～Misaki～
As always, the club lives to the rhythm of the music. The bass booms, the lights flicker and the people blur in a sea of shimmering colors. The scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke and whiskey fills the air, mixing with the tingling energy that permeates this place.
I've been watching him in the crowd for a while. He sits casually at a table, surrounded by women who flatter him. His gaze suddenly lingers on me and I know immediately that I have to be careful. What a disgusting guy, I think. I feel sorry for his wife and children to have such a man as a father. He stands up and slowly walks towards me, unaware of how little respect I have for him. Shōgo Saito - late thirties, and rumor has it he's suspected of being a traitor.
"You're not here often, are you?" he asks with a small smile.
"Occasionally," I reply, calm and neutral. "And you?"
"I come here often," he says, a little proudly. "There's something about this place - style, atmosphere. It's not like the usual stores."
I nod. "The club definitely has its own character."
He settles down next to me, orders something, makes casual small talk. I join in, friendly but reserved. Not too much, not too little. I know this dance.
"I'm Oliver, by the way," he finally says.
Oho, he's not that stupid after all. At least he used an alias.
"Meimei," I say, my alias thrown out casually.
"Meimei," he repeats, as if memorizing the name. "Nice to meet you."
We talk some more, but my interest isn't genuine - my eyes keep wandering around the room.
Oliver leans towards me. "I'm going to the toilet for a minute. Stay here - I'll bring you something to drink in a minute, okay?"
I just nod and let him go. This job is more boring than I thought.
I let my eyes wander around the room again.
And then I see him.
Tatsuya.
He's standing in the middle of a group of men and women, smoking a cigarette and holding a glass of whiskey in his hand. He leans back calmly, his posture radiating pure control, as if this room belongs to him - which it probably does.
The way he holds himself, the way his dark eyes glide around the room without looking. He doesn't have to search. People come to him.
I recognize him immediately, even though I've never met him in person. Tatsuya, son of Taro - oyabun of the Shinjū-kai, one of the most powerful yakuza groups in Kansai. And it looks like he owns this club. Of course he does.
Damn. I knew the place had ties to the Shinjū-kai, but I didn't think he of all people would be here today.
His gaze meets mine. For a moment, everything seems to stand still - the music, the voices, even the flickering lights. I hold my breath. Not out of fear. Out of calculation. I can't afford to stand out. Not now and certainly not with him.
I lower my gaze slightly, so subtly that it seems like a coincidence. My heart is beating too loudly. He mustn't recognize me - not for who I am. Not yet.
"Here I am again." Oliver's voice brings me back. He sets down two glasses, one in front of me, one in front of him. "Whiskey for me. And you get... what was it again? Cranberry with a shot?"
I just nod, feeling my heart still beating far too fast. Tatsuya's gaze burns on my skin, even though I can't see him anymore. I can't stay here a second longer.
I have to leave. Now.
"I'm sorry," I say, standing up. "It's an emergency. I... I have to go."
Oliver raises a brow in surprise, but doesn't look suspicious. "An emergency, huh? If it's urgent..." He remains seated. "Then I hope we meet again. I thought it was nice."
I give him a brief, practiced smile - fleeting, almost polite - "Maybe," I reply and turn around.
My steps are quick, but controlled. I don't want to attract attention. As I approach the exit door, I feel it: a look. Not just any look - his.
I don't look back. I don't have to. I know Tatsuya is following me. And he's not alone.
I feel the cool breeze as the door closes behind me.
Outside, the cool night air hits me, mixed with the muffled bass pulsing through the walls of the club. I walk briskly, but not hastily - everything has to feel controlled. No hectic movements. No glances back.
Don't stand out. Don't stumble. Don't look weak.
The street is almost empty. It's late - too late for chance passers-by, too late for help. Just a flickering neon light further down, a few overfilled garbage bags on the side of the road, and an air conditioner humming somewhere.
Damn... I don't know this neighborhood very well.
I turn into a narrow alley next to the club, as if that had been my plan.
But I hear them. Footsteps. Three pairs. One of them heavier, firmer. The others tactically staggered.
I swallow dryly. He is not alone.
I accelerate imperceptibly. There's no panic yet, just the clarity: I mustn't blow my cover.