AUTHOR
The private jet terminal was a world of hushed efficiency, a bubble of immense wealth far from the noise of commercial travel. Kenji Soma's black sedan idled on the tarmac beside the stunning, snow-white form of Kenji Araki's Gulfstream G700.
The morning sun gleamed on its sleek surface, a symbol of the power and freedom that money could buy.
Kenji Soma stood with his hands in the pockets of his impeccably tailored coat, his icy blue eyes scanning the group one last time. "The Okubo are as good as gone," he stated, his voice flat and final. It wasn't a boast; it was a simple report. A problem had been identified and eliminated.
Reomen, standing beside him, gave a slow, single nod. The bandage on his temple was a stark white reminder of why they were leaving. "We didn't doubt it for a second," he said, his voice dry. He felt a grudging respect for Soma's brutal efficiency, even as he was relieved to be putting Tokyo and its shadows behind them.
