Tousling a hand through caramel-blonde hair, Tenji sighed, leaning on the upper railing as he watched the brats assemble for work. Sometimes chatting, sometimes jostling one another - they had a distinct look between them, a fashion he had ceased to bother trying to keep up with. The tribe said he was off-trend. He couldn't bring himself to care anymore. The style of Korean popstars had swept the nation, taking Kamurocho with it, and he supposed that was no surprise either when the city was now so filled with the Jingweon that he scarcely had to walk ten steps to hear conversations in lilting Korean.
This was probably owed, in part, to the success story of Joon-gi Han - his vicious and somewhat necessary revitalisation of a world steadily beginning to slip away. Long coats, coiffed hair, ankle swinging chinos and fights to the death. Even Mihara couldn't have come up with something so absurd and barbaric in equal strokes. The youths carried bruises beneath their carnival masks and heavy makeup choking their skin. Tenji had been fortunate enough to avoid a brawl thus far, but he was not a fighter - had he known this was what the club would come to, he'd have turned tail with Yuya. A minute in the ring would probably be his last.
The masks were a sign of eligibility to fight -- as luck would have it, Tenji had so far been fortunate enough not to have been presented with one. Until tonight, that was. It hung loosely from his fingers. He hadn't felt brave enough to put it on yet. Once he did, he was at the mercy of his clients - if they wished for him to fight, he would have no choice -- something Joon-gi Han took great pleasure in reminding him.
There wasn’t much more time to think about it. The boys on the main floor bellowed a catchphrase, and then as quickly as they had assembled, they dissipated, leaving only three greeters at the front of the club as they gladly flung open the doors and welcomed in the first of tonight’s guests.