Chapter Seventeen: New Directions
Wearing a sleek red shirt with black slacks, Tora peered out his window at the thunderstorm that raged outside. Piles of folders fat with paperwork overflowed throughout his office with more hidden in the cardboard boxes stacked on the floor. With appointments cancelled due to the heavy rain and home visits unappealing for the same reason, it was a slow day. And therefore, a perfect time for scanning the sea of documents he was adrift in. Once they were in the database, he'd be free to send them to the archive for shredding.
Yet, the scanner remained in power save mode.
Instead, he had spent the day rechecking his email and scrolling through his social media feeds on his phone. And occasionally, he looked at the case file open on his desk. The most recent one destined for the piles.
There was a light knock at his door.
"Yamato-san?" a woman called out.
"Come in…" he answered and then wracked his brain for a name. "Megumi-kun."
A college-aged woman peeked her head in and smiled. "Sorry to disturb you, but there's some guy here to see you. At least I think he's here for you."
"You're not sure?"
"Well, he seems like one of your people."
"Like one of my people?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.
She motioned toward her hair and eyes. "I don't know. Like a punk."
His offended look sailed over her head as she stepped back to open the door, and he briefly considered the real cost of unpaid internships.
Dressed in a button-down shirt and beige pants, Sesshoumaru walked into his office. Megumi eyed both men suspiciously and then left, closing the door.
Dumbfounded, Tora stared at him as he walked around the cramped office, assessing the disorder.
"What the #%$# are you doing here?" he finally managed to say.
"I have questions," Sesshoumaru replied and frowned at a dead plant he discovered.
"You have my number. What happened to texting? Or a phone call?"
"Not my preference."
Tora scoffed. "Now look—"
"Who is Yamato?" he interrupted as he read the ingredients on a dusty package of instant ramen he found in a filing cabinet.
"Th-That's my name."
"If that's your name, then who is Tora?"
He leaned back in his chair and sighed.
Sesshoumaru tossed the ramen back into the filing cabinet and waited.
"What I do at night is dangerous," he explained. "So, I use an alias to keep those who I fight from making trouble for me during the day."
"I'm not your enemy."
"Let's be clear. When I met you, you had just been shot twice and were bleeding all over an alleyway. And that was after you threw a car at somebody. I felt pretty good about not giving you my real name."
Sesshoumaru raised an eyebrow. "I threw a man across a loading dock."
"But you've thrown cars at people, haven't you?"
He shrugged.
"And…" he added, "And you're easily over one hundred and ninety centimeters of trouble in my office. Right now."
"A false name doesn't conceal your scent. A pointless effort."
"I guess so," he sighed and then perked up. "Wait, what do I smell like?"
"Human."
He shrugged before waving to the chair on the other side of his desk. "Have a seat. I'm sure you have more questions than that."
Sesshoumaru eyed the battered chair skeptically.
"You're wearing dad clothes. I mean, are those loafers?" He laughed. "Sit down."
He took the seat and somehow managed to pull off a simultaneously refined yet relaxed posture that made Tora unexpectedly self-conscious.
"It really is all about confidence, isn't it?" Tora remarked.
"And class."
He held up his hands. "I surrender. Please have mercy. My self-esteem cannot handle this kind of abuse. The only way this could possibly be worse is if you were outclassing me in an old yukata robe."
Sesshoumaru snorted. Then he leaned forward, his gaze on the open file in front of Tora.
"I guess he was saved for a week," Tora said, his amusement gone, and he began to leaf through the paperwork. "It's been almost a month since then but it's always hard to move on. Even when you did everything you could."
"Is that what all of these are?" he asked, gesturing to the paperwork that crowded the office.
"Yeah. Some of them are success stories. Most of them aren't. Some of them are still alive. Some of them aren't. All of them wanted something better for their lives. Sometimes just for themselves but usually for their families too."
"When we last spoke, you explained that your concept of heroism embodies the work that you do here. That saving a person from danger only matters in the moment. Instead, it's when you act to safeguard their future through hope that you become heroic."
"Right, but I do feel I need to clarify that saving a life is itself heroic. I don't want you to think that a fireman who braves a housefire to rescue a person isn't heroic. Death is the ultimate deprivation of hope."
Sesshoumaru gave him a dull look. "Of course."
He chuckled. "You're a youkai. Being extra clear seems like a good idea. Please don't kill me."
He smirked. "Aside from the advent of death, would you agree then that money is the greatest influencer of hope to the point of being its practical manifestation?"
He hummed thoughtfully. "I think that's too simplistic a perspective. But I can agree that I'm limited in what I can do in providing opportunities and guidance because of insufficient resources. Ones that do require funding."
Sesshoumaru reached into his pants pocket and dropped a bundled stack of yen onto the desk.
"So, it was you that burned down that gambling den," Tora said, running a hand through his crown of red hair.
"Retribution. And milder than I would consider appropriate. These are softer times."
Tora consciously avoided the suggestion that the person before him had likely killed more people than he had ever met. "You stole the money?"
"I accepted it as my responsibility. I have no interest in it otherwise. It's not tribute."
"So, what are you going to do with it?"
"That is the question that I came here to ask. I've learned that this currency represents a form of hope, and it's my duty to ensure that it's meted out appropriately. Failing to do so would be a personal failure as a guardian. As a hero."
"What do you want from me?"
"I seek your help in disbursing it."
"I don't know," he hesitated. "Helping you with this is its own kind of responsibility. How much did you take?"
"Two hundred of these."
"#%$#!" he half-shouted, nearly falling out of his chair. "That's like, what, two hundred million yen?"
He regarded him silently.
"Having that much money is dangerous. I'm surprised that they haven't at least tried to hunt you down. Maybe they thought it burned up in the fire. But even so, a two-hundred-million-yen loss in addition to the ass-kicking you gave them. Are you sure they haven't come at you? I mean, you like to brawl every night, so maybe you didn't realize it. Have you noticed any guys with machine guns lately?"
Sesshoumaru rose to his feet. "I respect your caution and the acknowledgement of your limitations. I will consider our conversation here when I make my decision."
"Wait," Tora said, his fingers drumming on the desk. "It's not fair of me to offer help, ramble about my opinions on poverty and heroism, and then walk away. It's not even necessarily about the money." His gaze wandered around the office and the stacks of case files. "It's just that I wouldn't even know where… to… begin… Huh."
Sesshoumaru waited.
"I have an idea. Tell me what you think."
OOOOOOOOOO
Steady into the black night, the downpour of the spring thunderstorm pounded Marunouchi, Tokyo's financial district. Yet through the torrent, the city lights reflected brilliantly against the glass skyscrapers and flooded streets. Down one thoroughfare, a cavalcade of dark cars drove, single file and slow.
With waves of water spraying as they passed, they navigated through the canyons of concrete and steel until they arrived at one of the greatest architectural achievements of the new century. Sharp against the dark sky, the tower dominated the cityscape, both in size and aesthetics. Through angles and lighting, it resembled the hilt of a katana as if the blade itself had been driven into the ground. Like a claim staked.
The procession pulled into the porte-cochere at the fore of the tower. On the curb outside the lobby, neatly dressed attendants waited. When the cars stopped, they poured forward, opening the rear doors with professional courtesy. In expensive suits of gray and black, men emerged from the cars. On the surface, they exuded the confidence that comes with expensive wristwatches and manicured nails, but the sharing of uneasy glances betrayed a deeper wariness.
In a white Armani suit and gold aviators, the last man emerged.
"Kurosawa-san," a voice called out to him. Flanked by his own entourage of men, a man in a dark suit with a flaring blue collar smiled warmly at him.
"Ishida-san," he greeted, not smiling in return.
"Terrible weather for such an auspicious occasion, wouldn't you say?"
Kurosawa scoffed.
Still smiling, Ishida gestured to the attendants, and they rushed to open the lobby doors. Kurosawa nodded to his men, and together they entered the tower. With black granite and brushed steel, the lobby embodied a polished severity. Yet despite the modern design, there were touches of tradition. As the guests were escorted to the coat check, they passed by an immaculate rock garden. And in the court in front of the elevators, an elegant water feature showcased bamboo fountains and a deep pool filled with silver koi fish.
The elevators dinged. Doors etched with mythical creatures opened, and the attendants within bowed as they welcomed the guests in.
"Hyousuke," Kurosawa said, giving the man to his right a brief sidelong look. Dressed in a conservative dark brown and tie, his lieutenant had always favored dignified practicality over flair.
Hyousuke nodded, staying beside him as the others filled the elevators. And when their turn arrived, he entered before Kurosawa.
While Kurosawa watched him give the elevator a quick inspection, his eyes settled on the man's bandaged left hand, the pinky missing all the way to the knuckle. Rage and regret bubbled under his mask of indifference.
"Oya-jii," Hyousuke called out to him. He waited in the elevator expectantly.
As Kurosawa stepped forward, another man fell in behind him.
"I'll ride with you if you don't mind, Kurosawa-san," Ishida said, his affability persisting.
Whether he minded or not was irrelevant as Ishida followed him inside. Together, they stood in front as the attendant selected the executive suite. The doors closed.
"These are truly unprecedented times," Ishida said, his eyes on the changing floor numbers. "To have the Kuro-Sakura Clan join our alliance."
"This isn't an alliance. This is a conquest," Kurosawa bit out.
He shrugged. "A matter of semantics. I choose to embrace the positive. The mutual gain that our respective clans will reap relies upon us sharing one strategic mind and body."
"Except that it's the Shikai Clan's mind and body."
"It's not much different than how the Kuro-Sakura Clan came into power, Raiden."
Kurosawa scowled at the use of his first name.
Ishida ignored him. "Your clan broke the mold three decades ago. Starting as an alliance between the Kurosawa racketeering clan and the Sakurai gambling clan, you became an empire. A yakuza clan with two oyabuns. Two fathers. Remarkable even now. The epitome of what can happen when trust and discipline are rock solid. Two generations of enlightenment, and then there was you."
"You forget yourself, Ishida-san," Hyousuke growled behind them.
"Do I?" he replied with a smirk as he eyed him over his shoulder. "Did I start the coup that imploded your clan?"
He glowered at him.
Ishida turned back to the floor number readout. "No, that was Raiden here. You wanted to be the only oyabun. But the Sakurai loyalties weren't as interwoven within the clan as you had bet. Perhaps if the Kurosawa had been the gambling side at the start, you would have been smarter about it."
"Are you finished?" Kurosawa asked coolly.
"The elevator doors are still closed," he answered with a chuckle and then dug in again. "You see, it's not that you staged a coup. Hell, if you measure success only by achieving your goal, then you won. You're the sole oyabun of the clan. Every loyal Sakurai brother and their leadership were wiped out. The family you didn't want is gone. Buried. But the beheading of your brothers wasn't a clean sword strike. That shit was messy and public."
"Make your point."
"This isn't the Sengoku Jidai," he said, his eyes on Kurosawa now, "We're not supposed to be warlords waging bloody battles in the streets. Your failure to control the violence during your grab for power put your neck out for judgment. You see, being in the yakuza means being respected by the public. Sure, they can fear and resent us, but when they go from thinking about it to saying it out loud, there's a problem."
Kurosawa scoffed, gesturing around the elevator but meaning the tower. "And this is such a nice fortress for the Shikai to judge me from."
Ishida shook his head. "You're as self-involved as ever. The screw ups of one clan taint the reputations of all other clans. We're all yakuza."
"Whatever."
"You don't recognize the respect you were given, which isn't surprising considering you didn't respect your own family. Even after your coup, our oyabun waited. You weren't judged until now."
"And why is that?"
Ishida glanced back at Hyousuke and his bandaged hand. "Need I elaborate?"
"Your oyabun reserved judgment when my clan went through a little restructuring, but decides to step in now over some vigilante demon in a mask?" Kurosawa growled.
"How many men were at that gambling den? Thirty? Forty? How much money did you lose? Let's not count the fire."
"Enough."
"The fact that your lieutenant here took his pinky off to his knuckle in repentance tells me exactly how that night went down. It tells our oyabun too. Worth mentioning that your racketeering side has been bleeding out for two months due to the same demon." He laughed. "Maybe you should take off a bit of your pinky too."
Kurosawa grabbed him by the collar, his rage boiling up. "Enough!"
Unfazed, Ishida regarded him with pity, "You're weak. Your clan is weak." Then he wrenched Kurosawa's hands free and fixed his collar. "If you want to survive, you better remember your place. But if you want to try and handle it like you did with your Sakurai brothers, we can do that too. Bare your neck again and we'll happily take your head."
The elevator dinged.
"Glad we had this chat, Raiden. Clearing the air and all that. See you in a few minutes. Oh and…" he clapped him on the shoulder, "Welcome to the family."
With a mirthless chuckle, Ishida left the elevator. Kurosawa and Hyousuke followed a few steps behind.
"Oya-jii," Hyousuke said under his breath.
"It's fine," Kurosawa replied quietly. His men were waiting outside the elevators, some already mingling with the Shikai brothers who had escorted them from the lobby. "We knew it was coming for some time. I thought dealing with the Sakurai would slow it down, but here we are."
"If I hadn't failed with the ambush…"
He closed his eyes. The lingering fear and shame surrounded Hyousuke in a fog and there was nothing he could do about that. "That was only an excuse to force our hand. Don't worry. You'll get your chance at redemption. I have a feeling our little demon is about to be someone else's problem."
"Excuse me, Kurosawa-san," a voice spoke up.
He looked over to discover a young woman dressed in a fine kimono of silver and white with splashes of green. She bowed.
"If you would come this way, we can begin the ceremony," she said politely and gestured down the hall.
He nodded, and then waved a hand to signal his men.
With the woman leading the way, they headed down the hallway. As they walked, the modern style that defined the tower gave way to a more traditional flavor with gray wood floors and rice paper screens. Upon the screens were exquisite watercolor murals displaying forest and mountain scenes in black, gray, and greem.
Soon they reached a foyer before a large room. The woman bowed and waited patiently as they removed their shoes. When they were finished, she knelt onto her knees and slid the door open. Kurosawa and Hyousuke entered first with their men following behind them.
Inside, they were welcomed into a grand hosting room. Despite being able to accommodate the leadership of both clans comfortably, it was also surprisingly intimate, bearing a quality reminiscent of the courts held by the feudal lords of old. Mats were laid out on the polished floor and at the head of each row, a kneeling woman waved the guests to their seats.
Already knowing his role, Kurosawa headed towards the front and the stage that awaited him. At the center, there were two mats before an altar laden with candles, dishes of salt, a pair of fish, and, in places of honor, the likenesses of three gods. It was an old tradition, the induction ceremony of prospective members and the promotion of brothers into positions of leadership within the clan. As a host and participant countless times, it had become almost too familiar for him. This was, however, the first time he would sit on the left-hand side.
He took his seat and began to scan the room. As beautiful as the murals were in the hallway, they were no match for the screens here. Lithe mythical creatures coiled and flowed through stunning mountainscapes, and while he wasn't known for appreciating the fine arts, he couldn't help but admire them. Seated nearby, a shamisen player strummed a song, something ancient and unfamiliar.
Then his attention settled on the raised platform just beyond the altar. Enclosed in bamboo shades, he could see glimpses in between the thin slats and discovered a silhouetted figure seated on the floor. The oyabun. The head of the monstrous Shikai Clan. He glared at the figure.
"Not the ideal way of introducing yourself, Raiden," a man warned.
Kurosawa turned toward the voice and found Ishida taking the seat to his right. His glare evaporated.
"Better," Ishida said and signaled to a fellow regional boss. "Shall we get this over with?"
The music stopped. The man approached, bringing with him a warm bottle of sake and a saucer-shaped cup. He handed Ishida the cup and ceremoniously poured sake into it.
Ishida sipped from it and then offered it to Kurosawa.
Hesitation froze him. Was this really it? The end of his clan wouldn't be in the glory of battle but on their knees. He felt his anger rise again. The time would come when he'd get his vengeance. Survival first. Then it would be his enemy's turn to bare his neck.
Kurosawa took the cup and sipped.
Both men rose to their feet and approached the altar. As Ishida poured offerings to the gods, Kurosawa watched the oyabun behind the shades, his rage seething.
Then iridescent eyes burned hot in reply.
His eyes widened with shock, and behind him, he heard Hyousuke gasp. Whoever the Shikai oyabun was, he wasn't human.