How did you know if a date was successful if you were dating a narcissistic, manic, vain piece of shit?

That was a trick question. Don't bother answering it.

It took everything in Youko's power not to break and slaughter the haughty asshole. It didn't matter who he worked for, or what he did, or what he could do. All that mattered was Karasu was easy on the eyes, and like literal needles boring into your skull. Someone should have taught him better.

The first date had been much longer than their introduction. Karasu had thought it funny to bring them to a bordello. A cheap one, at that. It was a cover, mostly. They chopped and purified the product in the back, sold pussy and occasionally some cock out of the front. If Karasu had aimed to shock Youko, or make him uncomfortable, it hadn't worked.

Kurama had chatted idly with the madam, asking her about market inflation during soccer games and he made sure to pass out a few of his own calling cards—everyone needed a good fake Gucci bag.

The second date was better, at least. No, better was not the right word. More interesting.

More bizarre.

Karasu's thought processes made no sense when the fox thought about them. How a man could jump trains of thought so violently was beyond him. The bomber was sly, too sly for his own good. If he remembered the saying correctly—the boy was too big for his breeches.

Kurama ached to cut him down to size, but still, he played along and he played along nicely.

Karasu called his number, voice low and sharp, and gave him a very specific set of instructions. Upon arrival he found the man, half naked, casually drying his hair next to the utterly destroyed corpse of what was… probably a boy? A young man? Something on the cusp of being both. (But now he was neither.)

Youko sighed, and for the first time since the two of them met, he showed an actual emotion. Youko looked put-upon. Frustrated.

This was childish and weak. Who had taught this man how to function in society?

More yet, who had let Karasu think that just because Youko was pretty, and arrogant, and refused to play games—that he was anything less than ruthless?

"If you're going to kill it, at least put down a tarp next time," The thief sighed, looking at the mountain of forensic evidence staring them in the face. "Do me a kindness," Despite his mellowed tone, it was an obvious order. "I'm going to dispose of the body. You burn the room down." He sneered, lips lifting to expose sharp white teeth, "You're good at that, right?"

The requests got stranger and stranger still.

The meatpacking district was emptied and cool and quiet in the middle of the night. Youko had been instructed to meet Karasu at the underground parking garage in the outskirts of the district. Take a cab, pay in cash, and manage to be low profile.

Youko was nothing if not well put together. He didn't need those instructions.

How it had been explained to him was thus: Karasu would arrive with four metal briefcases of product. Two of cocaine and two of Oxy. These were trial runs. Once Kurama paid the amount, and pushed his first shipment, they would work out a long term commitment.

Youko was not a young man. Youko was not a young, stupid man. Youko was not a young, stupid man who thought that people were genuinely looking out for his best interests.

He knew Sakyo could betray him.

He had planned for Sakyo to betray him. (And by proxy, for Karasu to betray him.)

Despite knowing that, he was eerily calm as he walked into the underground facility, white clothes cast in a striking blue-green tint from the fluorescent bulbs. The white-haired man didn't bother to call out, he knew if Karasu was hiding there was likely a reason behind it. (And it was likely a shitty reason, to boot.)

Sighing, the thief rested himself against a hazard-yellow pole, honey-colored eyes sweeping against the desolate garage.

"I'm all for drama, Karasu, but could you hurry it along? I'd like to get home and back to my business."

Either way, whatever was going to happen needed to happen.