The man in the thousand-dollar suit had sweat beading on his forehead, but the air conditioning in his penthouse office was cold enough to raise goosebumps. He sat behind a desk of polished mahogany, trying to project an aura of control he hadn't felt in weeks.
Across from him, Kaizen Ryugetsu didn't bother to sit. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a picture of casual disregard. He wasn't particularly large for an enforcer, but he had a density to him, a stillness that made the room feel small and airless. His gaze was flat, his expression bored. It was far more terrifying than any open threat.
"The deadline was yesterday, Mr. Tanaka," Kaizen said, his voice a low rumble. "My time is valuable."
Tanaka forced a laugh. It came out as a strangled bark. "A misunderstanding. The funds are tied up. A wire transfer issue. You know how it is."
"I don't," Kaizen replied. "I know that when you borrow from my organization, you pay. Or you pay in other ways."
Two of Tanaka's bodyguards shifted their weight near the door. They were big men, dressed in ill-fitting black suits, their hands hovering near their jackets. They looked at their boss, then at Kaizen, and did nothing. They knew who Kaizen Ryugetsu was. In Tokyo's underworld, his name was a synonym for finality.
"Now, now," Tanaka said, his bravado crumbling. "There's no need for that. I'll have the money by next week. I swear it."
Kaizen finally moved. He walked slowly around the desk, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. He stopped beside Tanaka's chair and leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"You won't have it next week," he said. He reached out and gently took Tanaka's left hand, placing it flat on the desk. "You'll have it by tonight."
Before Tanaka could react, Kaizen placed his thumb on the man's index finger and pressed down. There was no theatrical wind-up, no dramatic flair. Just a simple application of pressure.
A wet crack echoed in the silent office.
Tanaka screamed, a high, piercing shriek that was cut short by a choked sob. He cradled his hand, his face pale with shock and agony. His finger was bent at an angle that defied nature.
"That's your first reminder," Kaizen said, wiping his thumb on a silk handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He looked at the frozen bodyguards. "His driver knows where to deliver the payment. Have a pleasant evening."
He walked out of the office without a backward glance, leaving the sound of muffled weeping behind him.
An hour later, Kaizen was in his own territory: a discreet, unmarked bar in Shinjuku that served only one customer. The lighting was low, the whiskey was top-shelf, and the silence was absolute.
Kenji, his right-hand man for the better part of a decade, slid a heavy glass across the polished wood counter. "Tanaka paid," Kenji said. "Sent double as an apology."
"He's a quick learner," Kaizen noted, taking a sip. The whiskey was smoky, a welcome burn after the sterile chill of Tanaka's office.
Kenji was the opposite of Kaizen. He was lean, sharp, and always smiling. He handled the books, the diplomacy, the parts of the business that didn't require broken bones. He was the velvet glove to Kaizen's iron fist, and Kaizen trusted him completely.
"The Suzaku clan is getting restless," Kenji said, polishing a glass. "They're pushing into our territory near the docks. Word is they've made a new alliance."
"They're always making new alliances," Kaizen said, unimpressed. "They're weak. They need numbers to feel brave."
"This one might be different," Kenji insisted, his smile finally fading. "There's a problem with the new shipment that came in tonight. It's at the old warehouse in the bay district. I think you should see it for yourself."
Kaizen frowned. It wasn't Kenji's job to scout shipments. That was for lower-level runners. But if Kenji was concerned, it was serious. Kenji was never worried without a reason.
"Alright," Kaizen said, finishing his drink. "Let's go."
The drive to the bay was quiet. Rain began to slick the asphalt, the city lights blurring into long streaks of neon. The warehouse was a hulking, rust-colored box set against the dark, churning water of the bay. It was supposed to be empty, a temporary holding spot.
Kaizen stepped out of the car, the cold, salty air hitting his face. He didn't like it. The place felt wrong. Too quiet.
"Show me," he said to Kenji.
Kenji led him to the massive sliding door and pulled it open with a groan of protesting metal. The inside was cavernous and dark. Kenji flicked a switch, and a bank of harsh fluorescent lights hummed to life, revealing nothing but empty space. No shipment. No people.
"Kenji," Kaizen said, his voice dangerously low. "What is this?"
He turned. Kenji was backing away, a strange, apologetic smile on his face. "I'm sorry, boss. They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
The word "boss" was laced with mockery.
With a deafening crash, the heavy metal door slid shut, plunging them into near darkness again before another set of lights snapped on.
From behind stacks of old crates and from catwalks above, figures emerged. Dozens of them. They held pipes, bats, and blades. And in the front, men from the Suzaku clan held pistols, all of them pointed directly at Kaizen.
The leader of the Suzaku, a man with a garish dragon tattoo crawling up his neck, stepped forward, a triumphant sneer on his face.
"Ryugetsu," he spat. "Your reign is over."
Kaizen ignored him. He ignored the guns. He ignored the sea of hostile faces surrounding him. His eyes, cold and sharp as chips of glass, were locked on one person.
Kenji. The traitor.
In this world, there was only one rule that mattered to Kaizen Ryugetsu. Protect your own, and destroy those who cross you. Kenji had just broken it.
Kaizen didn't feel fear. He felt a cold, clean rage begin to build, a familiar pressure behind his eyes. He was surrounded, betrayed, and standing on the edge of death.
He almost smiled.