaks up, and it’s a little jarring, given that no one had spoken throughout the entire drive. "We have arrived, Young Master. Please let us help you out."
But the boy doesn't wait, already unbuckling his seatbelt and wiggling the handle of the door until his pops open. You, on the other hand, don't move, as you haven't been instructed to do anything yet. You watch as the kid pushes himself out of the car, stumbling over his feet when he initially lands on the concrete, and dashes into the estate as soon as he rights himself, the thumping of the heavy-duty backpack against his chest echoing even when you can't see him anymore. Without a moment to spare, the primary bodyguard paces after him.
"You," the driver grunts, as if you're a chore, "follow me."
As you step out of the car, you note a door to the side that leads out to the main road.
There are men everywhere. They stand uniform along the engawa, and all within your vicinity stare hawkishly at you. Most are in what seems to be the standard suit attire, but there are also those who are less prim and have opted for untucked white shirts and dirty sneakers. But the few deviants don't matter – it's clear this group works like an armed force, militaristic in aura, efficient in behavior, and no doubt merciless in combat. So far, you’ve walked past over a dozen, so it’s best that you don’t engage in any reckless fighting.
Almost instinctively, your nose scrunches in disdain. This atmosphere brings back a flood of unpleasant childhood memories, mainly of where you grew up and the people who raised you. It can't be helped, you suppose, with how eerily familiar everything is, and your expression subsequently smooths out back into one of caution and wariness.
You replace the flashbacks with inane observations, like the driver's habit of pulling his lighter out of his pocket before stowing it away again, almost like he's paranoid it'll be pickpocketed, an area of the mansion that's walled off for renovation, the distant honks of a train chugging by. Objectively, it's a neat and established place, and that makes this syndicate all the more terrifying. Yakuzas are only as rich as the number of lives they take.
You're brought to a grand washitsu, but you don't sit, as there's no one else in the room yet. There are four doors to this room, one at each corner, but they’re all guarded from the outside as well, so you can’t escape. At this rate, you’re going to have to wait for an opening, and that’s entirely out of your control.
Strangely, there's no interior decor, aside from a long floor table and some cushions for seating positioned in the center of the room. You're not sure who you're going to meet, so you brace yourself for the worst.
Someone approaches the guard who led you here. There's a quick exchange of nods in greeting, along with brief whispers, before the former takes his leave immediately. You don't have time to surmise their conversation because the driver tells you.
"Our oyabun will be late. Take a seat first."
You have to pinch the inside of your wrist to prevent yourself from openly rolling your eyes and releasing a strangled groan.
Their boss?! Just! My! Fucking! Luck!
You do as you're told. As you tuck your calves underneath your thighs, the driver-guard shuffles some of the tea ware on the table around and pours your porcelain cup three-quarters full with floral tea. On the outside, the cups are glazed an indigo blue, overlaid with splatters of white and streaks of gray, and the interior is a muted navy, making the tea that reflects transparent chartreuse in open light appear murky and inky inside the cup. The drink itself is hot, tendrils of steam wafting into the air and moistening your fingertips that hover around the rim of the teacup, but you're not a connoisseur by any means, so you can't tell what kind it is by fragrance only. Not that you would drink it to find out, you think, because who the hell would be stupid enough to consume something that's prepared by strangers?
However, your unwillingness to consume the tea must be concealed. Otherwise, these people would take it as a sign of hostility, and then they'd have one more reason to treat you with distrust and suspicion. In times like these, you've learned, you just have to take it in stride.
You roll back your shoulders, stretching out and temporarily easing the knots and strain that are ingrained in your deltoids and trapezius. Then, picking your cup up with one hand wrapped around the side and the other plating the base, you hold the tea up to your nose and breathe the aroma in. It's a soothing scent, one that complements breezy spring afternoons that carry hints of summertime.
Summer… You pause, another flicker of a memory rousing your mind. It will be that time of the year again. You shrug the thought off, though, and go back to enjoying the humid sensation of the steam collecting droplets on the tip of your nose and the familiar, pervading scent of white flowers (is it jasmine? rose? maybe camellia?).
Just as you're tipping back your head, ready to fake a sip of your drink, you hear the collective shuffling of men standing upright, tensing into stillness. At first, you think it's to appear proper and cohesive, but with one look at those nearest to you, you notice their nervous grimaces. You consider the possibility that you're projecting and overanalyzing – Maybe that's how they all look when they're serious –, but again, your trained observations beg to differ. All of them are nervous, arguably intimidated by their approaching boss, and it's like they want to disappear. Even if they're holding you captive, you feel a little sympathy for these subordinates, and you prepare yourself as well.
From around a bend, you hear distant conversation. You can't make anything out, aside from a pitched, affirmative "Yessir!", but there's no time for you to guess because, abruptly, all four doors to the washitsu slide open, the sound of wood zipping against thick rug reverberating through the air and floor. A strong gust from outside spins through the room, which, combined with everything else, startles you. As a result, some of your drink sloshes out and burns your hand. You bite your tongue and place the teacup down onto the table, before turning your head around back and forth to see where the boss could be.
You continue to look around, but after a few circles, you give up, opting to still yourself and look ahead. I have to stay composed, you think. You don't hear any incoming footsteps either, so the oyabun’s probably making a stop elsewhere in the estate first.
Unfortunately, despite your rationale, you can see your quivering hands as they rest on the table. But they feel numb, as if your blood has stopped circulating through the joints and muscle and flesh there, and you take in a shuddering breath, the fresh current of spring air cool and minty against your teeth. You begin to work your hands, hoping light movement will assuage your anxiety.
You also figure that you should finally drink your tea. You take a few more moments to yourself before you reach for your cup.
But you never manage to touch the cup. Because, in a blink of an eye, across from you, sitting with one knee propped up to support an arm, a relaxed posture that either suggests a lack of interest or confidence in his ability or both, is the oyabun of this yakuza gang.
It’s by no means a new sensation, but the last time you felt this way was several summers ago, and it overpowers you instantaneously.
There's a dryness in your throat that no water can satiate, a neverending drop in the pit of your stomach, and a heaviness in your legs that chains you to your seat. And for once, your thoughts are gathered. But they're unanimous and concentrated on a singular definite, horrifying truth, one that weak prey are intimately familiar with when faced with an overpowered predator: you're on the brink of death.
It feels as if your death is guaranteed, and even if it isn’t, it's futile to bet on a yakuza's fickle emotions. Anything you do or say, or the lack thereof, can set them off. This is another lesson you’ve learned, over and over and over.
The oyabun's playful chuckle shakes you out of your shell shock, but it magnifies the fear that controls your entire body.
"Be at ease. You are not in danger."
You're not surprised that he responds so aptly, as if he can read your mind. This man is accustomed to killing, and is well-acquainted with the ghastly, terrified faces of individuals who are aware that they're about to meet their end. And judging by the way he entered this room without even alerting you, if he wanted to, he would’ve finished you before your mind could’ve even begun to process your death.
Even if following his instructions could save your life, you're not exactly sure you can "be at ease." Barely a nod, you dip your chin and avert your eyes, instinctively submitting to his presence.
He laughs again as he pours some tea into his cup. "Well, I understand that that is difficult to do. I know how dangerous it is to lower your guard in unfamiliar territory."
You hear the chalky slide of glazed porcelain against porcelain, followed by his satisfied hum as he takes a sip.
"Do you enjoy tea?" he asks.
Every nerve in your body is screaming at you because surely you're going to lose your life over an untouched cup of tea.
Please – I need my hands to move!
You gulp, though there's no saliva for you to swallow and your throat stings with the contraction, as if you are sick with a cold, as if there are deep cracks and lacerations left behind by the dryness plaguing the length of your esophagus.
"Y-yes…" It's a half-assed response at best. Not that you're lying, but uttering even a single word is difficult for you at the moment. The placement of your tongue, the aperture of your lips, the opening and closing of your mouth have all become unfamiliar, your ability to speak stolen by the spring breeze and the personification of death it has brought along.
"Feel free to help yourself. I am quite a fan of it myself, and throughout all my years here, I have been delighted to enjoy a variety of high-grade teas."
He's foreign?
It's unspeakable for a foreigner, of all people, to be in command of a domestic criminal organization. In fact, due to national pride, foreign members struggle to receive even typical hierarchical promotions in order to give Japanese members priority. The only time you heard of a foreigner coming into power was when you were incredibly young, and everyone was stunned to hear of an ex-Chinese Triad member joining the kanbu of a Japanese syndicate.
You wonder where this person is from, but of course, there's no way you could pry information out of your soon-to-be-murderer. Regardless, your number one priority is to get the fuck out of this place.
"I-I see…" With shaking hands, you manage to pick up your teacup and drink, drink, drink until you've consumed everything, even the last dregs of petal and stem residue. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that he's observing you with an unperturbed smile.
When your cup is placed back onto its matching saucer, which takes an erroneous amount of focus and effort on your end, the oyabun continues talking. "I understand you may be quite confused as to why you are here."
He bows, and you lower yourself as well.
"My men and I want to extend our deepest gratitude to you for saving Yanqing."
"Please," you wheeze, voice wobbling, brain barely capable of a coherent thought, "there is no need. I-I am sure somebody else would ha-have helped."
The yakuza boss, now almost wearing a pained expression, shakes his head. "We cannot always rely on others to save our people. We will pay closer attention to ensure that Yanqing is safe in the future. You will be rewarded handsomely for your kindness."
"N-no, I don't want anything in return."
How do I get out, how do I get out, how –
The boss hums again. This time, it sounds more neutral, lacking the pleasantness from the first time around. It's still rich, a gentle rumbling from deep within his chest, but it's neither reproachful nor approving, and you fear that this impersonal response is leading to a third undesirable outcome.
"Mm, are you sure?" he asks, pressing his cheek deeper into his upturned palm. You didn’t notice earlier, but now, you can't help noting the peculiar silver of his hair and the placement of a mole underneath the outer corner of his left eye. Speaking of which, his eyes aren't even open, but you're sure that he can already see far deep inside of you without even trying. This man has so many unusual characteristics, yet at the same time, either because you're losing it or defenseless or both, they blend together into something familiar.
Truly, it's as if all the fight in you, the resilience and attitude you had earlier when dealing with his subordinates, is rapidly escaping you. Or, it might be more fitting to say that the man in front of you is silencing those parts of you, slowly extinguishing all semblance of hope, leaving you bare and vulnerable and wholly at his mercy. Even your voice of reason has vanished, becoming mute because you don't know what to do in this kind of situation.
"Yes," but it sounds more like a question. You're not sure if you should agree or disagree, acquiesce or refrain, take or pass on his offering. You stand by what you said, but you'd change your answer in a flash if that'd mean saving your life, and after all that you've been through, you need to live.
For once, the oyabun doesn't say anything in turn. Instead, as he straightens out his back and sits upright, several of his men scramble away, leaving only two who stay rooted to their position, likely executives of this gang's kanbu. The doors to the watsushi are not blocked anymore, but as long as you’re in the boss’ vicinity, there is no actual opening that you can take advantage of.
You’ve been ignoring this thought, but with every passing second, it becomes more and more impossible to deny – you’re stuck. Not only did you go into enemy territory on your own with no backup plan, but you also walked straight into the lion’s den. And the lion is simply taunting you, playing with you until he gets bored, after which he’ll promptly dispose of you.
How can I stay alive?
He pours himself another cup as he says, "My apologies, I should have sent them away earlier. I hope you can speak more openly now."
Truthfully, you wish you could ask for permission to leave, but at this point, given how long this conversation has been going on for, you've lost your chance. Inwardly, you bemoan your foolishness and regret not having played the role of a terrorized normal citizen. That way, they probably would've released you to save the hassle of having to deal with a hysterical layperson. Then again, maybe they would’ve killed you on the spot. Regardless, the reality is that your leave will have to wait until the boss decides to let you go, if he wants to at all.
You manage to stammer, "Uh, no worries. Thanks…"
As you trail the end of your sentence, you realize you haven't been addressing him. There's no need for you to call him "boss" as you're not in his gang, and there's no way you can ask for his name either. You ponder, searching for a term that suggests formality and detachment.
In the meantime, it's silent in the watsushi. If he was any less intimidating, you'd think this scene – an objectively attractive man wearing a loose white kimono, his silver hair tied into a ponytail with a striking red cord, sitting motionless and quiet against a backdrop of uniform shoji screens – would seem serene.
Regardless, for better or for worse, it seems your bearings are returning, body and mind growing accustomed to the pressure in the room, so you're more capable of rational thought. Yet again, you urge yourself to keep it together.
It looks like the oyabun has no intention of re-initiating the conversation, so you figure he's gauging your next steps.
Sucking in a deep breath, you speak in your most polite tone. You still have no idea as to how you’re going to survive, but it wouldn’t hurt to buy as much time as you can and pay your respects. "Sir, I appreciate your generosity, and I've given it some thought. I'd be grateful to try any teas that are in season, if you happen to have any on hand."
For the first time, his eyes flutter open, and it feels like you've been struck by a bolt of lightning. Smelted gold, as thick and molten as the ichor of Greek immortals, far more dazzling than beams of sun. Your first thought is one of awe – how is it possible for a human to be capable of such unassailable power and beauty? Your second is one that’s far more bone chilling, an icy jet of adrenaline pumped straight into your veins.
For he is the foreigner in the rumors from your childhood, a cold-blooded man who single-handedly beheaded three dozen associates with ease to earn his role as an executive in his gang. Even if you had never witnessed the slaughtering firsthand, like a deafening clap of thunder that can travel as far as ten to twelve miles away, deep in your rattling skull, you realize that this man kills both with and without purpose. This is no longer about predictability, as there is nothing emotional or practical about this man. Brutality and carnage are intrinsic to his nature, and his carnal desires must be satisfied for his own needs.
You've gotten carried away once more. In fact, the moment your self-assurance came back, you unintentionally downplayed the gravity of your situation. Just because he hasn't done anything yet doesn't mean he won't do anything.
Yet, in spite of your insolence, it seems the oyabun is merciful. He dismisses you with an unreadable stare, along with an understanding hum from his still-smiling lips. One of the two men leaves before returning with a wrapped box that, from the cover reads, is from Hokkaido and contains sachets of plum and cherry green tea. You don’t even remember how you gathered the strength to stand, but you do, and through an alternating series of walkways and right-degree turns, you are brought to the entrance of the estate. Like a habit, like the manners that were beaten into your hands, feet, and back when you were young, you bow at the hips, hold it for three prolonged seconds, and, before you can bid the guards farewell, you sprint down the road that you came up from who knows how long ago.
You run, run, and run, pumping your lungs and legs until they feel as if they are about to rip off, and even then, you push them harder, all the way until you reach the door of your apartment. Relieved to find your keys lodged in your back pocket like they always are, you wrench them out and, after many failed attempts, open the lock to stagger into the entrance of your studio.
You collapse onto the floor. A shoe rack shakes as a corner of it bumps against your elbow as you face plant onto the hardwood floor.
It’s all unbelievable. Your encounter with the ex-Triad member of your childhood nightmares, the long sprint home, the fact that you actually made it out alive and are back home – the past few hours seem surreal. It still feels like you need to keep running away, like they’ll find and catch you if you stop moving.
But you can’t muster any more strength. Your whole body feels sore and on fire, like you've doused yourself with gasoline and self-immolated, like there's electricity coursing through your heart, leaving first-degree burns in its wake.
But you don't believe this pain's solely the result of your mad dash home. Yet there was no static, no crackling sounds, not even a single hair raised.
Lightning can still strike, even if there are no preceding signs.
–
Like all weather events, it takes time for a thunderstorm to develop, and it dispels as soon as it can no longer rage on. Thunderstorms specifically go through four phases: growth, development, electrification, and dissipation.
Growth and development, together known as the developing or building stage, begin when warm, moist air rises in an updraft, and at a certain altitude, combines to form a large cumulus cloud. If the warm air inside the cloud is at a higher temperature than that of the exterior, condensation takes place and droplets form, but rain does not fall.
At this stage, the cumulus is only four to seven kilometres in height and five to eight in length on average, so to any onlooker, it has yet to look like a storm cloud.
–
Your phone buzzes as soon as you drop down onto the couch. While the restaurant owner takes her usual lunch hour nap, you choose to decompress in the backroom that looks more like a senior citizen's living room, no thanks to its old 2000s TV with grainy display, bulkish frames, and broken speakers, an unplugged kotatsu, and a large shelf full of dust-covered books and miscellaneous figurines from grandchildren located a bullet train away in Tokyo. After rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you check to find a text message notification from your closest friend.
Hana: wanna call
You: aren't u at work
Hana: fck work
She picks up on the first ring of your video call.
"Don't tell me you're in the fucking bathroom again," you groan as you lean further into the deflated back of the couch.
Hana scowls and flips you off. "You know this is the only place at work I can call you from without getting caught."
"Well, you've been caught once before –"
"Only because that blind ass bat decided to use this toilet for, like, the first time ever. Never again since."
You shrug. Your friend's always been spitfire incarnate, tongue a cutting thing, glares yet sharper. You suppose it's her expertise, aggravating others with only her presence. She's also incredibly impatient, and when you don't give her a vocal response, she snaps.
"Say something! I'm getting in trouble because of you!"
You stifle a honk of a laugh by clearing your throat instead. "My most beloved goddess, Hana the Terminator, thank you for bestowing me your time and grace."
"I’m not that unforgiving – you've been watching too many movies again," she spits, along with a slap to her forehead.
Despite all her controversial traits, though, she's your most trusted confidant – the only remnant from your past that you keep in touch with.
Hana quirks her eyebrow, to urge you to speak your mind because she already knows something's plaguing you. After all these years, you're convinced she can read minds.
You sigh. "Hana."
Paying no mind, she presses onward. "What happened? Did a customer throw their plate at you again?"
"No, work's fine."
Her eyes narrow. "Alright. Is it something we can't talk about?"
When you ran away, you made Hana promise that the two of you would never talk about anything of the past or your childhood again. After all, you escaped with the intent to leave everything you knew behind, and one necessary step was to never think about it all anymore. And she's made good on that promise this whole time, so it’s hypocritical that you’re breaking it.
You look away from the screen and mumble, "I know I said I never wanted to talk about it again, but… I was wondering if I could ask you a question."
She snorts. "Sure."
Your eyes flicker back to the screen, and you see that Hana's switched off her camera, most likely so that she can hold the call to her ear and lower the volume to prevent any eavesdropping.
"I think this happened when we were nine? Ten? It definitely happened when we were in the middle of that turf war, and then we suddenly got news that all these guys in the other prefecture got fucking oblitered by an ex-Triad member. Do you remember?"
You hear her suck in a breath through gritted teeth. "Fucking course. Shit – why are you asking about this?"
Hana's harsh whisper sounds… thin, like a leaf shaking in autumn, its stem clinging onto a branch right before it's about to snap and float to the ground, only to be trodden over and torn apart into several pieces, never whole again. After having met the person yourself, you understand why even a mere mention of him can send anyone spiraling.
Ignoring her question, you press, "What was his name?"
It's almost comedic how audible her gulp is – guttural, like she's about to vomit into the toilet bowl that she's sitting on. "Jing Yuan."
"What group –"
Suddenly, there's background noise that interrupts you. There's the clicking of heels, knocks against a bathroom stall, some garbled words made worse by a bad signal.
"Shit," Hana hisses. "That bat's back again – whatever you do, stay away from that motherfucker, alright? I love you."
And the call ends. You didn't even get a chance to parrot "love you" back, but it can't be helped, you think. You’ll call again next month, and there’s no doubt she'll drill you on your questions and the intent behind them. Anyway, for now, your focus is to ensure that your peaceful life won't be disturbed again. Even without Hana's warning, you've already experienced enough to know that you never want to cross paths with Jing Yuan ever again.
Nighttime falls before you know it. After the lunch break, you and the restaurant owner spent the late afternoon prepping for the dinner rush, and ever since the only other apprentice quit three weeks ago, the two of you have been busier than before.
It's not uncommon for young people to go without a college degree, as the national law only requires at minimum a middle school diploma, so when you left home on an arbitrary Tuesday night in the middle of your first year in high school, the only way to support yourself was to get a job. You had enough of an allowance to hop on a random train to a more remote town, and once you arrived here, you rotated between jobs as a cashier at a convenience store, a dishwasher and waitress at multiple diners and izakayas, as well as a librarian. Now that you're in your 20s, you've settled down in this restaurant as an apprentice, and eventually, when the owner decides to step down, you'll take over.
This place has grown on you, and you'd really like to stay.
There are no angry customers or broken dishes throughout the evening, and aside from a few hiccups with the cash register, you get off work without a hitch. On a good day like today, you can leave by 10PM.
Your place is just a five-minute walk away, and upon you return, you're greeted by a dark room that contains nothing except for a kitchen, a mattress, a computer charging in the corner, and a tall stack of borrowed books you plan to finish over the upcoming weekend.
There's also that box of Hokkaido tea sachets that's resting on your kitchen countertop. For some reason, in the month since you received it, you haven't been able to throw it away. You've already discarded the wrapping paper, and the box doesn't look like it's been tampered with. In fact, it looks new, as if Jing Yuan himself received it as a respectable present of sorts, but you never know what it could contain, and you don't intend to find out.
You're just relieved that you haven't been bothered by Jing Yuan or his gang since your encounter. Initially, you were paranoid, so disturbed and worried that they'd come after you to the point that you called in sick and didn't leave your room for a whole week. Then, you had no choice but to do your best to resume work and other parts of your usual routine, but you refused to make any deliveries (and still do, too). After all, the whole reason why you were in the neighborhood where you met Yanqing was because you were on your way back from dropping off an order, and you never want to go back there ever again.
It's a shame, you think, still staring at the large printed words on the cover of the box. I might have to leave this place soon.
–
Weekends are more relaxed because the restaurant’s only open for lunch. The owner reserves her weekend evenings to spend time with her son and granddaughter, and you're not skilled enough to run the establishment on your own yet.
You're awoken by the sound of your doorbell buzzing. Disoriented, you sit up with a jolt, the room spinning a little as you strain to clear your head. It rings again. With a shout – "One moment, please!" –, you roll out of your covers and hobble towards the front door.
From your peephole, you see that a deliveryman is waiting outside your front door with a package in his arms. It's a dark cardboard box with logos dotting the exterior in diagonals, but you don't recognize the design nor are there other legible clues for you to discern.
"Ma'am, I need you to sign this slip," the deliveryman announces.
You furrow your bows and, through your half-conscious daze, struggle to recount if you've ordered anything as of late. Try as you might, nothing comes to mind. You see the worker glancing at his wristwatch, and you feel bad for keeping him waiting. Fueled by guilt, you end up opening the door and signing the slip.
It could be the owner, you think. Sometimes, she likes to send you things without notice, so you figure it might be another load of cherries or a few hand-me-down shirts from her daughter-in-law who she's convinced is around your height. Anyway, with an impatient nod and a snatch of the sheet in your hand, the deliveryman leaves you alone to haul the package back into your apartment.
You heave it over and drop it next to your mattress for a closer inspection. You're almost tempted to look over it later and resume your post-shift nap, but common sense wins, and you need to confirm the nature of this mystery delivery. The packaging label tells you the sender seems to be a store located in Kyoto. More specifically, as you search them up on your phone, it's a pottery shop. By now, it's clear this package isn't something you had bought for yourself, and you doubt it's from the restaurant owner either. For a second, you consider the possibility that the deliveryman made a mistake, misread your apartment number or something, but another glance at the packaging label and your name is legibly printed on it.
You click onto the shop website where you learn that customers can go in to make their own creations, as well as purchase already-made goods, which you check out next. The catalog is a few pages long, but the products are all of the same thing: tea sets.
Struck with a chilling sense of fear and despair, you jump in your skin and choke out a horrified gasp.
How is that possible?
With wide eyes, your neck snaps to the side, towards the kitchen, at the box sitting on the countertop. You're on your feet within a second, and stride over to it. Without a single ounce of care or consideration, you rip the box open, shredding the cover into two uneven halves, and your eyes bore so deeply into the four columns of tea sachets that your vision begins darkening. But still, nothing seems out of place. You then dump all of the tea sachets into the sink, wondering if there's anything hidden beneath them. Yet again, nothing appears, so there's either nothing or a device so small that you can't discern it simply by looking.
Leaving the mess in your kitchen, you stalk back to the delivery you just received, and with sheer brute force that you can only summon when enraged, your nails tear through the packing tape and rip open the flaps of the package. You toss out the top layer of bubble wrap to unveil a white box with a translucent top that has an envelope taped onto it.
At first glance, it seems like an obligatory thank you card that small businesses usually send with every purchase. However, the printed silver cursive reads: "A special gift to a special someone!"
It's tough choosing between laughing in disbelief and yelling disgusted expletives, so you opt to remain silent, a blankness that can mean nothing and everything all at once. You tear off the card and flip it over to find a longer message.
To a dear friend. I hope this present suits your taste, and may we find another time to converse over tea again.
The building stage of a thunderstorm can take as short as an hour. In other words, it's possible for a clear, sunny day to suddenly become overcast, an impending storm ready to unleash, no longer an impossibility beyond the horizon.
Just like how you were able to turn yourself around in one night, it is equally feasible for your current life to be disrupted, uprooted, and made into a hell, all within an afternoon.
–
In the development stage, the air within the stormcloud and between the earth has an insulatory property to combat the mess of swirling particles of both positive and negative charges. The magnetism between the opposite charges is not great enough to cause electrical discharge, so like river water flowing between pieces of driftwood that dream of the whole they've broken off from, the air keeps the particles separate enough to further delay the inevitable sparks and flashes of electricity, of the cloud's heated turmoil.
–
Jing Yuan can be an incredibly talkative person, you learn. From your last meeting, he seemed like someone who wouldn't mind awkward silence, but as you kneel across from him on the other side of the same low-rise table in the same watsushi, with your hands clasped together in your lap, you listen as he explains Yanqing's situation.
His eyes are closed again.
"We managed to apprehend the man. He was a mediocre hitman desperate to pay off a debt he owed to his landlord, so he was by no means difficult to track or dispose of. I apologize, again, for the trouble Yanqing had caused you. I have reminded him to tell us when he is in danger."
Because of how terrified you were before, you couldn't pay much attention to Jing Yuan, other than the grossly intimidating aura he encased the whole estate and everything within it. It's not like you're not scared of him this time, but it's clear that he has no intention of killing you. This, you know for sure, is not based on urges as flimsy as idealized delusion or optimistic preconception, but rather by the fact that Jing Yuan has, like the volume of a speaker, lowered his display of domineering might and is making space for actual conversation.
Listening, you nod once.
He continues, "Yanqing is still exceedingly young, so he may not know what is best for him. He has acute instincts that can alert him of danger, but I am afraid he lacks experience in properly responding and protecting himself."
His voice is smooth, thoughtful, like that of a quiet, concerned father. But there's also an edge of dissatisfaction – a warning, but to whom, you're not sure. Still, it comes off as generally easygoing and warm, a savoring of warm brandy on a full belly, and if you were daringly reckless, you would've suggested he switch careers to become an audiobook narrator instead. In the context of the yakuza world, though, you have no doubt that this soothing, borderline seductive tone of his has drawn out countless dangerous secrets and several pieces of classified information from lustful tongues and fatigued minds. You wonder, then, what he wants from you.
It looks like it's your turn to finally say something. After all, since your arrival 15 minutes ago, you haven't uttered a single word.
"I'm sure he's learning, Sir. He's in good hands."
Not that any of these people are good.
"We will see. He did mention that you advised him to speak up as well, so I figured there was no need for me to repeat myself too many times."
"Ah," your voice cracks as you lower your head, "I overstepped."
"No, it is quite alright. I am not his actual father, so I appreciate help from others. It is important for him to learn from as many adults as he can, from their successes, as well as their silly wiles."
You feel a lurch within your upper body, the familiar emetic sensation from a month ago hitting you again. While you're not an immediate threat, it seems he still has his reservations.
"Anyway," the oyabun transitions, "I wanted to ask. How do you like the gift I mailed to you? I hope the whole set came intact."
Frankly, you haven't spared the tea set another glance. All of your thoughts were ensnared by the laminated note card, and you still can't believe he went so far as to find your address.
The need to escape rests heavily on your mind, but the matter is no longer as simple as leaving the estate. Since he knows where you live, the only option that remains is for you to move away, and it’s not as spontaneously easy to run away as it once was when you were a teenager. You have to communicate and apologize to the restaurant owner, clean out your apartment, and find a new place to start anew – all of which require at least a few hours.
I’ll leave tomorrow night. I just need to play along and not get killed today. By tomorrow night, I’ll be safe.
The thought placates you sufficiently, and you redirect your full attention to Jing Yuan.
With a palm over your heart, you say, "They're beautiful, though I haven't had the chance to use them. Thank you so much for the generous gift."
He chuckles, though they sound more like a lion's heavy purrs. It's a rich sound, as obscene and dense as melted dark chocolate. "No rush, you received it just yesterday. I know they may appear simple, but mashikos are made with stark red clay from the town they are named after and are appreciated for their captivating minimalism. I hope you can find daily use in them."
You nod once more, fully knowing they'll never be touched – just like the torrent of questions swirling around and around in your head.
Jing Yuan speaks, as if aware of the conclusion you've come to. "Initially, I was hesitant in sending you the gift. But I am glad I chose to. While I do not mean to indebt you to us, I was wondering if I could discuss a matter… with you.”
With feigned stoicism, the kind that only years of practice can produce, you acquiesce, "Sure, but I do not know if I can be of much help."
You watch as he picks up a thin folder that’s laid on the ground to his right and sets it on top of the center of the table. He then opens it to reveal a neat pile of glossy photographs bound together by a paper clip.
"I am curious to know if you recognize anything in these photographs," he instructs as he lays four out in a row. "It can be any of the individuals or objects in the background. Anything that can tell you of the general setting."
Your ears begin to drum loudly as your head pounds and pounds with intensifying force and rhythm. It hurts so much that you can't resist the need to wince as beads of sweat form at your temples. It's as if you're the main character of a movie who's suffering from amnesia, and you're experiencing a brief moment of recollection, stabbing prickles of familiarity and bright flashes of images that slip away almost immediately. Except your flashbacks don't slip away. They linger and haunt, meandering and taunting you when you try to make them disappear. Even after all these years, all these kilometers of distance, the regret and guilt hit you with the same brutality, a bone-crushing punch in the stomach that wrecks your organs and renders you helpless and panicked.
Not now, you think, but your internal pleas are futile. You’re utterly helpless, and escape is no longer a priority, the possibility of succeeding having long been impossible.
The first photo, starting from the right, is a scenic snapshot of a hillside overpass. In late elementary school, you frequented this place every night with Hana and her older brother, Haru, demanding that you be brought here to see the sun set before you retreated home for the day.
How does he know?
The second is blurrier, the flash of the camera mostly blinding everything but the edges out. There are several flags with store signs waving out front, and if you're reading them correctly, some of the names are restaurants in the downtown area of your hometown. You never went downtown often as there were always way too many people, but you know all the store owners feared your family.
How does he know?!
You don't recognize the third, which shows a four-story office building.
The fourth, however, causes you to still. Anyone looking at the image would, too, with the amount of blood and specks of flesh smeared against the wall, the emptied shells of bullets lying on the floor, and, in the center of it all, a man's face that’s half-bruised, a disturbing palette of waste green, toxic purple, and old yellow.
But your blood runs cold primarily for another reason. The other half of the man's face is less damaged, features more intact and, therefore, recognizable. You don't know him, per se, in that he doesn't jog any sense of familiarity, doesn't trigger an "aha!" moments where a lightbulb goes off and a new memory plays in your mind's theatre. You can't put a name to his face or pick him out among the crowds in your memories.
What you do recognize is the pin hanging loosely from the lapel of his torn blazer. Despite the camera flash, its reflection is dim, no thanks to the dried blood smeared entirely over it. Though it doesn't matter. Even if that pin was caked in layers of mud or glazed over with pitch black paint to create an opacity so deep it absorbs all light, you're sure you'd still be able to see the pen strokes, the exact points at which they overlap and interstice to form the kanji character that you abandoned at age 20.
HOW DOES HE KNOW WHO I AM.
If you could, you'd snatch the photo to see this man – who is closer than a stranger but too distant to be family – and sob out at once. Your hands would be shaking, one might even come up to cover your gaping mouth, and you'd continue to struggle to see the image clearly enough through your flooding tears.
It takes you a few seconds to realize that your reactions are not figments of your imagination. This battered mess of a man, albeit only a photograph of his aftermath, is pinched between your shaking fingers, your fingerprint smeared against the edges, and painful whimpers escape from under your breath. You don't want to think about how much you're crying.
There are a few moments of heavy silence before Jing Yuan's voice pierces through your grief. "I see you are aware."
Your eyes flicker to him. There's no smile stretching his lips, but he doesn't look like he pities or sympathizes with you. He's just waiting until you are capable of conversation again. You're sure that, internally, he's pleased, at the very least, that you’re finally playing his game.
You should be angry. Furious, even. Of course, you can't rage or else you'll get killed, but still, flames of wrath should be searing the back of your throat and pulsing through your arms, licking at your stone-cold feet to just fucking wake up and Run! – to Jing Yuan, to your apartment, to somewhere far, far away.
But there are no fires. There is no hint of rage. Instead, you ring hollow, outplayed and defeated in a game you never asked to be born into.
With a tumor in your throat, you croak, "How did you find out?"
"I did not."
His answer surprises you, but it withers away into indifference nonetheless. Though, maybe you're misunderstanding him, the oyabun sounds oddly candid.
"In China," he continues, "the people largely believe in this concept called yuan fen. I believe it is called en in Japan, which is very similar to the symbol of yuan. I am not as spiritualistic as I used to be, but I believe, in certain matters, that fate can be a source of interference. And in this case, this relationship between you" – his voice drops and thins out, louder than a whisper, dimmer than his usual speech – "and me may be a result of fate's fickle tricks. It is a result of our yuan fen that we have connected as such."
Your head drops. The photo's crumpled from your unrelenting hold, so you set it on the table to prevent further damage. You've already caused so much harm, not just within this tatami room, so if you can spare anyone any more pain, you'd like to refrain from humiliating yourself further. All you can do is wait for this motherfucker to tell you what's to come next.
"Though, at present, I am sure my words are meaningless and serve barely any comfort," Jing Yuan says.
When you don't respond, he hums. It's a thoughtful rumble, as he ruminates on how he should proceed.
You save him the effort and, through drying, cracked tears, croak, "I grew up in this town. If it is information or connections you want, I can try to help, but just know that I have not been back there in years."
Even though you're no longer looking at him, you can hear the smile – unperturbed, sickeningly mild – on his face. "That sounds like the perfect arrangement."
With a brush of his ponytail behind his shoulder, a subordinate paces over and stands at attention. You wonder how wilted you must look to the guards surrounding your perimeter, how lifeless and placid and bleak you've become within minutes, even if none of them have known you for more than a day.
The oyabun instructs, "Prepare a room for our guest. We will be relying on her, so treat her well. Tell Yanqing, too, that he should be mindful not to disturb her."
Unfazed, you raise your hand, which causes Jing Yuan to turn his attention back to you.
"Yes?"
"How long will I be staying here for?" you ask.
"We would like to move on from this matter within a week. Will that be a problem for you?"
There are no promises of leaving you alone afterwards or compensating you or, at minimum, apologizing for the mental anguish he's inflicted on you from everything that's transpired. Those promises would be empty anyway, but that's not the point. Jing Yuan is demanding because he intends to be. He’s consciously taking full advantage of the fact that you can't refuse even the most outrageous of his requests, while going so far as to sugarcoat his exploitation with a charming voice and an irritating smirk when he doesn't need to. Every single action is premeditated to help you realize how powerless you are.
But you already know. You've always been too weak. You've never let yourself forget.
You shake your head. "Not at all."
One by one, his subordinates take off, until only the two of you remain. You find that a little odd, as to dismiss all of his men means he is exposing himself to being ambushed, but you shrug, figuring that Jing Yuan is more than capable of defending himself. It wouldn't surprise you if he's able to catch a flying bullet and tear apart limbs with his bare hands.
"One last question," Jing Yuan states.
You peer up at him, to find that he has stood up and is rounding around to your side of the table. Naturally, your body tenses up, muscles and joints locking up, and you follow his frame with rapt dread as he makes his way to you.
He sits down right beside you, and with a downward tilt of his chin, opens his eyes to gaze at you. He has only just decided that you are worth being seen, being perceived, and you wish you could spit in his face.
Instead, you bite down on your lower lip with gritted teeth and a jaw so tense it shakes with strain. And when you watch his hand come up to trace the hollows of your cheek, you have to pierce your nails into your palms to prevent the screams bubbling up your throat. Even worse, when he leans closer, enough for his slow, tempered exhales to tickle your forehead, you freeze, body paralyzed from the lightning of his eyes.
"In order for this arrangement to work," Jing Yuan mutters, though with the way he's speaking into your ears, it sounds like a ravenous purr, "we need to be transparent with each other, yes?"
Out of sheer instinct, your hands fly up, about to push the man away. But simultaneously, you have no urge to touch the man, or have him touch you, so they simply pause midair.
Another rumble of amusement resounds from his chest and reverberates through your ears. You can feel his fingers cascade down the side of your face before his hand wraps around to settle at the base of your neck, with his thumb propped underneath your jaw to lift your head up. You want to tear yourself from his hold, but the unwavering steadiness in his hand – not a single tremble, surgical in precision – and the unfamiliar warm touch warn you not to, beckoning you to savor the murky sensations instead.
You're cheek to cheek, so close that you can catch the scent of something green, and musky, then metallic. And, like the final gust of chilling wind right before a storm unleashes, he breathes, deafening and hushed all at once, "Can you promise me your utmost honesty and sincerity?"
There's no air in your lungs. He already knows your answer.
You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.
yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+
word count: ~13,900
cw: explicit language, explicit descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/bodily injury/etc., graphic descriptions of mental disorders (ptsd, anxiety, depression, dermatillomania), attempted suicide/suicidal ideation, domestic violence, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, implied age gap, mentions of drugs
notes: please heed the warnings!!! i know there are a lot of them, but please!!! also note that this is chapter 2! otherwise, i will say, this part is largely for plot development oops. as always, big thanks to @staraxiaa and @pranabefall for being my permanent beta readers (i really should start paying y'all i'M SORRY I'M BROKE) and for offering top-tier insight and advice. lena grilled me on the ending, so it's perfect now. aine gave great inspo for the direction in which this story's heading. it's a long ride, so thanks for hanging on! we're halfway through now!
part i - part ii - part iii
A THUNDERSTORM reaches electrification, or its maturing stage, once the thunder cloud grows dark and grey in color. This transition is the result of increasing humidity and moisture, as air continues to rise up the cumulus cloud and brings additional water along with it. Eventually, once the raindrops have breached a certain size, the rising air will no longer be able to support the droplets’ weight, and rain will fall within the cloud.
In both nature and humankind, it seems storms start from the inside, before they're forced to pour out into the world when the turmoil can no longer be contained.
(You may not notice it anymore – the weeping of your soul second nature, your world a perpetual rainstorm.)
–
Jing Yuan is gone by the time you move in. It seems this estate's sole purpose is to house Yanqing until he graduates from elementary school, which won't be for another few years, and with most of the men gone as well, it's become vacant and spacious.
You don't do well with large, open spaces. There's too much uncertainty, too many openings for you to be wary of. Not that anyone would be after you – and you're sure that Jing Yuan has your safety (from external forces, that is) guaranteed –, but some instincts are never meant to die. Thankfully, you've been given a room of similar size to your studio, so the uneasiness doesn't bother you as much when you're on your own.
A lieutenant by the name of Kou and two of his associates assist in hauling in your singular suitcase and backpack, and in general, they seem to be your main points of contact. Judging by the permanent creases in between his brows, Kou seems to be a stern person, overly serious at all times, determined to fulfill his responsibility to squeeze every possible bit of information out of you. You make a mental note to think before you speak when he's around.
Presently, you have some downtime, about half an hour before dinner's ready. Aside from the two associates guarding your room, you're by yourself, and you take this opportunity to prepare for your first meeting with Kou later that night.
As you were packing this morning, you had time to reach a few conclusions. First, you clearly panicked too much during your meeting with Jing Yuan yesterday. Not that you would ever truly believe the words that come out of his mouth, but he personally admitted that your encounter was by coincidence. In other words, there's a possibility that he doesn't know everything there is to you.
And logically, that makes more sense. After all, Hana had told you that your parents went hysterical after your disappearance, and burned everything that reminded them of you – your photos, school uniform, and the shiromuku you were supposed to wear that following autumn. If there was anything of yours that could remain, it would be your severed left pinky, a vow you made of your own volition, a damning ultimatum to them and the shit household they raised you in, that you'd never come back. But, at this point, even your pinky would only be there in spirit, at this point having already rotted and eroded in the damp soil it rests within. You also found out you had been removed from the family register when you went to change your legal name to your current one, so there's nothing that could indicate your prior existence.
So while you did mess up, you might still have some remaining leverage (though you shouldn’t get too ahead of yourself).
As for Hana…
You can't help but bite your thumbnail, worry shading every one of your actions. You better be safe.
The two of you have a set schedule of monthly calls, so if either one of you were to break that routine, that'd be an immediate indication that something's gone wrong. Since the two of you had called barely a week ago, you were expecting her to pick up on the urgency behind the two panicked calls you left her last night. You even sent her voicemails hissing at her to give you a sign of life. She did reply a few hours later via text, but she said she couldn't call back, no thanks to a violent client that left her with high blood pressure and a chafed asshole, as well as a general lack of an empty bathroom for her to hide in.
There's no reason to assume the worst, you mentally chide. But your sense of urgency shouldn't be discarded because, while she may be fine now, she may not be in the near future, so you should move faster when you still have the chance.
And that leads to the most important question: What should you do next? Since you can't back out of helping Jing Yuan, you should use this opportunity to ensure your childhood friend's safety.
Based on the photographs the oyabun showed you, it's obvious they're snapshots of a violent takeover occurring in your hometown. You should figure out whether it's Jing Yuan's or another gang that is responsible for the conflict. Though, in the worst case, who the perpetrator is won't matter – you'll have to negotiate with Jing Yuan anyway to spare or save Hana's life. But being informed of the specifics will help you position yourself in said negotiations.
But then you reach a complicated dilemma. You have no idea how much influence you have, and there's no reason for the oyabun to actually trust you or the information you'll provide. If you're utterly useless, you have no doubt Jing Yuan's men will off you first before you can even discuss with their boss.
That means you need to get him to believe in you enough so that you'll have the ability to persuade him. However, earning his faith would require you to be honest to him to a certain degree (because the best lies are half-truths), and that's… a deeply unsettling notion.
No matter how much Jing Yuan knows about your history, you abhor the idea of having to be vulnerable about it in front of a man like him. You'd rather commit seppuku and show him your literal insides, than scoop out your inner thoughts and lay them out for his entertainment and pleasure. Sometimes, you just have to compromise, you think, with a dismal shake of your head.
You shelf this thought for now. Your first priority should be ascertaining their intentions with you, as well as determining the current state of the takeover.
You eat dinner alone before you're led to an office. Kou's already sitting at the desk, placed center and towards the back, and you assume that you're to sit in the singular chair opposite to him. Of course, you don't, not until you're directed to with a nod from his associate, and even then, you sit on the very edge of the seat. You don't feel so unnerved by Kou, but more so your impending conversation with him. It's not that you're intentionally underestimating him, but after your confrontations with Jing Yuan, everything else has paled in comparison.
Kou clears his throat, clasping his hands together on top of the desk. "This won't take long. I'm sure you're tired from all that has transpired."
The lieutenant goes through basic procedures and expectations, like he's onboarding a new employee. You're not allowed to communicate with anyone outside of the estate, and if you want to use your phone or laptop, you'll be monitored. All of the information you'll be exposed to is confidential, and you can't even talk about it with other members of the gang, as most of them are uninformed. Your job is to answer any questions asked of you truthfully, without bias or ulterior motive. And finally, following the end of your stay, you'll continue to be monitored in a non-disruptive manner for an indefinite period of time to ensure that you're not breaking non-disclosure. The terms are shoddy at best, impossible to enforce, but you agree to them anyway.
But why can't they just ask folks back home directly?
Then, you're given your first task, which is to go through several missing persons reports and see if you can recognize any of the listed individuals.
There's no need to lie about this – you recognize every single one of them. Most of them are girls, with the occasional boy with stereotypically feminine features, and the age range is between 14 and 22. You don't know any of them personally, their relations with you limited to being a former classmate or the local laundromat owner's daughter. But it doesn't matter how distant they were to you because these were faces you used to see everyday, people who used to coexist and occupy the same spaces as you. A bitterness overcomes you, a sheen of oil that coats and clings to your tongue, a taste that should be disgusting but elicits nothing more than a disapproving grimace.
You tell Kou exactly this, and in response, he probes a little deeper, asking you if you have any ideas as to where they may be. It's true that you aren't sure where they exactly are, as in you don't know which underground brothel they're a part of or the specific landfill their hollowed body parts are buried in, but approximately, all of the missing folks should remain within the larger Tokyo Metropolis prefecture. You don't inform him of the latter, though, because that's a detail only certain folks are privy to, but you inform them of the sex and human trafficking, which you frame as rumors you heard through the grapevine back when you were in school. Kou seems to find this bit helpful, as a low grumble of his, more mellow and pensive, echoes through the room.
It seems Jing Yuan and his men have yet to discover the exact nature of your hometown. Not that it's rare for a gang to participate in sex or human trafficking, but you suppose they were temporarily led astray by the also very busy arms trading that occurs in the area. After all, your hometown is a prime location for smuggling goods in and out of the affluent Roppongi neighborhood, and well, those goods could be anything.
Just as he's about to ask you another question, a series of thuds and lighter patters of feet begin to shake the floor. Kou simply sighs and dismisses you, asking for one of his men to take you back to your room. At least you were useful enough tonight, you think, relieved that you get to live to see another day.
As you leave the office, a high-pitched shriek pierces through the air. The voice can't come from anyone but a young child, so you figure Yanqing's back home.
Now that you think about it, you haven't run into the kid at all. He must've been out all day, attending school and doing whatever other things that the heir to a yakuza syndicate would do, but they wouldn't be anything like the flower arrangement and shamisen classes you had to take when you were young since he's a boy.
"Let me go!"
You wince at how shrill his voice is, and it gets more and more unbearable as the way back leads you closer to the noise.
Except you didn't expect the commotion to take place right in front of your room.
Yanqing's bolting around the rock garden, feet kicking up dust and sand, destroyed the pattern of ripples, as he zig-zags between and jumps over shrubs, wide, flat stones, and domineering men who lack in the agility department. He seems to be acting out, you observe, and you watch as five yakuza men fail over and over to capture the young heir, their arms flailing and mouths helplessly agape, spilling out gentle pleas that barely conceal their underlying curses.
It doesn't surprise you that Jing Yuan's kid is outmaneuvering men who are five times older and bigger than him. You can't imagine how dangerous Yanqing will turn out when he grows up. The distorted image bothers you – that this child with grubby hands and chubby cheeks will one day be drenched in the color and stench of crimson.
Suddenly, your eyes lock with Yanqing, and you startle a little, having not realized that you were staring at him while pondering his prescripted future. The kid, too, is caught off-guard by your onlooking gaze, and one of his bodyguards seems to notice his pause and lunges at him, hugging his frame tightly to prevent him from escaping again.
You tear your eyes away from the little boy. The bodyguards, a powerless child, the lack of freedom – the entire scene fills you with dread. You excuse yourself, bow to the associate, and slip into your room.
Immediately, you collapse onto your knees and bury your hands into your face. You thought you could fend off the reminders for much longer. It shouldn't be that hard – all you have to do is turn your cheek and pretend everything here doesn't poke and prod at the parts of you that remain raw and exposed. It should've been easy, really. But you had underestimated – ignored – how deeply everything inside still hurts and how poor your pain tolerance is, even after years of attempted "training" and grueling punishment.
Outside, the commotion continues – Yanqing's pitched yelps and his bodyguards' calls of "Young Master" farther away, no longer right outside your room, but loud enough to prick at your eardrums.
With a ragged breath, you cover your ears with the hot, sweaty planes of your palms and, for extra measure, you hunch over your tucked knees and bury your head underneath the futon covers. The fetal position makes you feel small, and your behavior, like a child, only serves to dampen your mood.
A voice among your mind's chorus sniggers – Is that all you've got?
You can't muster the energy to retort. It's not like you've ever considered yourself extraordinary or even marginally above mediocre, but the disappointment and helplessness sting like a fresh wound, as if you haven't been troubled by these feelings countless times before.
Part of you is even surprised that you've lasted up to this point. The estate and the people in it are all too familiar, in that their sheer existences are reprimanding reminders of past mistakes, taunting allusions to prior experiences that never fail to overwhelm you with dread and humiliation. Everything has been bothering you since the beginning, and seeing Yanqing in that state is what has finally set you off, triggering alarms and old, destructive habits.
Your internal monologue of nonstop deprecation and criticism drowns out everything else, and your hands fall away from the sides of your head to rejoin together, nail to dry cuticle to nail. You pull, scratch, pull until thinning skin finally gives way, and then you rip it off, finding a confusing, guilty pleasure in the act of tearing yourself apart, tiny strip by tiny strip.
And through it all – your bleeding fingers, the dead skin and crimson dots that litter the comforter, the satisfaction of killing off parts of yourself –, that dominating voice inside your head crescendos and rapidly assumes control of your brain. It coaxes and calls forth others to join it, and whispers from the past, from what you remember of your parents, join in to howl a depressing, ominous harmony – You're a failure, you'll never amount to anything, all your effort will be in vain.
Like a chant, a spell, a curse, they repeat themselves over and over, and it feels like they won't ever stop until they finally manifest the bleakest, most appalling future for you. And you're completely trapped in this hateful whirlpool, with your head permanently submerged in its dark, murky waters. Worst of all, even when common sense is saying that you shouldn’t give in, your parched throat drinks it all up, indulging in the acidic, bittersweet taste.
Eventually, unbeknownst to you, you fall asleep, and only then does your self-hatred cease.
–
You're woken up by fleeting, curious touches to the bottoms of your feet.
You don't wake immediately. It starts off as a slight discomfort, and your subconscious urges your body to move by the barest amount, enough to wiggle your feet and toes around until the itchy sensation fades away. But after a few seconds, it returns, and the cycle repeats, until eventually you're roused, eyes blinking open to see the same blackness that you saw when they were closed.
Fuck, did I black out?
Crazed and frustrated, you flail your arms around, struggling in the most inefficient manner possible to tug the futon cover off of you. You don't know how long you've been out, but you feel somewhat rested, so it's probably way past dinnertime. It didn't seem like Kou wanted to meet with you again today, but in the slimmest chance that he did, you're screwed.
However, despite several pushes and kicks, nothing works, and you let out a displeased groan as the blanket remains tightly wrapped around everything above your shoulders. I'll just have to use more force, you think, and you thrust an elbow back to free up more movement for your arm.
But then your elbow hits something, and someone yelps out in pain. You jump in surprise, and as if on cue, with a swivel of your head to look in the direction of the sound, the cover slides off of your head, as if making a grand reveal.
Because right behind you is a child, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow of the moonlight through the shoji screens, and there's only one kid that you know of that lives here.
In the fleeting moment that you have to take him in, all you can register is that he's small. Not frail, or weak, just small. You're much larger than him – you could probably curl your body around him, once, twice, with some length of limb to spare. (You're taken aback by the tenderness in your observation. It lifts your spirit, then pulls the latter crashing back down.)
"What are you doing here!" you hiss as you reach out by instinct to touch his cheek, which he's nursing with a hand, something akin to a stunned expression seizing his cherubic features. His other is clamped over his mouth, and his wide eyes beg you to stay silent, too.
There's shuffling coming down the hallway that stops outside your door.
"Is everything alright in there?" It's one of your guards, but you find it odd that he wasn't standing right outside your room like he usually is. His partner doesn't seem to be there either.
"Sorry," you call out from where you sit, "I just knocked my hand against something."
"May I come in to check?"
Yanqing's eyes widen impossibly more, and his panic causes you to stumble over your words.
"I - uh - I-I'm changing at the moment! Can you give me a minute?"
"Oh." It's a surprisingly flat sound. "Never mind then."
You breathe a sigh of relief at his quick acquiescence. Then, you shoot a glare at the kid, who's still as a rock, and the two of you have a staring-with-blinking contest that seems to last forever.
With your eyes having adjusted to the faint moonlight, you have no choice but to take a proper look at the boy as you both wait. And with one glance, there's no doubt about it – he's no biological son of Jing Yuan. His hair is thin and neat in his ponytail, unlike Jing Yuan's mess of a mane, and while it could be that he's still far too young, you don't see any traces of Jing Yuan's facial or physical traits.
Yanqing definitely lacks the oyabun's eyes. The kid's are large and round, dewy and clear, too busy taking in his surroundings to comprehend and be tainted by them. They're a bit darker in shade – probably more bronze or orange, though you can't tell for sure – compared to his foster father's gold, and it eases you a bit to see that this child looks more humane.
However, if the saying is true – that a person's eyes are honest reflections of their minds –, then you can tell that the light in Yanqing's eyes is not unperturbed. He's not foolish enough to come here without a reason, and you're not sure whether you should be thankful or not, that this eight-year-old is too mature for his nascent existence on this planet.
At the same time – and perhaps you're looking too deeply into it –, in the midst of his troubles, there's a hopeful glint in the kid's eyes, as if he's eagerly awaiting you to do something. Unlike Hana and Jing Yuan, though, you can't read Yanqing's mind, so you have no clue as to what he's expecting from you.
You feel an uptick in your pulse at your temple. It's irritating, really. It's additional pressure you didn't anticipate having to deal with, and you loathe the dreadful melancholy that returns whenever you think deeply about Yanqing's circumstances. Even though he's nothing like you, in the same way he's nothing like Jing Yuan, the two of you are similar in ways that only you can tell.
You wonder, then, in what ways he's like Jing Yuan.
You wonder if one day, those honeyed pools will harden into amber chunks. If those chunks will build static as he continues to be exposed to his foster father's ruthlessness and electric current. If those chunks will ensnare people, cities, nations for decades and decades to come, taking innocent lives as part of the gang's nefarious plans – a gang that'll continue to be at his beck and call, plans that, one day, he'll organize and execute, from start to very bloody finish.
Neither of you break away until there's another shuffle outside of your door, and the guard's paces take him back to where he came from.
Finally, you and Yanqing tear your gazes away from each other.
Cognizant that the men are never a safe distance away, you maintain a steady, low voice as you speak. "Why are you in my room?"
Yanqing clearly understands the dangers of your current situation, so he, too, in spite of his young age and lack of experience, mirrors your quiet whisper. "I brought you some snacks. You must be tired."
He turns to his left and slowly pushes a black tray carrying full bowls, plates, and utensils your way. Everything is packed to the brim, with traces of soup and shreds of vegetables spilling out, and you're sure he's overcompensating for his disturbance, having already predicted that his visit – his presence – is unwanted. (Does he feel that way at the moment, or is it a learned notion?)
You scoff. "Thank you, but you didn't have to do that at the risk of my life. Sneak back off to your room before I'm slaughtered for kidnapping you."
Speaking of which, you can't help but think – Wouldn't it be funny if I actually died for kidnapping the same brat I saved – from an attempted kidnapping? Kinda a full circle moment there, huh.
Unfortunately, the kid doesn't budge. He's shifted positions so that he's now sitting on his calves, and his hands have balled into tiny, trembling fists that rest on the tops of his thighs. Clearly, then, he's not here to deliver some goodies and throw a slumber party with you, not that it would take a genius to have figured that out.
You can't afford to be merciful. You scoff again and cross your arms over your chest, hoping to exude enough of a contemptuous and unreasonable air so that he'll give in and run off.
At first, your act did affect Yanqing. His head droops a little, and his gaze falls as well. He also shifts in his seat, rocking side to side, and you can almost feel his indecision as he struggles to choose between leaving you alone and staying rooted to his spot. In the end, though, he settles with the latter, a semblance of a dissatisfied pout ghosting his pursed lips, which leaves you with no other choice but to, at the very least, hear him out. After all, you have no intention of wrestling a kid into submission (although you're not very confident that you could beat him in a fight in the first place), nor would it be smart to kick him out lest a guard sees him.
You sigh in surrender.
"Fine," you mutter, "what do you need from me?"
Yanqing immediately perks up, and you can't help but cringe at the way he practically shines, the stars in his eyes and their metaphorical glow too bright in the presence of your comfortable dark.
"May I sleep here tonight?" He asks with such politeness and reverence that, had you been any less jaded, you would've given in.
"Absolutely not," you deadpan.
"Why not?" He huffs, and for once, he's acting like a brat.
With a blank face, you explain, "Your guards don't know that you're here, yes? So if they find you in my room, I will die."
"No, you wouldn't! They wouldn't hurt you as long as I tell them not to."
"Child, do you remember how we met?" Yanqing slips into a restless silence, so you don't press him to respond. But you do conclude by saying, "They care about your safety, so don't get yourself into too much trouble."
You're sure he has his reasons. Children don't act out unless their needs, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional, aren't being met, and you're sure he's being neglected in several ways, by nature of his environment. Especially for someone as docile as Yanqing, there's no doubt that something's bothering him, or else he wouldn't be seeking help from a stranger like you.
However, it's precisely because you're a stranger that you cannot –
That's a fucking lie, and you know it.
You press your knuckles into your eyes and rub vigorously, as a means to prevent your expression from falling. It seems you're still soft, even after all these years and the terrible experiences that have come along with them.
You shouldn't concede. You shouldn't allow him to stay. He could promise to wake up early, escape silently, whatever – but there would never be a guarantee, and it's entirely foolish to rely on a child to follow through with their word. At the same time, though, deep down in your heart, you don't want to turn him away. You want to give him an opportunity to prove himself, especially since no one gave you one. And if anything, on the very hour that you resolved you'd leave that cheap illusion of a home, you promised yourself you'd never act like them, and turning away a lonely child would be exactly something they would do.
You let your hands fall into your lap, in total defeat. If you kick the kid out, you'd never be able to face him, and more likely than not, you wouldn't be able to even think straight for the next few days, no thanks to the guilt that'd be eating you from the inside out.
"Fine."
As expected, Yanqing's face somehow lights up even brighter, and this time, you have to completely avert your gaze. There's no going back, no backpedaling on your words, no room for regret. It's obvious you're biting off more than you can chew, but you'll think about your future later. Right now, you need to tackle what comes next, and that's surviving tonight.
"I have questions," you continue. "First, do you know your way back?"
The kid nods swiftly, body angled and sharp, oozing utmost respect for you now that you're saving his ass.
"How do you plan on returning without getting caught?"
"The guards switch every three hours. They take 15 minutes to break and chat, which they really shouldn't be doing, but… that just means I can slip back in then."
"When is the next rotation?"
"Uh, Tsurugi wakes me up at 6…?"
You note Yanqing's confusion and his irrelevant response, due to your choice in vocabulary, so you urge yourself to speak more simply and softly. (Tsurugi must be the name of his primary bodyguard, who you vaguely recall.)
With a deep breath, you say, "Great. Then, just for tonight, I'll let you stay. But you have to leave by five, and if Tsurugi catches you, you're coming up with a lie. I will act like I have nothing to do with you. Am I clear?"
As if the two of you are roleplaying a children's game, he salutes you, little chest puffed out, back arched forward, cheeks round and red with excitement. You ignore it, and scooch over to make space for Yanqing to join you on your futon. He crawls over, the fabric of his pajama pants which are shy of his ankles wrinkling under the twists and turns of his knees, and plops right down, head taking up the entirety of your pillow. For a second, you part your mouth to point out that your graciousness doesn't extend to the sacrifice of your quality of sleep, but as Yanqing's eyes close, drowsiness evidently shrouding his mind, you think better than to berate the little one.
It’s not like you’re going to sleep anytime soon, anyway. You'll stay up till five, so that you can wake him on time, and then slip a few hours of rest in before breakfast.
You peek up at the doors to your room and see the faint outline of guards standing outside. Since it seemed like a shift change had just occurred, you assume that it's currently barely half past midnight, and the analog clock hanging on the wall behind you confirms it as such. If you had your phone on you, you would take this chance to attempt contacting Hana once more, but Kou had taken your device away during your meeting and locked it in a safe sitting on one of the shelves in his office.
That reminds you – they could be looking through your phone. The only thing of use they'll find in there is Hana's phone number, but even then, they likely wouldn't take the risk of potentially calling a civilian, or at least not without you. Perhaps that'll be something they'll expect you to do eventually. Anyway, for tonight, you'll have to make do with passing the hours by idly.
Yanqing has fallen into a deep sleep. Tucking the blanket underneath his chin, you dote on him a little, a small apology for your rudeness from before. Then, you straighten out his ponytail from where it curves in an unruly manner around his neck, before lying back down yourself, face tilted upward towards the ceiling.
–
There's the crack of a gunshot. A heavy thump on the dirt ground. Then, there's a few sniggers, some side comments you can't make out, all of which cease when someone barks out orders to bag the body and dispose of it immediately. Finally, silence.
Well, not total silence. If you strained your ears further, you'd hear the choked sobs of another victim or two, their animalistic and desperate pleas muffled by the black duct tape slapped across their sealed lips, along with the rustling of the men placing the corpse into a body bag that will later be burned in a large furnace in some far-off trash site.
(Not that anyone knows you know, and you're simply parroting Haru's words, so you're not entirely sure what he means. But, even without understanding the full extent of his words, you're aware that your family is in dangerous, brutal business, so you don't force yourself to listen for more.)
Even though you're only in elementary school, you've learned when you should and shouldn't wish to learn more, and more often than not, in the world that you live in, curiosity does kill the cat and will fail to bring it back.
After all, that's why all of these people are dying, no?
You roll your eyes, because you know that's not true. An explanation that simple and cold doesn't sit right even with your developing moral compass.
This discomfort that you're feeling at the moment... that's frustration directed at yourself. Because you're no different in your desperation or intrigue, except you have no excuse for behaving so recklessly, aside from your youth.
And Haru has taken extra measures to drill that into your head. He constantly reminds you that there's no need for you to worry about "adult matters," that you should immediately find him if you run into a problem, that you should be enjoying the barest bits and pieces of your childhood because "you'll never experience it again."
However, no matter how much wisdom or power he has, Haru can't solve the current issue at hand.
At that thought, your hands throb, which draws your attention away from the murders taking place outside of your room. You're grateful that no bones were broken this time, thanks to Haru and his insistence that you let the matter go once and for all. As you wiggle your fingers and ball them into fists, there's that familiar soreness and ache of bruised skin webbed with bloody cracks, muscles weathered from overuse and strain, and dulled knuckles with little strength remaining in them. The pain is beginning to spread up your wrists, the fatigue starting to weigh down the flesh and blood in your forearms, and you ponder how exactly you're going to be able to pick up a pencil at school in the morning.
You've been beaten over this issue for the past two months, ever since you started hounding your parents over it. No matter how many times you've asked your parents for permission to attend your school's annual overnight trip, they won't allow you, and this year is no different. At this rate, you'll graduate elementary school, having made zero memories with the few friends you have, and there's apparently talk of you transferring to another middle school where you won't recognize anyone.
Grumbling a little, you bore your eyes even deeper into the textured plaster of your bedroom ceiling, so that you can attribute the tears gathering at your waterline to your makeshift staring game and not the overwhelming disappointment suffocating you at the nose and throat.
That's another problem Haru can't solve for you.
I mean, he could, but I don't want to wake him up.
Haru's bedroom is right next to yours, and his breaks are limited to whenever you're (supposed to be) asleep. You know he wouldn't complain if you were to find him at this hour, but you'd feel horrible for doing so, and you definitely wouldn't be able to hold your tears back then. You'd rather not be more of a burden to Haru or Hana than you already are.
So you revert to your typical coping strategy: bite your lower lip firmly – not enough to draw blood, or else Mother will rage –, grip your hands onto the top edge of your blanket, and go over the English vocabulary you were introduced to in class earlier in the afternoon.
Because, one day, you'll leave this place far, far away. So far, where no one will quiver at the briefest mention of your last name, where parents won't scowl at you for befriending their children, where you won't have to bandage your bleeding, splitting hands every morning in fear that they'll fall apart and crumble at your feet.
And Haru and Hana will definitely come with me! Haru's fluent in English anyway, and we can just teach Hana the basics. The three of us will run away, and no one will find us.
–
You take a few deep breaths, urging the infuriated tension in your body to dissipate and your disturbed mind to stop conflating the past with the present.
I can't believe I still remember so much, you think, in equal parts disappointment and… yearning. It's not a longing for the place that you grew up in, but rather, for what the place could've been. A normal family and life was all that you wished for when you were growing up, even though you didn't have the slightest clue as to what normalcy was like. In the end, you concluded that, as long as there was Haru, Hana, and an absence of pain and blood, that would be normal enough. Of course, now that you've personally experienced somewhat of a mundane life, you roll your eyes and wish your past self was a bit more ambitious.
You typically don't allow yourself to reminisce, but since your past and present are colliding, it's impossible to recognize the parallels.
And just like that, both so slowly and so rapidly, you must wake up Yanqing.
You're grateful that the kid's so obedient, as he doesn't utter a single groan or whine when you tap on his shoulder. He simply sits up while rubbing the heels of his hand into his eyes in gentle back-and-forth motions. And even through his grogginess, he climbs out of the covers noiselessly and walks towards the attached bathroom.
Seated, you watch as he climbs onto the toilet seat and reaches up to unlock the window pane, from which he squeezes through. He then jumps down, followed by a gentle thump, then silence. Through it all, you're incredibly impressed and terrified by the amount of tenuous training this elementary schooler has already mastered. Anyway, there's no one outside your room at the moment, so you figure there's very few guards on patrol in general, so you trust that he'll sneak back into his room with no problem. Regardless, from this point onwards, it's none of your business what Yanqing does or what happens to him.
Relief washes over you, and you catch your breath for what seems like the first time since you blacked out last night. The air is still chill, as it always is in the spring, but there's a touch of slight, summer humidity that sticks pleasantly against your skin. Whether or not you're prepared, it will be that time of the year again.
–
It seems Jing Yuan's goal is to take over both gangs at once, as soon as the two merge together when they settle their contract. That way, he wouldn't just have control over your hometown, but also whatever territory the acquiring gang has. For any other syndicate, an objective like this one would be infeasible, but this is no more than a small matter for him and his men.
Swaying side to side, you stare down into the center of the marble sink, one hand placed flat on the counter and the other gripping your toothbrush, elbow hanging in the air. The tangy and minty taste of fluoride bubbles against your tongue and drools from the corners of your lips. You should spit it all out – you've been brushing for five minutes –, but you're too deep in thought.
That explains why I only have a week.
The gangs in your hometown are going to finalize the acquisition by the weekend, and he needs enough intel to ensure that the ambush is truly worth it and that he's attacking where they're most vulnerable.
With regards to the acquiring gang, you have very little idea as to who it could be. Usually, mergers and acquisitions take place between neighboring organizations. You’re aware of two candidates, but one out of the two is too conservative, disinterested in artificial growth and more fearful of internal strife than anything else, and the other one… well, you're not sure they would continue to pursue a partnership after the shitshow that went down when you left. Of course, you can't rule the latter out entirely based on conjecture, and they're the sole lead you have.
You set down your toothbrush and turn on the faucet, using the lukewarm water to wash away the toothpaste foam and gunk. You also fill up a glass cup halfway up with water and drink from it, throwing your head back so you can gurgle. You squint as you stare up at the shining LED lights lining the top of the sink mirror.
Anyway, back to Jing Yuan.
There's no doubt that he's aiming to monopolize your hometown's trade channels and connections, as that's the singular redeeming aspect of that place. The acquiring syndicate would also be involved – either as a large supplier themself or as an operations provider –, so it would also be advantageous to seize their services.
So far, you've mainly been helping Kou and his men with names and locations. You also threw in some leads, disguised as idle gossip and tales, to make yourself seem useful, even if by coincidence. For instance, you mentioned seeing groups of college boys hanging out in the alleyways between a popular cigar shop and a thrift store nobody frequents. The thrift store is useless, but if they were to look into the cigar shop, they'd easily find that it's not just a small warehouse for foreign drug imports, but there's also a tunnel in the manager's break room that connects to an underground sex shop a few blocks away. That sex shop is considered one of the larger establishments in the area, and deals frequently take place in their midst of stale cologne, spilt alcohol, and smoking gunpowder. Surely Jing Yuan would find some of those conversations valuable.
Since Kou has already been informed of the underground sex and human trafficking, if his men were to follow your trail exactly as you intended, then they should be able to deduce that your hometown gang is more than interested in becoming a major supplier themself. Given that they control the entire flow of goods in the neighborhood, if they were to succeed and begin expanding nationwide, then they might actually have a shot at amassing considerable fortune and power.
You inhale, then exhale, through your nose.
You briefly entertain the thought of what comes next. Jing Yuan's sure to execute his hostile takeover perfectly, and naturally, he'll reorganize the gangs' internal management when he seizes them. If his primary interest is the supply chain, he'll likely shut down any and all unrelated activities. That means staff will be let go. Prostitutes, independent hitmen, the occasional clueless bar owner – only those that are not directly affiliated with the gang. While the others…
Your back and shoulders stiffen at the thought. Hana easily falls in the latter group.
Water begins to flood your throat. You gag, a strangled, wobbly noise that's forced out amidst your surprise, and you throw your head back down so that you can spit into the sink. With a ragged breath, you shut your eyes firmly, and wait for the nausea to alleviate.
Suddenly, the bathroom door cracks open, and you jump as the door handle on the inside knocks into your hip. You're about to scream out loud, but when you whip your head around, you're greeted by a concerned Yanqing.
You can't help but growl. "What are you doing here?! I said last night was a one-time thing!"
The child recoils at your animosity. He tucks his chin down into his chest and takes a few steps back, though he doesn't close the bathroom door. And maybe it's just the lights again, but there's something that glitters at the corners of his eyes.
You take another inhale, letting air, still a little warm and humid from your bath earlier, fill up to the ends of your lungs, expanding all the way to the sides of your ribcage and the core of your stomach.
He's just a kid. Calm. Down.
"Sorry, Yanqing," you say, evidently softer and very apologetic. "You just surprised me, is all. But we did agree that you couldn't come over anymore."
He scrunches his nose a few times, before nodding obediently again. However, like the previous night, he anchors himself to his spot, and he probably won't leave until you give in and let him stay.
"Yanqing…," you mumble, crouching down onto the floor so that you're at eye-level with him, "is something wrong?"
It takes him a while to muster an answer. At first, it's the subtlest tremble in his upper lip, like he's deciding whether he should tell you the honest truth or not. Then, he squirms with his shoulders, thin frame shaking and swaying back and forth, and it doesn't take you long to recognize that it's out of embarrassment. However, it's critical that you don't rush him, especially if he's teetering between uncertainty and doubt. Finally, he huffs, pouts, and looks up at you with round, innocent eyes, checking one final time to see if you're the kind of person to judge him harshly.
You're not, and you nod with pursed lips to demonstrate that you'd listen to him intently.
"I don't like sleeping alone," he confesses.
You nod again, out of sympathy. When Yanqing doesn't follow up, you ask, "Is there a reason why?"
Dismayed, he shakes his head. "It's too dark."
We're alike in that respect, you mentally note. The number of similarities between the two of you is growing.
"I get that. Have you tried asking for a nightlight? Those helped me when I was young."
That's a half-lie. You never had a nightlight, per se, but when you couldn't go on your sixth grade overnight camping trip, Haru tried to make up for the loss of the experience with glow-in-the-dark stars that he stuck on the ceiling of your bedroom. Unfortunately, they didn't last for more than a week, due to an impromptu inspection from Mother, and she demanded they all be ripped off and disposed of immediately.
Yet again, Yanqing shakes his head. "I have to get used to it," he states, firmly.
You sigh, hands reaching up to smooth back some of his loose baby hairs. "But you're here."
"I know… but…" He looks up at you with a desperate, pleading look, like he's begging for you to understand him. "There are things out there in the dark. I don't feel safe."
Not just alike – the exact same.
"I see…" You stand back up and lead him to your futon, turning off the bathroom lights and closing the door behind you. You lie down on one side of the comforter, and the child mimics you, settling down across from you, making sure to fold his arms and legs close to his chest.
Words don't need to be exchanged for Yanqing to comprehend that you're giving him permission. And there's also the unspoken agreement on the same conditions you set the first night he came over.
"Relax, I'll wake you when it's time."
At that, the child unfolds himself and wriggles into a comfortable sleeping position, while you lay the blanket over his body so that he doesn't catch a cold.
"By the way," you hum, "how did you get in here this time?"
"I ran around the house and came through the main door."
"I see." You pause for a moment, before finishing, "Try not to do that. You'll get caught easily that way."
"I won't – I promise!"
The look in his eyes is set, determined, somehow ferociously loyal. In spite of his passionate spirit, you don't have the heart to offer him another piece of advice, one that you take quite to heart: Don't make promises so frequently, and unnecessarily.
A flicker of a smile appears on your face, and Yanqing takes it as a sign of affirmation. He grins himself, before turning on his side, getting comfortable for the night.
Suddenly, he jerks up, supporting his upper body with a bent elbow, and looks back over his shoulder at you. He says, "You're really kind, miss! I wish everyone here was as nice as you are!"
Before you can respond, not that it's possible for you to come up with an adequate enough reply, he flops back down.
You could speak up, if you wanted to. But – and maybe this is simply an excuse – his breathing's already transitioning into deeper, longer inhales, and just like yesterday evening, you can't find it in your heart to disturb him. After all, no child talks like that, without reason.
It's not to imply that the men here are abusing Yanqing. From the peeks of skin that you've seen, primarily that around his wrists, ankles, and neck, there aren't visible injuries. The bruises that you did catch a glance of seemed like normal injuries received from a blunt sword, most likely from exchanging blows during kendo practice.
However, that doesn't mean the people here are serving the child fully. Generally, emotional neglect is a common recurrence in East Asian cultures and traditional upbringing, and there's no doubt that it's drastically worse within yakuza households. Jing Yuan must be subjecting Yanqing to a severe and harsh training regime in order to shape the latter into a proper heir, and part of that training would require adopting a strict, apathetic attitude towards everything, including the kid's pain, frustration, and anguish. In other words, there's no other way to teach a child of less than ten years the art of masking and indifference without demonstrating it directly to them.
All told, it's highly possible that you're the only adult that Yanqing has encountered in a long while who is so open with their expressions and thoughts. And you can't help but think – What a pitiful existence.
–
When rainfall occurs, the cumulus cloud becomes a cumulonimbus cloud. As the rain droplets fall, they'll also push air particles downwards, forming a cycle of up and downdrafts within the cloud. As a result, fallen rain will settle on the bottom, while those that remain at the top freeze into ice particles. This cycle is what allows electrification to build up.
What is most notable at this point in the development stage is the widening of the top of the storm cloud, as positively charged ice crystals fan out and form what is termed as the "anvil."
In blacksmithing, anvils are tough by nature, made to withstand the brutal hammering and battering of metal against metal. At the same time, it is also used to cut and shape, flatten and curve – to manipulate. In the context of thunderstorms, the anvil signals the storm's maturity, and the more spread out it is, the more turbulent the weather will be. In that sense, the anvil also manipulates – it draws out a sense of foreboding and gloom from the radius of towns, homes, and people it casts its looming shadow over, victims that will have to bear the storm's incessant rain and lightning.
And while there's no scientific basis for Japanese folklore, it is suggested in countless tales that these lightning strikes are signals from the heavens to the mortals, that punishment for their transgressions is impending.
Imminent.
–
It's your fifth day at the estate, and Yanqing's visits have become habitual. You no longer chastise him for putting you in danger, and he listens to you more often than not. And to make sure he doesn't get caught, the two of you decide on a more refined routine to conceal his presence and your knowing of it.
You wait until a few minutes before or after the guards' shift change to go into your bathroom to begin your nightly routine. That way, you can help Yanqing down as he sneaks through the bathroom window, and the sounds of your bath filling up are more than enough to overpower the slight squeak of the window pane whenever it slides open.
Today, though, Yanqing seems more haggard than usual. The droop in his shoulders, along with the shadows under his eyes, are telltale signs of his exhaustion. He doesn't even bother to greet you with his usual toothy grin, no "Good evening, Miss!" to be heard. You pick at your left thumb’s cuticle, wondering if it's because of his nightly escapades to your room. Yet, he looked more rested than when he was staving off sleepless nights alone, you internally debate.
Suddenly, as Yanqing steps down from the toilet, bending at an angle at the waist, he lets out a timid weep of pain.
Urgently, you reach over to steady him and avoid making contact with his midriff. The pain seems to linger, by the insistent crease between his eyebrows, so whatever injury he's sustained must be quite stubborn.
"Hold on to my shoulders," you instruct. Looping an arm under his knees and placing the other on his back, you heave him up and rush to lay him down on your futon.
"Where does it hurt?" You pat your hands lightly around his ribs, glancing back and forth between his wrinkled nightshirt and his rapidly blinking eyes.
"Right side –," he squirms just as your hand smooths over the spot right between his last rib and the dip in his torso, "– there!"
You lift your arm and hover your palm over the spot. "Can I take a look?" you inquire, and the boy immediately lets out a whimper in confirmation.
You shimmy his shirt up and find bandages wrapped around his stomach. On the right side, as Yanqing directed, there are a few specks of blood, and there's a purplish blob peeking out from the upper border of the gauze. There are probably several more cuts and bruises underneath the off-white wraps, and you swallow thickly at the sight.
Your vision blurs and dims, and for a moment, it feels like you're losing your balance. It continues to contort, swirling, while the world slips from its axis.
Fuck! Now's not the time!
You didn't handle this so well during your first night, and you feel a rush of panic as you question if you'd be able to withstand it this time. You pause, close your eyes, and frantically search for your center of gravity to re-ground yourself.
The water's still running, that's suspicious –
I don't have a first aid kit, what am I supposed to do!
Is the window still open? I should double-check –
You shove all of these thoughts aside. They're important, yes, and you'll get to them. But what's most important is gauging Yanqing's condition, you remind yourself, and you open your eyes, opting to simply do rather than think.
Your survival instincts kick in. The first and necessary step is to survey your surroundings. The bandages are neatly arranged and knotted, so you can't take them off. But even through the polyester fabric of the gauze, there's a noticeable heat that seeps through, so at the very least, you can help cool him off.
Robotically, you stand up and mutter, "I'll be right back."
You pace back to your bathroom and grab your hand towel hanging from the rack. You turn off the bathwater, the bath almost filled up to the brim, and leave it be. Then, you turn towards the sink, and let it run with cold water while you soak up the towel. Simultaneously, you're able to check the window and are relieved to find it closed, with its glass panes fogged up from condensation. Finally, with a few rough twists and pulls, you drain enough from the towel so that it doesn't drip, and rush back to Yanqing's side.
Folding it twice like a napkin so that it becomes a quarter of its size, you run the towel over the bit of bruised skin, before covering the spot you had identified earlier. The child whines at the icy touch, but doesn't resist it either, instead angling his hip in the direction of your outstretched hand in search of more of that cool, soothing sensation.
"I can't do much else," you whisper, almost a consoling coo, "so you need to rest up. You're doing very well, Yanqing. It'll get better soon."
With that, you pull his shirt back down without covering the cool towel, and wrap his legs and feet with your blanket to keep them warm. Yanqing also stills himself, but the sternness in his features doesn't disappear. You can only imagine that he's desperately waiting for sleep to claim his pain, as well as his thoughts.
You're back in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth with fast, aggressive back-and-forth motions. There's a tingle around the perimeter of your teeth, certainly your gums screaming from being scraped raw and torn, but it's more annoying than anything else, something you easily shove in your mind's back burner.
It's all coming back to me, you think with inward disgust.
–
Haru’s soaked, his suit and loosened tie plastered to his body, his hair and ponytail stuck to his forehead, ears, and nape. There's cold sweat streaking down his temple, and his cheeks, glistening with pool water, are already an angry rouge. His chest is heaving, too, lungs working overtime to take in gasp after gasp after gasp.
You're also soaked into oblivion, and most importantly, you feel as infernally hot and angered as Haru looks. The gusts of wind that whip across the school grounds do nothing to dampen the infuriated sparks from within; they only fan the flames of everything – your resentment and frustration, your helplessness and hopelessness.
Haru's right arm flies up, and you don't even bother to brace yourself for the impact. You've been hit countless times before – you're used to it. In fact, you can almost feel the acute stinging against your jaw, accompanied with a slight ringing in your ears and a sore neck. However, in reality, his arm floats there, like a robot waiting for permission to move, to assault its target. But there's no one here to give instructions, not even teachers or staff members. It's the middle of the night, and no one should've been able to find you drowning yourself at your middle school pool.
But of course, Haru finds you. Even when the odds are stacked against him, he always manages to.
You're tempted to egg him on. Do it, you want to taunt, show me that you're no different from the rest of them. Because no matter how much we resist, we're both bred to be rotten to the core.
"No, I won't," he croaks, as if reading your mind.
You click your tongue. Like brother, like sister.
His hand drops down, hanging limply at his drenched side. A few passing clouds eclipse the moon, thus erasing the pool's reflection of the night sky – moon, stars, and all – and replacing it with an overflowing well of ink. Furthermore, in this opaque darkness, you can't make out Haru's reaction. He's never been very good with words, so you need to see his eyes in order to glean even the most superficial of his thoughts. The rest you could never decipher, hidden in the depths of his impregnable mind.
He speaks before the moon returns, his voice no more than a pained, sorrow croak. He utters your name, and it rings so hollow as echoes of it resound across the pool. Strangely, he sounds so weak and vulnerable – honest.
Another gust of wind swoops through, and ripples interlace across the darkened pool water.
Then, with a faltering voice, he chokes out, "I… get it. I totally get it. I know we live in a fucking hell, and you want to escape it. Trust me… I've tried, too. Several times, kid. I know… I know it all."
He sucks in a shaky breath.
"Kid… I don't watch over you just because I'm told to. This may be hard to believe at the moment, but… I care. I've been watching over you since the day you were fucking born, and I can't let you die before me. I won't! And – and if you did, what am I supposed to say to Hana, huh?! Tell her that I couldn't get to you in time?!"
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back his slick bangs, and as if on cue, the clouds pass. Moonlight illuminates all that stands beneath it, and you see that Haru's eyes are bloodshot and downcast. A shock of guilt zips through your body because, once again, you're inconveniencing him.
"It's only the three of us, kid… Things might be horrible right now, but once you and Hana come of age, everything will get easier. Just look at me – I can do so many more things than either of you can, and that's because I'm an adult. Wait a few more years and –"
Then, for the first time in your life, you witness Haru's dam break. For the first time in your life, Haru's shedding his persona as your personal bodyguard, and speaking to you solely as your older brother but not by blood. Nevertheless, he is someone who will always be more of a family member to you than any of your actual blood relatives.
"Shit, sorry, I'm spouting nonsense," he sobs. He dips his head, but the moonlight still catches the glints of teardrops raining down onto the pavement. There's a prickling in your eyes, too.
"Look, it-it's your choice. But, it's also my choice to butt in when I think you're doing something stupid. I'm not going to lie to you anymore and tell you things get better when you're older. You might have more independence and freedom and whatever when you reach my age, but that's all in exchange for things that are far worse.
"But, if there's anything that I haven't lied about, it's that there's only the three of us. And I can't let any of us give up, you hear? So you can stay angry, think that I'm being too meddlesome, whatever – but I'm doing all of this because I care so fucking much for you, kid. I'm always on your side, got it? And if you're really serious about wanting to leave this place, well… I-I promise we'll figure something out, yeah? I swear."
It's your turn to look down, hot tears streaming down your face out of humiliation and fear. You feel horrible for pushing Haru to his limit, but you're still extremely upset that he found you, of all times, of all places. And while the thought that you're not actually dead is relieving, you think that's more animal instinct than personal desire. And if there's anything your heart truly desires, it's to never return to that place or to the people there. You despise them all, would kill them all if you had the strength and courage, and you feel yourself on the cusp of losing it all over again when you imagine waking up to that same starless bedroom in the morning.
"I-I can't, Ha – ugh – ru," you blubber, words spilling out of your mouth before you can even pronounce them, hand clutching onto the front of your crumpled t-shirt, "I c-can't go back there, and – ha – take their shit anymore. I'd rather d-die right now, than see Mother's or Father's f-fucking f-faces. Please, please, please don't take me back there, I c-can't –"
Haru strides over, and although the both of you are freezing, it's comforting and almost warm to feel him wrap his arms tightly around you. As you struggle to breathe, gasping over and over and over again, he doesn't move, gripping onto you tighter and tighter.
Your throat feels like it's burning, as your broken sobs grow louder and more hoarse with every forced shout. You're still going on, and even you don't understand what you're trying to say. But the sentiment is more than enough – you're just throwing up all your feelings, spilling your insides out in hopes that someone else will clean up your mess on your behalf. This whole time you've been suffering alone, and you can no longer handle this pain by yourself.
"One year," Haru suddenly states. His voice is softer, but there's an evident edge to it, almost frightening in how resilient he sounds. "In exactly a year from today, I'll create an opening. That's your time to leave. Run away from this shithole, and don't look back. I promise."
Arms flying up, you shove him away, and gape at him in disbelief. "What – are you –," you sputter.
"I'm not fucking joking. I swear."
You desperately stare into his eyes, searching for signs, trying so hard to peer into his thoughts. But there's nothing to decode or decipher because, also for the first time in your life, Haru's being completely honest with you. He's laying out his true thoughts right in front you, and he's demanding that you take a good look.
You gulp, tears coming to a sudden shock.
One more year, I don't know if I can do that. But I've already survived fourteen.
"You, you promise?" you beg, hope leaking out of your tone.
He nods, and pulls you back into his embrace.
"One more year, and then you'll be free. Just focus on staying sane. Hana and I will handle everything else."
There's a flash of light, but it's not from the moon. Another flash comes, followed by approaching footsteps.
Haru curses under his breath. "We need to go," he hisses, "or else security will find us."
He tugs on your arm, but you don't budge, staying fixed to where you stand. You cast another longing glance toward the pool, the stars in the water rocking gently, enticingly, before they all smooth out into the murky indigo below.
You had chosen to die here of all places because your death would've been a cause for celebration. You're feared by your classmates, teachers, the entire town for fuck's sake, and there's no better way to spit in your family's face than to make a spectacle out of your own death.
Haru jerks your wrist one more time. His palm is beginning to sweat against your skin, as if his body's manifesting his urgent pleading.
"Do we have to go?" you mutter, regret and panic climbing up the stretch of your dry, scratchy throat. I could still do it, you think, I can just shove Haru aside and make a break for it.
He glares at you, chastising you for your cowardice. The look is stone cold, so intimidating that it quiets down the chaotic voices in your head.
"Just one more year, kid." With that, you finally relent, and Haru sprints to the chain link fence with you in tow.
Indeed, you'll wake up staring up at the same starless ceiling in the morning. But at least you'll have something to look forward to, counting down the days until you won't have to wake up in that damned room again.
–
Jing Yuan visits in the late morning. It's evident because all of the guards behave the same way they did when you first came to the estate. You figure he'd have other matters to attend to first, but it seems he's come straight to your room, knocking twice on the wooden frame of your door.
You respond flatly, "Sir, this is your home. There's no need to knock."
He chuckles lightly as he says, "That would be no way to treat a guest of mine. May I enter?"
With a mumbled affirmation on your end, he walks in with his signature slight smile, and you watch as his eyes give you and your belongings a brief once-over. Everything should be in place, you think. Waking up Yanqing at five took more effort than normal, no thanks to his injuries and overt exhaustion, but you managed to help him out of the window with an hour to spare to straighten out your room.
You also briefly scan the oyabun from the corner of your eye. He's wearing a suit this time, a crisp, white three-piece paired with a vermillion tie and black leather shoes. He also has on a pair of black gloves that fit his hands to a tee, accentuating the broad expanse of his palms and the length of his fingers. For a second, your mind wanders, entertaining the delusional fantasy of fitting your hand in his. Almost immediately, you recoil in disgust, veiled by an irritated twitch in your eye.
"Is everything alright?" Jing Yuan asks, head tilting to the side.
Your expression phases back to normal, as if your facade hadn't just slipped. "Sorry, I think an eyelash got into my eye. I'm fi –"
"Oh? Let me see."
Before you can even attempt at sidestepping his reach, Jing Yuan's already grabbed ahold of your chin, and he leans in close, closer than the last time he held you like so. Breath stolen, blood cold, heart palpitating, your body freezes, a prey stuck in a trap, waiting with palpable fear and uncertainty as he stares into the depths of your irises.
He's looking at you, yet not quite. The two of you are obviously making eye contact, but it's as if he's searching for something – the nonexistent eyelash? a moment of weakness? an opening to scrape your eyes out of their sockets?
And his touch. There's a dense warmth to it that rubs and permeates into your skin, a stinging balm that'll stick to the surface of your skin for several more hours before fading away, an imaginary mark left behind. If you don't think too hard about it, the stinging would give way to a more tolerable sensation, a faint buzzing in the background, but you rarely never have opinions about anything, and your conscience refuses to accept this warmth for what it is.
By the time he pulls away, you're almost out of air, body soon to erupt with asphyxiated tremors, and there's nothing you can do to prevent the slight gasp that escapes when he releases you from his grasp.
Jing Yuan acts like he doesn't notice. With a curious hum, he muses, "Nothing there."
You manage to push out a shaky rasp, "Ah, I… That's good…"
"Very well."
He adjusts his gloves, pulling them down towards his wrists, and you dare yourself to daydream about this murderer once more.
"I take it that your stay has been acceptable? But if my men have done something unpleasant to you, or if there is anything not to your liking, please let me know."
"Everything has been great. Thank you for your hospitality, Sir." You start to bow, but he stops you with a wave of his hand.
"No, I should be thanking you. I read through Kou's reports, and it is because of you that we were able to identify their activities. I did not expect them to invest so heavily in their brothels and clubs."
"I figured the rumors had some truth in them."
"Indeed." He breathes out, breathes in, practically tasting the spring air filtering into your room. "Would you care to join me for a bit?"
It's a request you have no means of turning down, but the specific ask puzzles you. "Yes?" you agree hesitantly.
"Do not worry. I was able to get my hands on some information earlier this morning, and I would like to… hear your thoughts."
You nod, still unsure, but you follow behind him anyway as the two of you navigate the estate to the same watsushi where you had tea with him twice. The two of you take your usual seats at the table, and as you wait for Jing Yuan to restart the conversation, you observe your surroundings.
The large hall is still undecorated and bare, and there are two guards perched at either side. The temperature is the warmest it's been all week, and it's pleasant to have the sunshine and breeze kiss and caress your skin. With the garden in full bloom, you take in the different shades of pastel pinks, yellows, reds, and greens, which you realize are the only vibrant colors in the contrasting monochromatic and bleak estate. Even Yanqing, you note, wears dark or neutral tones when not dressed in his school uniform, and you think it's a shame to grow up in such a luxuriously drab place.
"What do you think of Yanqing?" Jing Yuan asks.
You startle at the question, and tilt your head out of confusion.
He simply huffs a laugh. "Speak freely. I will not be offended if you have nothing good to say."
You chuckle nervously, though it's probably not very convincing. It’s hard not to miss the subtext in his warning.
He’ll punish me if I lie to his face. But I’d be an idiot if I’m completely honest.
You keep up your perplexed act. "I'm not sure? I haven't seen him around. If anything, he is obedient."
"That is true. He listens to me and to Tsurugi, for the most part. But I am curious – why did you go so far for him? He may be a child, but he is a stranger, no?"
Is he referring to the attempted kidnapping? His questions are too vague, and you're starting to worry that his ambiguity is intentional. Your hands are getting clammy from the cold sweat. There's a panicked itch in the back of your throat on the verge of tearing free.
You reply thickly, "It's the responsibility of adults to protect children, stranger or not."
"So how do you plan on protecting him from me?"
You’re trapped in mere moments. One of the two guards appears behind you, and presses the cold metal chamber of his gun firmly to your temple. The other remains at his position, but you can see that his hand's steadied at his holster. And the oyabun looks so nonchalant about the whole ordeal, as if everything that's unfolding before his very eyes has been planned from the beginning.
You shouldn't carelessly speak, but you choke out a horrified gasp anyway. "Y-you knew?!"
"Yes, though I will apologize, as I was not entirely transparent with you from the start. There are hidden cameras planted around the estate for security."
In other words, they’ve been monitoring you since the moment you moved in, possibly since your first visit. Obviously, then, there’s no doubt they saw Yanqing escape from his own room and tracked him as he fled to your side.
Jing Yuan continues to explain. "I do not intend to kill you immediately. I say it is only fair that you are given a bit of leeway for my duplicity."
You gulp in anticipation of his offer. You need to stall for more time, as both your body and mind are paralyzed with fear and hopelessness.
"Let us play a game, shall we? It is simple – two truths and a lie. I will ask you three questions. You may choose to answer any two with the truth and the remaining one with a lie. And vice versa. You may ask me anything, and you will not be punished for the content of your answers, unless they are irrelevant.”
You furrow your eyebrows. It's extremely difficult to focus on his instructions when there's a firearm pointed your way – the guard could shoot you at any time for any reason.
You purse your lips, collecting yourself enough to speak, before asking, slowly, "Will we need to guess which one is the lie?"
He shrugs. "No. It will be obvious."
Just how much does he know?!
"You may need some time to think of questions, so I will start us off." Suddenly, his eyes flicker open, and with a hypnotic air, he stares directly at you. This time, he isn't looking past you; he is properly looking at you, like he wants to understand you, and you regret desiring even the slightest bit of undivided attention from him earlier.
"First," he probes, slowly, "let me repeat myself. How do you plan on protecting Yanqing from me?”
The creases in your forehead deepen. What’s the point of this question? What is he after?
You should answer this one honestly; there’s no point in using up your lie over a question as comparably harmless as this one. It’s not like you have any other choice but to believe that he’ll keep his word and won’t kill you for being so outspoken. If anything, he might order the guard to shoot you for not being thorough enough with your replies.
“I… I’m not sure I can…,” you enunciate. You can feel each syllable roll off your tongue, how you have to force them out despite rising self-doubt and hesitation. But you have to push on.
“I wasn’t trying to protect Yanqing. He came to me first, and I gave into his requests because I pitied him. I have no intention of kidnapping him or turning him against you. I’m not trying to take him away from you.
“But…” You glance at him warily. Jing Yuan’s expression doesn’t falter at all. “But… I am glad that he feels comfortable around me. It’s a little saddening to me that he’s so gracious for the little kindness I’ve shown him.”
Something glows in the oyabun’s eyes. It’s almost like he’s delighted with you. However, you don’t think too deeply about it because you’re more preoccupied with straining your ears for the click of the gun’s safety. You either die now or later.
Nothing comes.
You manage to suck in a half-breath. I’m safe for now, you observe. At least he’s upholding his promise.
“My second question,” Jing Yuan muses, moving the conversation on without respite. “I would like to know what you think of me. As a reminder, please speak without inhibition.”
What do I think of him?
Shouldn’t it be obvious?
You despise him. Yakuza like him kill for a living and for entertainment. They don’t feel the slightest drop of remorse over their actions, and will not lay their brutality to rest until they themselves are slain. They will strip people of their futures, tear apart loving families, crush anyone that opposes them just for the hell of it.
And you can say with confidence that Jing Yuan is the worst of them all. The stories from your childhood already say more than enough: A man who can succeed in a country foreign to him is ruthless and disloyal, unable to tell the difference between friend and foe. Jing Yuan came into power because he had slaughtered the previous oyabun of his gang, along with all of the former boss’ lackeys.
His empire is one that he controls through fear and subjugation. He is selfish, and prideful, and doesn’t even bother to treat his people well. Not even his own heir – this, you are a witness to.
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your teeth easily tear through the flesh.
Gauze and a wet towel aren’t enough to heal the injuries smothering his body, let alone the permanent damage inflicted upon his psyche. Yanqing’s dependence on you says less about you, and all the more about Jing Yuan and his men.
He’s heartless.
You don’t notice it, but you’ve begun to quiver with rage, your body demonstrating your waning tolerance for this cruel, cruel man.
You can’t forgive him for ruining your life, too. You were a good samaritan passing by, someone he could’ve easily overlooked. But no. He decided to involve you in his spontaneous whimsies and disrupted the fractured pieces of normalcy that you had managed to collect in recent years. He had dashed your dreams before they could even realize, and that is unforgivable.
Suddenly – and perhaps this is reckless of you –, the gun to the side of your forehead doesn’t seem so daunting. For some reason, you’re convinced that Jing Yuan will play along with his game; he won’t order the guard to shoot you, as long as your response is in line with his question.
Focus on the next thing, you remind yourself. Once again, this thought seems to be your saving grace.
There’s no rush. You break away from Jing Yuan’s trance by closing your eyes, and suck in a deep breath. You hold it for a few, long seconds, before breathing out, feeling your ribcage and core deflate as the air escapes. You repeat the breathing exercise, until the quivering in your body stops.
You’re not in the clear, far from it still, but your newfound sense of resistance does wonders for your thinking and decision-making.
You make your decision – It might seem like a waste, but I need to lie here. This choice is risky, especially since you’d have to answer the final question (which could be of any nature) truthfully, but based on the questions he’s asked you thus far, they’re meant to uncover and expose and test your nature. Jing Yuan is playing this game out of sheer curiosity; he never needed your help in his plans. You have to remember – you’re prey in his grasp, and he’s simply playing around with his food before he devours it in one, clean gulp.
And you'd rather die than entertain the yakuza and their sick and twisted perversions more than you already have. You’ve made your choice.
You open up your eyes, vision illuminated with soft, spring sunlight. You don’t look back at the oyabun, though, and instead, opt to turn your cheek.
“You’re powerful,” you state tersely.
The gun’s safety clicks, and it digs painfully into your skull.
You tense up immediately, and your muscles lock up by instinct. You couldn’t attempt to flee even if you desperately wanted to.
But, if your assumptions are right, Jing Yuan’s order is merely a ruse.
With a scoff, you snap, “You said I could –”
“Is that really the extent of your feelings towards me?” Any semblance of satisfaction you thought you had seen in Jing Yuan is completely wiped. He looks disappointed, almost irritated, by your more than concise confession.
“Yes.” That’s the lie. “You hold an incredible amount of power, probably more than I could ever imagine.”
“And?” he presses.
Testing the waters, you pull a daring move – you roll your eyes. “Sure. If you care so much about a layperson’s opinion of you, then I’d say you’re meddlesome, too. It’s not wise to involve random people in your line of work.”
The guard pulls away, so that the gun is no longer shoved against your head. The gun’s safety is still off, though. At least your answer seems to assuage Jing Yuan’s annoyance, and the gold in his eyes is no longer that of a crackling, burning fire. It returns to a warm, melted ichor – an inviting color, if not for your present situation.
His contentment is all the more amplified when Jing Yuan purrs, voice dropping an octave. “I see… Very well…”
Then, he lets out a whisper.
At first, you think you misheard him. After all, what he said was nonsensical – there’s no way that could be.
He mumbles his question again, and there’s no mistaking it.
The glint in his eyes tells you you've fucked up, that you've underestimated him severely. He definitely knows more than you think he does, and you've played his game poorly.
A songbird chirps, before bursting out of a nearby maple tree. A blossoming head of white rose collapses onto the ground. Jing Yuan's gaze lowers, allowing you to catch glimpses of intrigue and amusement swirling in his molten gold irises.
With a soft exhale, he asks for the third time.
"What is your relationship with the head of your hometown syndicate, Haru?”
You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.
yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+
word count: ~10,600
cw: explicit language, mentions and descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/etc., symptoms of severe ptsd + anxiety, stalking, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, suggestive tension, implied age gap, ocs as side characters
notes: i'm surprised this made it out of the wip vault. it's my birthday, so here's my gift to everyone. infinite thank yous to my wonderful betas, @staraxiaa and @pranabefall, because they both read through 4-5 different drafts, and entertained my jy brain worms and gaping plot holes throughout the entire process. i always feel so loved by the two of you. thank you to @lorelune as well for your very informative yandere jy thoughts, which helped form the basis of jy's and reader's characters in this au. this story is likely going to come in 3-4 parts, and each part will be around this length, if not longer, so please be patient with me. thank you for your support, and i will take a shot after i post this.
part i - part ii
LIGHTNING IS electrical discharge that occurs between charges within a thunderstorm cloud or between the cloud and the ground. Thunder is the sound that lightning produces, and depending on the length of silence between seeing a spark and hearing its subsequent boom, you can estimate how far away a strike was from you.
While thunderstorms are not something to worry about, it is necessary to take precautions. As such, safety protocols for when you are outdoors are as follows: seek shelter as soon as possible, such as a car or a building, but if not available, find an open space away from bodies of water and stick as low to the ground without lying down.
You will know if where you are located is in grave danger of a lightning strike if you can see and feel the hairs on your body stick up. Get as far away as possible as soon as you recognize the signs.
–
"Child, haven't your folks ever taught you to not follow strangers?"
There are two people in front of you: a man dressed head to toe in black and a child with dirty blonde hair carrying his backpack on the front. You can't identify the man, thanks to his baseball cap, tinted sunglasses, and mask, and if you weren't trying to intervene in the situation as you are right now, you'd scoff at how stupid the kid is. Speaking of the latter, he looks like an elementary schooler, probably attending the academy two blocks south from here. From what you can recall, the academy is prestigious in the prefecture, so you also pity him because, out of all of the school children who are walking home at the moment, he was picked.
The kidnapper (there's no doubt about that) snarls, and you're grateful he's wearing his mask or else he probably would've spit in your face. "Hey, I'm not a stranger. You know me, right?"
He stretches an arm out to the boy, as if beckoning the two of them to hold hands. It might just be a passionate gesture instead, but you couldn't care less about the difference, so you lean your weight onto one leg and wait for the younger one's reaction.
To your dismay, the kid nods. However, at the same time, his grip on his backpack tightens, pale knuckles and joints pulling taut and red, and as children are, untrained in deception and falsehood, a grimace spreads across his round cheeks.
You glance around. There are a few guardians looking your way, and most of the unaccompanied children have scuttled away at this point. If you don't finish and leave soon, you might be mistaken as an accomplice.
Squatting down, you lower yourself so that you're face to face with the elementary schooler. Someone, a long time ago, said that was the best way to communicate with children without instilling fear or intimidation. With a jut of your chin, in the direction of the kidnapper, you ask, "How do you know this bastard?"
"B-bastard?! You –"
The boy doesn't bat an eye at your crude choice of insult. "He's been following me around after school for the past week."
Clearly, aside from being a kidnapper, this guy also sucks ass at his job.
You decide to not say that thought out loud and proceed asking the boy questions. "So it's your first time speaking to him?"
"Yeah." The child nods, body and backpack jostling in unison. You've always thought those randoserus were too massive.
"Verdict's out, then," you say, holding your forearms up as if in surrender. Then, with a deep sigh, you stand back up and shoot the kidnapper a confrontational glare.
Without a word, the man lurches for the young boy, but having foretold his rashness and stupidity, with a quick duck, a jab of your elbow against his solar plexus, and a swift uppercut to the underside of his jaw, you disable the man's balance enough for him to fall over. Then, with a tug of your phone to release it from your back pocket, you activate an SOS alert.
"Child," you say, not even a beat later, as if nothing had happened, "I've notified the police. Next time, tell someone, before it's too late."
However, instead of relief, which you expected, the child visibly jumps at the word "police," eyes bursting wide open, mouth parting for rapid, shallow inhales, hands tomato red. He's panicking, way more than at any moment throughout his interaction with his almost-kidnapper. You wonder if it's just a delayed response to a traumatic event, but before you can even attempt to calm the kid down, he grabs you by your pants, and with a force that only energetic, tireless children have, he drags you down the block and around the corner.
"What the actual fuck – Stop fucking dragging me – Are you –"
You almost fall over when the kid suddenly lets go, friction and momentum ploughing into one another at your center of balance, and by the time you collect yourself, you've realized he's brought you to a parked car. It reminds you of the man from earlier – dressed and designed to conceal what's inside. The boy has left you to wrap himself around the leg of a man in a pressed suit, who's also wearing sunglasses. You're starting to wonder if you've accidentally stumbled onto a movie set or, worse, isekai-ed into some shitty Western Men in Black alternate universe without having been run over by a truck.
Anywho, you'd like to go home, so you need to extricate yourself from this situation as soon as possible.
Arms out by your side, hands and fingers spread out to show that you're not holding anything, you clear your throat to speak. "Hi, I, uh, helped that child escape from a suspicious person. I also called the police, but, well, um…" You sense two more individuals come up behind you. "It seems like the authorities won't be necessary anymore."
The man that the kid's clinging onto bends down. "Young Master, is that true?"
The boy nods, fiercely rubbing his flushed face into the crisp fabric of who you intuit is his primary bodyguard.
"I see."
With a flick of the primary bodyguard's wrist, the two behind you walk over and open the doors to the back row of the car. It seems like you've done a sufficient job to not be suspected, so with an informal bow, you excuse yourself and begin to turn around to navigate your way back.
“Could you wait for a moment?”
For a minute, the primary bodyguard turns around to face away from you, and from his hand that hovers over his right ear, he's mumbling into his earpiece, likely inquiring for further instructions from his employer or whoever's in charge. After a few minutes, he turns back around, and without making eye contact, you can sense his line of sight trained on the back of your head. In the meantime, you hear the kid shuffle into his seat, a door shutting behind him.
That means the other door remains open. Even with the engine grumbling, the body of the car thrumming for velocity and acceleration, it's clear they're not going to leave without you.
But you have no intention to comply. You fold your arms over your chest, and the space between your eyebrows divots into a frown. You spin back around and, in a firm tone, though without sounding too demanding, you state, "I’m on shift right now. I need to get back to my workplace."
The primary bodyguard doesn’t budge. "The Young Master would like you to accompany him home."
Your face wrinkles even more. The situation's becoming unnecessarily complex, and if you let them sway you now, there's bound to be more problems that'll occur later down the line that will complicate your life in irreversible ways.
You weren't expecting to save a kid that had adults at his beck and call, and even so, there's no reason for them to invite you over. Their stubbornness is problematic, and you want nothing to do with it.
"I really need to head back now. I'm not sure if your Young Master would like a stranger to accompany him, after all that has happened as of late."
The primary bodyguard fishes for something in the inner pocket of his blazer. You watch as he pulls out a pin resting in the curve of his palm, no larger than the pad of your thumb, flashing onyx and gold whenever it catches the trickles of sunlight that manage to seep through the wall of white concertinaed fencing and trimmed leafy hedges lining the road.
You bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to pierce through the uppermost layer of skin. You didn't save a kid from an esteemed household; you saved the next head of a yakuza gang.
Just my fucking luck.
You curse yourself for your impolite behavior, even if it was deserved. At this point, you have no other choice than to comply because you wouldn’t survive a brawl with three trained bodyguards.
I’ll leave as quickly as I can and never bother with them again.
With uneasy steps, you approach the car and slide into the seat next to the young boy. The primary bodyguard also joins, sitting in the front passenger seat.
The kid's strapped into his seat, still hugging his backpack close to his chest. Now you understand why that is the case. From this close of a distance, you can see the thick lining of the backpack more clearly, and the color is more matte compared to the usual shine of a typical randoseru. This boy knows there are numerous targets on his head, and he's making full use of the bag's bulletproof casing, designed to defend him during violent encounters.
"You're coming with?" he asks, voice more placid than before. In fact, you'd even go as far as to say that he's demonstrating interest in a stranger like yourself, but if you were to utter that observation aloud, you'd probably be dead.
"Yeah," you breathe, holding back any snark, and stare out the window, elaborating no further.
Promptly, the car peels away and rolls onto the main road.
The drive doesn't take long. The neighborhood is large, a residential area that spans the cleared side of a sloping mountain, and you watch as the car weaves through local streets before curving onto a private path that leads upwards. You've always been aware that there are filthy rich families settled in this part of town, but you never knew one of these properties belonged to a gang.
Actually, it's more like you had hoped a gang wouldn’t have settled in this city at all. There's that statistic you heard way back in middle school – that, on average, one in seven people are sociopaths –, and from your experience, the sentiment's partially realistic. In any case, the yakuza are more present in normal society than you'd believe.
On that note, not all yakuza gangs are bad. Just like how not every person's born a genius and not every business can succeed, not every band of yakuzas can scale up to become massive syndicates. For that matter, some gangs don't even start off with that goal in mind, and prefer to play vigilante in protecting and guarding their territory. But you can't speak much to these "nicer" groups since you've never mingled with them before.
Regardless, it seems all yakuzas have the same taste in traditional Japanese architecture: aged hinoki and red pine, raked rock gardens of sandy white, ponds with speckled koi fish. The car pulls onto the property through automatic wooden gates and parks on the vast driveway.
You take a deep breath. For the most part, you remember your way back. You can’t help but feel grateful that you know this town so well – worst comes to worst, you can run home through various shortcuts and alleyways.
The driver speaks up, and it’s a little jarring, given that no one had spoken throughout the entire drive. "We have arrived, Young Master. Please let us help you out."
But the boy doesn't wait, already unbuckling his seatbelt and wiggling the handle of the door until his pops open. You, on the other hand, don't move, as you haven't been instructed to do anything yet. You watch as the kid pushes himself out of the car, stumbling over his feet when he initially lands on the concrete, and dashes into the estate as soon as he rights himself, the thumping of the heavy-duty backpack against his chest echoing even when you can't see him anymore. Without a moment to spare, the primary bodyguard paces after him.
"You," the driver grunts, as if you're a chore, "follow me."
As you step out of the car, you note a door to the side that leads out to the main road.
There are men everywhere. They stand uniform along the engawa, and all within your vicinity stare hawkishly at you. Most are in what seems to be the standard suit attire, but there are also those who are less prim and have opted for untucked white shirts and dirty sneakers. But the few deviants don't matter – it's clear this group works like an armed force, militaristic in aura, efficient in behavior, and no doubt merciless in combat. So far, you’ve walked past over a dozen, so it’s best that you don’t engage in any reckless fighting.
Almost instinctively, your nose scrunches in disdain. This atmosphere brings back a flood of unpleasant childhood memories, mainly of where you grew up and the people who raised you. It can't be helped, you suppose, with how eerily familiar everything is, and your expression subsequently smooths out back into one of caution and wariness.
You replace the flashbacks with inane observations, like the driver's habit of pulling his lighter out of his pocket before stowing it away again, almost like he's paranoid it'll be pickpocketed, an area of the mansion that's walled off for renovation, the distant honks of a train chugging by. Objectively, it's a neat and established place, and that makes this syndicate all the more terrifying. Yakuzas are only as rich as the number of lives they take.
You're brought to a grand washitsu, but you don't sit, as there's no one else in the room yet. There are four doors to this room, one at each corner, but they’re all guarded from the outside as well, so you can’t escape. At this rate, you’re going to have to wait for an opening, and that’s entirely out of your control.
Strangely, there's no interior decor, aside from a long floor table and some cushions for seating positioned in the center of the room. You're not sure who you're going to meet, so you brace yourself for the worst.
Someone approaches the guard who led you here. There's a quick exchange of nods in greeting, along with brief whispers, before the former takes his leave immediately. You don't have time to surmise their conversation because the driver tells you.
"Our oyabun will be late. Take a seat first."
You have to pinch the inside of your wrist to prevent yourself from openly rolling your eyes and releasing a strangled groan.
Their boss?! Just! My! Fucking! Luck!
You do as you're told. As you tuck your calves underneath your thighs, the driver-guard shuffles some of the tea ware on the table around and pours your porcelain cup three-quarters full with floral tea. On the outside, the cups are glazed an indigo blue, overlaid with splatters of white and streaks of gray, and the interior is a muted navy, making the tea that reflects transparent chartreuse in open light appear murky and inky inside the cup. The drink itself is hot, tendrils of steam wafting into the air and moistening your fingertips that hover around the rim of the teacup, but you're not a connoisseur by any means, so you can't tell what kind it is by fragrance only. Not that you would drink it to find out, you think, because who the hell would be stupid enough to consume something that's prepared by strangers?
However, your unwillingness to consume the tea must be concealed. Otherwise, these people would take it as a sign of hostility, and then they'd have one more reason to treat you with distrust and suspicion. In times like these, you've learned, you just have to take it in stride.
You roll back your shoulders, stretching out and temporarily easing the knots and strain that are ingrained in your deltoids and trapezius. Then, picking your cup up with one hand wrapped around the side and the other plating the base, you hold the tea up to your nose and breathe the aroma in. It's a soothing scent, one that complements breezy spring afternoons that carry hints of summertime.
Summer… You pause, another flicker of a memory rousing your mind. It will be that time of the year again. You shrug the thought off, though, and go back to enjoying the humid sensation of the steam collecting droplets on the tip of your nose and the familiar, pervading scent of white flowers (is it jasmine? rose? maybe camellia?).
Just as you're tipping back your head, ready to fake a sip of your drink, you hear the collective shuffling of men standing upright, tensing into stillness. At first, you think it's to appear proper and cohesive, but with one look at those nearest to you, you notice their nervous grimaces. You consider the possibility that you're projecting and overanalyzing – Maybe that's how they all look when they're serious –, but again, your trained observations beg to differ. All of them are nervous, arguably intimidated by their approaching boss, and it's like they want to disappear. Even if they're holding you captive, you feel a little sympathy for these subordinates, and you prepare yourself as well.
From around a bend, you hear distant conversation. You can't make anything out, aside from a pitched, affirmative "Yessir!", but there's no time for you to guess because, abruptly, all four doors to the washitsu slide open, the sound of wood zipping against thick rug reverberating through the air and floor. A strong gust from outside spins through the room, which, combined with everything else, startles you. As a result, some of your drink sloshes out and burns your hand. You bite your tongue and place the teacup down onto the table, before turning your head around back and forth to see where the boss could be.
You continue to look around, but after a few circles, you give up, opting to still yourself and look ahead. I have to stay composed, you think. You don't hear any incoming footsteps either, so the oyabun’s probably making a stop elsewhere in the estate first.
Unfortunately, despite your rationale, you can see your quivering hands as they rest on the table. But they feel numb, as if your blood has stopped circulating through the joints and muscle and flesh there, and you take in a shuddering breath, the fresh current of spring air cool and minty against your teeth. You begin to work your hands, hoping light movement will assuage your anxiety.
You also figure that you should finally drink your tea. You take a few more moments to yourself before you reach for your cup.
But you never manage to touch the cup. Because, in a blink of an eye, across from you, sitting with one knee propped up to support an arm, a relaxed posture that either suggests a lack of interest or confidence in his ability or both, is the oyabun of this yakuza gang.
It’s by no means a new sensation, but the last time you felt this way was several summers ago, and it overpowers you instantaneously.
There's a dryness in your throat that no water can satiate, a neverending drop in the pit of your stomach, and a heaviness in your legs that chains you to your seat. And for once, your thoughts are gathered. But they're unanimous and concentrated on a singular definite, horrifying truth, one that weak prey are intimately familiar with when faced with an overpowered predator: you're on the brink of death.
It feels as if your death is guaranteed, and even if it isn’t, it's futile to bet on a yakuza's fickle emotions. Anything you do or say, or the lack thereof, can set them off. This is another lesson you’ve learned, over and over and over.
The oyabun's playful chuckle shakes you out of your shell shock, but it magnifies the fear that controls your entire body.
"Be at ease. You are not in danger."
You're not surprised that he responds so aptly, as if he can read your mind. This man is accustomed to killing, and is well-acquainted with the ghastly, terrified faces of individuals who are aware that they're about to meet their end. And judging by the way he entered this room without even alerting you, if he wanted to, he would’ve finished you before your mind could’ve even begun to process your death.
Even if following his instructions could save your life, you're not exactly sure you can "be at ease." Barely a nod, you dip your chin and avert your eyes, instinctively submitting to his presence.
He laughs again as he pours some tea into his cup. "Well, I understand that that is difficult to do. I know how dangerous it is to lower your guard in unfamiliar territory."
You hear the chalky slide of glazed porcelain against porcelain, followed by his satisfied hum as he takes a sip.
"Do you enjoy tea?" he asks.
Every nerve in your body is screaming at you because surely you're going to lose your life over an untouched cup of tea.
Please – I need my hands to move!
You gulp, though there's no saliva for you to swallow and your throat stings with the contraction, as if you are sick with a cold, as if there are deep cracks and lacerations left behind by the dryness plaguing the length of your esophagus.
"Y-yes…" It's a half-assed response at best. Not that you're lying, but uttering even a single word is difficult for you at the moment. The placement of your tongue, the aperture of your lips, the opening and closing of your mouth have all become unfamiliar, your ability to speak stolen by the spring breeze and the personification of death it has brought along.
"Feel free to help yourself. I am quite a fan of it myself, and throughout all my years here, I have been delighted to enjoy a variety of high-grade teas."
He's foreign?
It's unspeakable for a foreigner, of all people, to be in command of a domestic criminal organization. In fact, due to national pride, foreign members struggle to receive even typical hierarchical promotions in order to give Japanese members priority. The only time you heard of a foreigner coming into power was when you were incredibly young, and everyone was stunned to hear of an ex-Chinese Triad member joining the kanbu of a Japanese syndicate.
You wonder where this person is from, but of course, there's no way you could pry information out of your soon-to-be-murderer. Regardless, your number one priority is to get the fuck out of this place.
"I-I see…" With shaking hands, you manage to pick up your teacup and drink, drink, drink until you've consumed everything, even the last dregs of petal and stem residue. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that he's observing you with an unperturbed smile.
When your cup is placed back onto its matching saucer, which takes an erroneous amount of focus and effort on your end, the oyabun continues talking. "I understand you may be quite confused as to why you are here."
He bows, and you lower yourself as well.
"My men and I want to extend our deepest gratitude to you for saving Yanqing."
"Please," you wheeze, voice wobbling, brain barely capable of a coherent thought, "there is no need. I-I am sure somebody else would ha-have helped."
The yakuza boss, now almost wearing a pained expression, shakes his head. "We cannot always rely on others to save our people. We will pay closer attention to ensure that Yanqing is safe in the future. You will be rewarded handsomely for your kindness."
"N-no, I don't want anything in return."
How do I get out, how do I get out, how –
The boss hums again. This time, it sounds more neutral, lacking the pleasantness from the first time around. It's still rich, a gentle rumbling from deep within his chest, but it's neither reproachful nor approving, and you fear that this impersonal response is leading to a third undesirable outcome.
"Mm, are you sure?" he asks, pressing his cheek deeper into his upturned palm. You didn’t notice earlier, but now, you can't help noting the peculiar silver of his hair and the placement of a mole underneath the outer corner of his left eye. Speaking of which, his eyes aren't even open, but you're sure that he can already see far deep inside of you without even trying. This man has so many unusual characteristics, yet at the same time, either because you're losing it or defenseless or both, they blend together into something familiar.
Truly, it's as if all the fight in you, the resilience and attitude you had earlier when dealing with his subordinates, is rapidly escaping you. Or, it might be more fitting to say that the man in front of you is silencing those parts of you, slowly extinguishing all semblance of hope, leaving you bare and vulnerable and wholly at his mercy. Even your voice of reason has vanished, becoming mute because you don't know what to do in this kind of situation.
"Yes," but it sounds more like a question. You're not sure if you should agree or disagree, acquiesce or refrain, take or pass on his offering. You stand by what you said, but you'd change your answer in a flash if that'd mean saving your life, and after all that you've been through, you need to live.
For once, the oyabun doesn't say anything in turn. Instead, as he straightens out his back and sits upright, several of his men scramble away, leaving only two who stay rooted to their position, likely executives of this gang's kanbu. The doors to the watsushi are not blocked anymore, but as long as you’re in the boss’ vicinity, there is no actual opening that you can take advantage of.
You’ve been ignoring this thought, but with every passing second, it becomes more and more impossible to deny – you’re stuck. Not only did you go into enemy territory on your own with no backup plan, but you also walked straight into the lion’s den. And the lion is simply taunting you, playing with you until he gets bored, after which he’ll promptly dispose of you.
How can I stay alive?
He pours himself another cup as he says, "My apologies, I should have sent them away earlier. I hope you can speak more openly now."
Truthfully, you wish you could ask for permission to leave, but at this point, given how long this conversation has been going on for, you've lost your chance. Inwardly, you bemoan your foolishness and regret not having played the role of a terrorized normal citizen. That way, they probably would've released you to save the hassle of having to deal with a hysterical layperson. Then again, maybe they would’ve killed you on the spot. Regardless, the reality is that your leave will have to wait until the boss decides to let you go, if he wants to at all.
You manage to stammer, "Uh, no worries. Thanks…"
As you trail the end of your sentence, you realize you haven't been addressing him. There's no need for you to call him "boss" as you're not in his gang, and there's no way you can ask for his name either. You ponder, searching for a term that suggests formality and detachment.
In the meantime, it's silent in the watsushi. If he was any less intimidating, you'd think this scene – an objectively attractive man wearing a loose white kimono, his silver hair tied into a ponytail with a striking red cord, sitting motionless and quiet against a backdrop of uniform shoji screens – would seem serene.
Regardless, for better or for worse, it seems your bearings are returning, body and mind growing accustomed to the pressure in the room, so you're more capable of rational thought. Yet again, you urge yourself to keep it together.
It looks like the oyabun has no intention of re-initiating the conversation, so you figure he's gauging your next steps.
Sucking in a deep breath, you speak in your most polite tone. You still have no idea as to how you’re going to survive, but it wouldn’t hurt to buy as much time as you can and pay your respects. "Sir, I appreciate your generosity, and I've given it some thought. I'd be grateful to try any teas that are in season, if you happen to have any on hand."
For the first time, his eyes flutter open, and it feels like you've been struck by a bolt of lightning. Smelted gold, as thick and molten as the ichor of Greek immortals, far more dazzling than beams of sun. Your first thought is one of awe – how is it possible for a human to be capable of such unassailable power and beauty? Your second is one that’s far more bone chilling, an icy jet of adrenaline pumped straight into your veins.
For he is the foreigner in the rumors from your childhood, a cold-blooded man who single-handedly beheaded three dozen associates with ease to earn his role as an executive in his gang. Even if you had never witnessed the slaughtering firsthand, like a deafening clap of thunder that can travel as far as ten to twelve miles away, deep in your rattling skull, you realize that this man kills both with and without purpose. This is no longer about predictability, as there is nothing emotional or practical about this man. Brutality and carnage are intrinsic to his nature, and his carnal desires must be satisfied for his own needs.
You've gotten carried away once more. In fact, the moment your self-assurance came back, you unintentionally downplayed the gravity of your situation. Just because he hasn't done anything yet doesn't mean he won't do anything.
Yet, in spite of your insolence, it seems the oyabun is merciful. He dismisses you with an unreadable stare, along with an understanding hum from his still-smiling lips. One of the two men leaves before returning with a wrapped box that, from the cover reads, is from Hokkaido and contains sachets of plum and cherry green tea. You don’t even remember how you gathered the strength to stand, but you do, and through an alternating series of walkways and right-degree turns, you are brought to the entrance of the estate. Like a habit, like the manners that were beaten into your hands, feet, and back when you were young, you bow at the hips, hold it for three prolonged seconds, and, before you can bid the guards farewell, you sprint down the road that you came up from who knows how long ago.
You run, run, and run, pumping your lungs and legs until they feel as if they are about to rip off, and even then, you push them harder, all the way until you reach the door of your apartment. Relieved to find your keys lodged in your back pocket like they always are, you wrench them out and, after many failed attempts, open the lock to stagger into the entrance of your studio.
You collapse onto the floor. A shoe rack shakes as a corner of it bumps against your elbow as you face plant onto the hardwood floor.
It’s all unbelievable. Your encounter with the ex-Triad member of your childhood nightmares, the long sprint home, the fact that you actually made it out alive and are back home – the past few hours seem surreal. It still feels like you need to keep running away, like they’ll find and catch you if you stop moving.
But you can’t muster any more strength. Your whole body feels sore and on fire, like you've doused yourself with gasoline and self-immolated, like there's electricity coursing through your heart, leaving first-degree burns in its wake.
But you don't believe this pain's solely the result of your mad dash home. Yet there was no static, no crackling sounds, not even a single hair raised.
Lightning can still strike, even if there are no preceding signs.
–
Like all weather events, it takes time for a thunderstorm to develop, and it dispels as soon as it can no longer rage on. Thunderstorms specifically go through four phases: growth, development, electrification, and dissipation.
Growth and development, together known as the developing or building stage, begin when warm, moist air rises in an updraft, and at a certain altitude, combines to form a large cumulus cloud. If the warm air inside the cloud is at a higher temperature than that of the exterior, condensation takes place and droplets form, but rain does not fall.
At this stage, the cumulus is only four to seven kilometres in height and five to eight in length on average, so to any onlooker, it has yet to look like a storm cloud.
–
Your phone buzzes as soon as you drop down onto the couch. While the restaurant owner takes her usual lunch hour nap, you choose to decompress in the backroom that looks more like a senior citizen's living room, no thanks to its old 2000s TV with grainy display, bulkish frames, and broken speakers, an unplugged kotatsu, and a large shelf full of dust-covered books and miscellaneous figurines from grandchildren located a bullet train away in Tokyo. After rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you check to find a text message notification from your closest friend.
Hana: wanna call
You: aren't u at work
Hana: fck work
She picks up on the first ring of your video call.
"Don't tell me you're in the fucking bathroom again," you groan as you lean further into the deflated back of the couch.
Hana scowls and flips you off. "You know this is the only place at work I can call you from without getting caught."
"Well, you've been caught once before –"
"Only because that blind ass bat decided to use this toilet for, like, the first time ever. Never again since."
You shrug. Your friend's always been spitfire incarnate, tongue a cutting thing, glares yet sharper. You suppose it's her expertise, aggravating others with only her presence. She's also incredibly impatient, and when you don't give her a vocal response, she snaps.
"Say something! I'm getting in trouble because of you!"
You stifle a honk of a laugh by clearing your throat instead. "My most beloved goddess, Hana the Terminator, thank you for bestowing me your time and grace."
"I’m not that unforgiving – you've been watching too many movies again," she spits, along with a slap to her forehead.
Despite all her controversial traits, though, she's your most trusted confidant – the only remnant from your past that you keep in touch with.
Hana quirks her eyebrow, to urge you to speak your mind because she already knows something's plaguing you. After all these years, you're convinced she can read minds.
You sigh. "Hana."
Paying no mind, she presses onward. "What happened? Did a customer throw their plate at you again?"
"No, work's fine."
Her eyes narrow. "Alright. Is it something we can't talk about?"
When you ran away, you made Hana promise that the two of you would never talk about anything of the past or your childhood again. After all, you escaped with the intent to leave everything you knew behind, and one necessary step was to never think about it all anymore. And she's made good on that promise this whole time, so it’s hypocritical that you’re breaking it.
You look away from the screen and mumble, "I know I said I never wanted to talk about it again, but… I was wondering if I could ask you a question."
She snorts. "Sure."
Your eyes flicker back to the screen, and you see that Hana's switched off her camera, most likely so that she can hold the call to her ear and lower the volume to prevent any eavesdropping.
"I think this happened when we were nine? Ten? It definitely happened when we were in the middle of that turf war, and then we suddenly got news that all these guys in the other prefecture got fucking oblitered by an ex-Triad member. Do you remember?"
You hear her suck in a breath through gritted teeth. "Fucking course. Shit – why are you asking about this?"
Hana's harsh whisper sounds… thin, like a leaf shaking in autumn, its stem clinging onto a branch right before it's about to snap and float to the ground, only to be trodden over and torn apart into several pieces, never whole again. After having met the person yourself, you understand why even a mere mention of him can send anyone spiraling.
Ignoring her question, you press, "What was his name?"
It's almost comedic how audible her gulp is – guttural, like she's about to vomit into the toilet bowl that she's sitting on. "Jing Yuan."
"What group –"
Suddenly, there's background noise that interrupts you. There's the clicking of heels, knocks against a bathroom stall, some garbled words made worse by a bad signal.
"Shit," Hana hisses. "That bat's back again – whatever you do, stay away from that motherfucker, alright? I love you."
And the call ends. You didn't even get a chance to parrot "love you" back, but it can't be helped, you think. You’ll call again next month, and there’s no doubt she'll drill you on your questions and the intent behind them. Anyway, for now, your focus is to ensure that your peaceful life won't be disturbed again. Even without Hana's warning, you've already experienced enough to know that you never want to cross paths with Jing Yuan ever again.
Nighttime falls before you know it. After the lunch break, you and the restaurant owner spent the late afternoon prepping for the dinner rush, and ever since the only other apprentice quit three weeks ago, the two of you have been busier than before.
It's not uncommon for young people to go without a college degree, as the national law only requires at minimum a middle school diploma, so when you left home on an arbitrary Tuesday night in the middle of your first year in high school, the only way to support yourself was to get a job. You had enough of an allowance to hop on a random train to a more remote town, and once you arrived here, you rotated between jobs as a cashier at a convenience store, a dishwasher and waitress at multiple diners and izakayas, as well as a librarian. Now that you're in your 20s, you've settled down in this restaurant as an apprentice, and eventually, when the owner decides to step down, you'll take over.
This place has grown on you, and you'd really like to stay.
There are no angry customers or broken dishes throughout the evening, and aside from a few hiccups with the cash register, you get off work without a hitch. On a good day like today, you can leave by 10PM.
Your place is just a five-minute walk away, and upon you return, you're greeted by a dark room that contains nothing except for a kitchen, a mattress, a computer charging in the corner, and a tall stack of borrowed books you plan to finish over the upcoming weekend.
There's also that box of Hokkaido tea sachets that's resting on your kitchen countertop. For some reason, in the month since you received it, you haven't been able to throw it away. You've already discarded the wrapping paper, and the box doesn't look like it's been tampered with. In fact, it looks new, as if Jing Yuan himself received it as a respectable present of sorts, but you never know what it could contain, and you don't intend to find out.
You're just relieved that you haven't been bothered by Jing Yuan or his gang since your encounter. Initially, you were paranoid, so disturbed and worried that they'd come after you to the point that you called in sick and didn't leave your room for a whole week. Then, you had no choice but to do your best to resume work and other parts of your usual routine, but you refused to make any deliveries (and still do, too). After all, the whole reason why you were in the neighborhood where you met Yanqing was because you were on your way back from dropping off an order, and you never want to go back there ever again.
It's a shame, you think, still staring at the large printed words on the cover of the box. I might have to leave this place soon.
–
Weekends are more relaxed because the restaurant’s only open for lunch. The owner reserves her weekend evenings to spend time with her son and granddaughter, and you're not skilled enough to run the establishment on your own yet.
You're awoken by the sound of your doorbell buzzing. Disoriented, you sit up with a jolt, the room spinning a little as you strain to clear your head. It rings again. With a shout – "One moment, please!" –, you roll out of your covers and hobble towards the front door.
From your peephole, you see that a deliveryman is waiting outside your front door with a package in his arms. It's a dark cardboard box with logos dotting the exterior in diagonals, but you don't recognize the design nor are there other legible clues for you to discern.
"Ma'am, I need you to sign this slip," the deliveryman announces.
You furrow your bows and, through your half-conscious daze, struggle to recount if you've ordered anything as of late. Try as you might, nothing comes to mind. You see the worker glancing at his wristwatch, and you feel bad for keeping him waiting. Fueled by guilt, you end up opening the door and signing the slip.
It could be the owner, you think. Sometimes, she likes to send you things without notice, so you figure it might be another load of cherries or a few hand-me-down shirts from her daughter-in-law who she's convinced is around your height. Anyway, with an impatient nod and a snatch of the sheet in your hand, the deliveryman leaves you alone to haul the package back into your apartment.
You heave it over and drop it next to your mattress for a closer inspection. You're almost tempted to look over it later and resume your post-shift nap, but common sense wins, and you need to confirm the nature of this mystery delivery. The packaging label tells you the sender seems to be a store located in Kyoto. More specifically, as you search them up on your phone, it's a pottery shop. By now, it's clear this package isn't something you had bought for yourself, and you doubt it's from the restaurant owner either. For a second, you consider the possibility that the deliveryman made a mistake, misread your apartment number or something, but another glance at the packaging label and your name is legibly printed on it.
You click onto the shop website where you learn that customers can go in to make their own creations, as well as purchase already-made goods, which you check out next. The catalog is a few pages long, but the products are all of the same thing: tea sets.
Struck with a chilling sense of fear and despair, you jump in your skin and choke out a horrified gasp.
How is that possible?
With wide eyes, your neck snaps to the side, towards the kitchen, at the box sitting on the countertop. You're on your feet within a second, and stride over to it. Without a single ounce of care or consideration, you rip the box open, shredding the cover into two uneven halves, and your eyes bore so deeply into the four columns of tea sachets that your vision begins darkening. But still, nothing seems out of place. You then dump all of the tea sachets into the sink, wondering if there's anything hidden beneath them. Yet again, nothing appears, so there's either nothing or a device so small that you can't discern it simply by looking.
Leaving the mess in your kitchen, you stalk back to the delivery you just received, and with sheer brute force that you can only summon when enraged, your nails tear through the packing tape and rip open the flaps of the package. You toss out the top layer of bubble wrap to unveil a white box with a translucent top that has an envelope taped onto it.
At first glance, it seems like an obligatory thank you card that small businesses usually send with every purchase. However, the printed silver cursive reads: "A special gift to a special someone!"
It's tough choosing between laughing in disbelief and yelling disgusted expletives, so you opt to remain silent, a blankness that can mean nothing and everything all at once. You tear off the card and flip it over to find a longer message.
To a dear friend. I hope this present suits your taste, and may we find another time to converse over tea again.
The building stage of a thunderstorm can take as short as an hour. In other words, it's possible for a clear, sunny day to suddenly become overcast, an impending storm ready to unleash, no longer an impossibility beyond the horizon.
Just like how you were able to turn yourself around in one night, it is equally feasible for your current life to be disrupted, uprooted, and made into a hell, all within an afternoon.
–
In the development stage, the air within the stormcloud and between the earth has an insulatory property to combat the mess of swirling particles of both positive and negative charges. The magnetism between the opposite charges is not great enough to cause electrical discharge, so like river water flowing between pieces of driftwood that dream of the whole they've broken off from, the air keeps the particles separate enough to further delay the inevitable sparks and flashes of electricity, of the cloud's heated turmoil.
–
Jing Yuan can be an incredibly talkative person, you learn. From your last meeting, he seemed like someone who wouldn't mind awkward silence, but as you kneel across from him on the other side of the same low-rise table in the same watsushi, with your hands clasped together in your lap, you listen as he explains Yanqing's situation.
His eyes are closed again.
"We managed to apprehend the man. He was a mediocre hitman desperate to pay off a debt he owed to his landlord, so he was by no means difficult to track or dispose of. I apologize, again, for the trouble Yanqing had caused you. I have reminded him to tell us when he is in danger."
Because of how terrified you were before, you couldn't pay much attention to Jing Yuan, other than the grossly intimidating aura he encased the whole estate and everything within it. It's not like you're not scared of him this time, but it's clear that he has no intention of killing you. This, you know for sure, is not based on urges as flimsy as idealized delusion or optimistic preconception, but rather by the fact that Jing Yuan has, like the volume of a speaker, lowered his display of domineering might and is making space for actual conversation.
Listening, you nod once.
He continues, "Yanqing is still exceedingly young, so he may not know what is best for him. He has acute instincts that can alert him of danger, but I am afraid he lacks experience in properly responding and protecting himself."
His voice is smooth, thoughtful, like that of a quiet, concerned father. But there's also an edge of dissatisfaction – a warning, but to whom, you're not sure. Still, it comes off as generally easygoing and warm, a savoring of warm brandy on a full belly, and if you were daringly reckless, you would've suggested he switch careers to become an audiobook narrator instead. In the context of the yakuza world, though, you have no doubt that this soothing, borderline seductive tone of his has drawn out countless dangerous secrets and several pieces of classified information from lustful tongues and fatigued minds. You wonder, then, what he wants from you.
It looks like it's your turn to finally say something. After all, since your arrival 15 minutes ago, you haven't uttered a single word.
"I'm sure he's learning, Sir. He's in good hands."
Not that any of these people are good.
"We will see. He did mention that you advised him to speak up as well, so I figured there was no need for me to repeat myself too many times."
"Ah," your voice cracks as you lower your head, "I overstepped."
"No, it is quite alright. I am not his actual father, so I appreciate help from others. It is important for him to learn from as many adults as he can, from their successes, as well as their silly wiles."
You feel a lurch within your upper body, the familiar emetic sensation from a month ago hitting you again. While you're not an immediate threat, it seems he still has his reservations.
"Anyway," the oyabun transitions, "I wanted to ask. How do you like the gift I mailed to you? I hope the whole set came intact."
Frankly, you haven't spared the tea set another glance. All of your thoughts were ensnared by the laminated note card, and you still can't believe he went so far as to find your address.
The need to escape rests heavily on your mind, but the matter is no longer as simple as leaving the estate. Since he knows where you live, the only option that remains is for you to move away, and it’s not as spontaneously easy to run away as it once was when you were a teenager. You have to communicate and apologize to the restaurant owner, clean out your apartment, and find a new place to start anew – all of which require at least a few hours.
I’ll leave tomorrow night. I just need to play along and not get killed today. By tomorrow night, I’ll be safe.
The thought placates you sufficiently, and you redirect your full attention to Jing Yuan.
With a palm over your heart, you say, "They're beautiful, though I haven't had the chance to use them. Thank you so much for the generous gift."
He chuckles, though they sound more like a lion's heavy purrs. It's a rich sound, as obscene and dense as melted dark chocolate. "No rush, you received it just yesterday. I know they may appear simple, but mashikos are made with stark red clay from the town they are named after and are appreciated for their captivating minimalism. I hope you can find daily use in them."
You nod once more, fully knowing they'll never be touched – just like the torrent of questions swirling around and around in your head.
Jing Yuan speaks, as if aware of the conclusion you've come to. "Initially, I was hesitant in sending you the gift. But I am glad I chose to. While I do not mean to indebt you to us, I was wondering if I could discuss a matter… with you.”
With feigned stoicism, the kind that only years of practice can produce, you acquiesce, "Sure, but I do not know if I can be of much help."
You watch as he picks up a thin folder that’s laid on the ground to his right and sets it on top of the center of the table. He then opens it to reveal a neat pile of glossy photographs bound together by a paper clip.
"I am curious to know if you recognize anything in these photographs," he instructs as he lays four out in a row. "It can be any of the individuals or objects in the background. Anything that can tell you of the general setting."
Your ears begin to drum loudly as your head pounds and pounds with intensifying force and rhythm. It hurts so much that you can't resist the need to wince as beads of sweat form at your temples. It's as if you're the main character of a movie who's suffering from amnesia, and you're experiencing a brief moment of recollection, stabbing prickles of familiarity and bright flashes of images that slip away almost immediately. Except your flashbacks don't slip away. They linger and haunt, meandering and taunting you when you try to make them disappear. Even after all these years, all these kilometers of distance, the regret and guilt hit you with the same brutality, a bone-crushing punch in the stomach that wrecks your organs and renders you helpless and panicked.
Not now, you think, but your internal pleas are futile. You’re utterly helpless, and escape is no longer a priority, the possibility of succeeding having long been impossible.
The first photo, starting from the right, is a scenic snapshot of a hillside overpass. In late elementary school, you frequented this place every night with Hana and her older brother, Haru, demanding that you be brought here to see the sun set before you retreated home for the day.
How does he know?
The second is blurrier, the flash of the camera mostly blinding everything but the edges out. There are several flags with store signs waving out front, and if you're reading them correctly, some of the names are restaurants in the downtown area of your hometown. You never went downtown often as there were always way too many people, but you know all the store owners feared your family.
How does he know?!
You don't recognize the third, which shows a four-story office building.
The fourth, however, causes you to still. Anyone looking at the image would, too, with the amount of blood and specks of flesh smeared against the wall, the emptied shells of bullets lying on the floor, and, in the center of it all, a man's face that’s half-bruised, a disturbing palette of waste green, toxic purple, and old yellow.
But your blood runs cold primarily for another reason. The other half of the man's face is less damaged, features more intact and, therefore, recognizable. You don't know him, per se, in that he doesn't jog any sense of familiarity, doesn't trigger an "aha!" moments where a lightbulb goes off and a new memory plays in your mind's theatre. You can't put a name to his face or pick him out among the crowds in your memories.
What you do recognize is the pin hanging loosely from the lapel of his torn blazer. Despite the camera flash, its reflection is dim, no thanks to the dried blood smeared entirely over it. Though it doesn't matter. Even if that pin was caked in layers of mud or glazed over with pitch black paint to create an opacity so deep it absorbs all light, you're sure you'd still be able to see the pen strokes, the exact points at which they overlap and interstice to form the kanji character that you abandoned at age 20.
HOW DOES HE KNOW WHO I AM.
If you could, you'd snatch the photo to see this man – who is closer than a stranger but too distant to be family – and sob out at once. Your hands would be shaking, one might even come up to cover your gaping mouth, and you'd continue to struggle to see the image clearly enough through your flooding tears.
It takes you a few seconds to realize that your reactions are not figments of your imagination. This battered mess of a man, albeit only a photograph of his aftermath, is pinched between your shaking fingers, your fingerprint smeared against the edges, and painful whimpers escape from under your breath. You don't want to think about how much you're crying.
There are a few moments of heavy silence before Jing Yuan's voice pierces through your grief. "I see you are aware."
Your eyes flicker to him. There's no smile stretching his lips, but he doesn't look like he pities or sympathizes with you. He's just waiting until you are capable of conversation again. You're sure that, internally, he's pleased, at the very least, that you’re finally playing his game.
You should be angry. Furious, even. Of course, you can't rage or else you'll get killed, but still, flames of wrath should be searing the back of your throat and pulsing through your arms, licking at your stone-cold feet to just fucking wake up and Run! – to Jing Yuan, to your apartment, to somewhere far, far away.
But there are no fires. There is no hint of rage. Instead, you ring hollow, outplayed and defeated in a game you never asked to be born into.
With a tumor in your throat, you croak, "How did you find out?"
"I did not."
His answer surprises you, but it withers away into indifference nonetheless. Though, maybe you're misunderstanding him, the oyabun sounds oddly candid.
"In China," he continues, "the people largely believe in this concept called yuan fen. I believe it is called en in Japan, which is very similar to the symbol of yuan. I am not as spiritualistic as I used to be, but I believe, in certain matters, that fate can be a source of interference. And in this case, this relationship between you" – his voice drops and thins out, louder than a whisper, dimmer than his usual speech – "and me may be a result of fate's fickle tricks. It is a result of our yuan fen that we have connected as such."
Your head drops. The photo's crumpled from your unrelenting hold, so you set it on the table to prevent further damage. You've already caused so much harm, not just within this tatami room, so if you can spare anyone any more pain, you'd like to refrain from humiliating yourself further. All you can do is wait for this motherfucker to tell you what's to come next.
"Though, at present, I am sure my words are meaningless and serve barely any comfort," Jing Yuan says.
When you don't respond, he hums. It's a thoughtful rumble, as he ruminates on how he should proceed.
You save him the effort and, through drying, cracked tears, croak, "I grew up in this town. If it is information or connections you want, I can try to help, but just know that I have not been back there in years."
Even though you're no longer looking at him, you can hear the smile – unperturbed, sickeningly mild – on his face. "That sounds like the perfect arrangement."
With a brush of his ponytail behind his shoulder, a subordinate paces over and stands at attention. You wonder how wilted you must look to the guards surrounding your perimeter, how lifeless and placid and bleak you've become within minutes, even if none of them have known you for more than a day.
The oyabun instructs, "Prepare a room for our guest. We will be relying on her, so treat her well. Tell Yanqing, too, that he should be mindful not to disturb her."
Unfazed, you raise your hand, which causes Jing Yuan to turn his attention back to you.
"Yes?"
"How long will I be staying here for?" you ask.
"We would like to move on from this matter within a week. Will that be a problem for you?"
There are no promises of leaving you alone afterwards or compensating you or, at minimum, apologizing for the mental anguish he's inflicted on you from everything that's transpired. Those promises would be empty anyway, but that's not the point. Jing Yuan is demanding because he intends to be. He’s consciously taking full advantage of the fact that you can't refuse even the most outrageous of his requests, while going so far as to sugarcoat his exploitation with a charming voice and an irritating smirk when he doesn't need to. Every single action is premeditated to help you realize how powerless you are.
But you already know. You've always been too weak. You've never let yourself forget.
You shake your head. "Not at all."
One by one, his subordinates take off, until only the two of you remain. You find that a little odd, as to dismiss all of his men means he is exposing himself to being ambushed, but you shrug, figuring that Jing Yuan is more than capable of defending himself. It wouldn't surprise you if he's able to catch a flying bullet and tear apart limbs with his bare hands.
"One last question," Jing Yuan states.
You peer up at him, to find that he has stood up and is rounding around to your side of the table. Naturally, your body tenses up, muscles and joints locking up, and you follow his frame with rapt dread as he makes his way to you.
He sits down right beside you, and with a downward tilt of his chin, opens his eyes to gaze at you. He has only just decided that you are worth being seen, being perceived, and you wish you could spit in his face.
Instead, you bite down on your lower lip with gritted teeth and a jaw so tense it shakes with strain. And when you watch his hand come up to trace the hollows of your cheek, you have to pierce your nails into your palms to prevent the screams bubbling up your throat. Even worse, when he leans closer, enough for his slow, tempered exhales to tickle your forehead, you freeze, body paralyzed from the lightning of his eyes.
"In order for this arrangement to work," Jing Yuan mutters, though with the way he's speaking into your ears, it sounds like a ravenous purr, "we need to be transparent with each other, yes?"
Out of sheer instinct, your hands fly up, about to push the man away. But simultaneously, you have no urge to touch the man, or have him touch you, so they simply pause midair.
Another rumble of amusement resounds from his chest and reverberates through your ears. You can feel his fingers cascade down the side of your face before his hand wraps around to settle at the base of your neck, with his thumb propped underneath your jaw to lift your head up. You want to tear yourself from his hold, but the unwavering steadiness in his hand – not a single tremble, surgical in precision – and the unfamiliar warm touch warn you not to, beckoning you to savor the murky sensations instead.
You're cheek to cheek, so close that you can catch the scent of something green, and musky, then metallic. And, like the final gust of chilling wind right before a storm unleashes, he breathes, deafening and hushed all at once, "Can you promise me your utmost honesty and sincerity?"
There's no air in your lungs. He already knows your answer.
i'm so excited for you to read this dearest!! ofc there's no rush, but gosh this is such a massive compliment - i can't believe that ppl find my writing memorable LOL you're always so kind and considerate <333
titsay
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
areudirty
2087