The blade blurs as it tries and fails to swipe across Beam's face.

The parlor is intimate; a dozen tables spread over a room narrow enough to be an alleyway. The only source of light comes from the lamps hanging over each of the tables, and from the pachinko machines lined up at the entrance of the place. Terrible visibility and nowhere to run — it's quite possibly the worst place to get raided in.

No matter. Beam's own blade pierces the assailant under the chin and right through the tongue; once it's hilted, he swiftly drags it forward to unleash a downpour of blood. As his opponent contorts in agony, he takes the chance to slit through his jugular, a motion so practiced it bores him. He doesn't stick around to watch his enemy sink to his knees in death, prostrated as if to ask for forgiveness.

Instead, he's already moved on to unleash his wrath on the other handful of men that deigned to surround him. It can't be called a fight, really; what unfolds is a one-sided frenzy, a banquet of unrestrained violence. Beam slams heads against tables and chairs, pierces ribcages and gouges out eyes. He leaves no gap between his movements, a coordinated segue of blows, slashes and stabs that no ordinary eye could ever hope to distinguish.

In a matter of seconds, he has the bulk of the intruders laying flat on the ground. It had really been a futile effort to try to come after him. The once-unstained carpet is now tainted by the blood and guts of men unworthy of his blade. Such a disgrace leaves a leaden taste in his mouth, a taste that can only be washed away with the hot blood of a freshly-torn jugular. So when the last of the fools steps in his path, Beam's teeth take a jagged chunk of flesh and muscle from his neck, and he feasts on the metallic taste, cackling all the while.

A near distance away, his entourage has done similarly quick work at disposing of the pests. It had been around fifteen runts who thought they could take out the upper echelon of an organization of their caliber. Maybe they'd been sent in by a larger gang, maybe they'd been true small fries trying to get a headstart in the underworld. But they were far too naïve. To get the job done properly, they should've sent not more than two armed men into the place; men skilled enough to get in and out in one piece with minimal fallout. Underworld assassinations must be small and stealthy operations to succeed.

Mouth smeared red, Beam takes the moment to survey the scene. Just minutes prior, he and his men had been in the midst of a heated game of poker. He'd been separated from them in the heat of the moment, but it didn't pose a risk to him whatsoever. Beam's men wipe clean their respective blades on the hem of their shirts, or on their expensive handkerchiefs. The remaining patrons and staff cower under the tables, too fear-stricken to flee.

In the second or two that he has his back turned, he fails to notice one last remaining assailant. His silent footsteps are betrayed by the distinctive cocking of a gun far too close to Beam's skull, and it's only then that he reacts. He turns around and stares down the barrel of the gun – a primed revolver ready to fire. A steady, unwavering hand is posed over its trigger. He'd judged the skill of the attackers far too soon.

The gunman never gets to take advantage of the point-blank range, nor does Beam get a chance to disarm him. Someone that Beam hadn't noticed sprints out from under a table and knocks the man down. Stunned, he shoots once without aiming, the bullet embedding itself into a wall. Beam's defender straddles the gunman with one knee on his chest and the other on his wrist, kicking his hand to disarm him. That's more than enough time for Beam to step around them and take the gun from the floor.

It takes one shot for the gunman's squirming to stop, but Beam doesn't stop shooting until the revolver is empty. Some call it overkill, but to Beam it's simple insurance. By the time he's done, the gunman doesn't really have a face — or a head, for that matter. His skull is blown open, bits of bone and grey matter sticking crudely to the carpet. They'd have to overhaul the whole place at this point.

The echoing of the gunshots stops, and Beam takes a look at his savior. He's a young man of lithe build; he can't be any older than Beam is. A smattering of unusual blonde hair crowns his scalp. His face is defined by a pair of deep-set eyes; their dark circles speaking of an exhaustion that's unbecoming for someone his age.

He gets on his feet to peer up at Beam, who's a good head taller than he is. He doesn't seem nearly as frightened as one would expect after having a man's skull explode inches from your face. That and his quick reflexes have caught Beam's attention.

"You move fast," Beam says, a strange accent thick on his tongue. "Why you do that for me?"

The young man shrugs with dubious nonchalance. "I grew up on the streets. Couldn't just stand by and watch you get killed, y'know."

Beam flashes him a grin. "Know who I am?"

Another shrug. "No clue, dude. You're welcome, by the way." The nonchalance is bordering on arrogance, now, and Beam can't get enough of it.

"I am Beam," he introduces himself, outstretching a bloody hand for a handshake.

"Beam? What kinda stupid name is that?" He doesn't accept Beam's show of courtesy, keeping his arms crossed close to his body. It's the kind of response that would get him degloved if he were anyone else, but Beam is so enticed that he's willing to let it continue. He even laughs again to show his amusement.

"What is your name?" Beam counters, curious to know.

"What's it to you?" He still sounds on edge, but Beam's unwavering interest in him has him relenting after a few seconds. "Listen, man. I'm just some guy who works here. I don't wanna cause any problems."

"You work here? That mean you work for me."

"Huh?"

The revelation makes all color leave his savior's face. It begins to dawn on him that he's been back-talking to the owner of this establishment. "Shit," he whispers under his breath. He doesn't seem nervous, just a tad regretful. "Whatever, man. I'm Denji," he says, finally taking Beam's hand in his own to give it a firm squeeze.

Beam squeezes Denji's hand in return. "Denji…" It rolls off his tongue so smoothly, like it's a name he could never get tired of saying. "Why working here?" Beam inquires as he steps forward.

Denji doesn't immediately respond to that question. He shuts his eyes, as if remembering an injury from the past. "It pays well, and I'm tryin' to get a debt settled, alright?"

Beam ponders the question for a moment. His men are already close by, having sidestepped the carnage they left in their wake to be closer to their leader. They all watch the exchange with hawks' eyes.

"Denji could be bodyguard," Beam finally says. "I can pay Denji more."

Denji is incredulous. "Huh? First of all, dude, I don't know how to do that kind of work. And second, you may own this place and all, but I doubt whatever you wanna pay me could cover the debt."

"Can train you," Beam counters, still looking all too eager at the prospect.

"Okay, but what about the money?"

Clearly, Denji hasn't gotten the memo. Beam pops open a button of his shirt, dragging the neckline down to expose his tattoo. "Understand now?"

Another realization slowly dawns on Denji's face, and Beam grins once again, satisfied with the way the conversation is going. He's never been a man of strategy, always relying on brute force and impulse to get what he wants, but tonight is proving to be a night of exceptions.

"Wait, so you're saying…?"

"I own half of Tokyo. Can give Denji more than enough," Beam all but gloats. "More than you will ever need."

It's an offer Denji would be dumb to refuse. Getting mixed up with the wrong crowd could prove fatal. But then again, does he really have that much to lose?

Not wanting to push him too hard, Beam steps forward and hands Denji a business card. "Denji protect me, I protect Denji," he says, voice low. The card is minimal, with only a shark seal and a phone number, both printed in elegant black ink.

"Think about it," is the last thing Beam says before he and his men retreat.

Denji is left behind amid the pile of bodies, eyes transfixed on Beam's back until he sees him leave. He makes a noise of pure frustration, looking at the card again.

There's no way in hell he's going to call.

Denji makes the call not three hours later.

It's a touch past two in the morning, he's just gotten off his shift and his hands still reek of latex and bodies. Corpse cleanup duty wasn't in his plans today, but he's had worse. He's at the telephone booth just a few blocks from the parlor. It was already hard enough for him to read in general, but he struggled even more to make out the numbers in the dark.

As the line rings, he thinks that maybe he should've thought this over more. There's a looming risk hanging over him, and things could go sideways at any moment. And who's to say Beam's not bluffing, anyway? Would a man like him really be so desperate for a bodyguard? But the decision has already been made for him. He really can't refuse.

The line doesn't ring for more than a few seconds before someone picks up. "Hello?" A bright, feminine voice greets from the other end. He was halfway expecting to hear Beam on the line, with his stunted Japanese and thick foreign accent. It catches Denji off guard and he panics, almost forgetting what he had rehearsed in his head, but regains his composure in time.

"Hello, I'm calling to accept the offer." He keeps it short and sweet, not revealing any details.

"Good. We shall be in contact promptly," the other person replies, and immediately hangs up.

"Wait!" Denji protests, wanting to ask just how they'd be getting in touch if he was just dialing in from a booth. He tries dialing twice more, but no answer comes. Figures Beam would have his ways to locate him.

He hangs up the phone in resignation and steps into the rain-misted streets. His head is abuzz with questions, the biggest of which is if he should come into work tomorrow. It's not like they would fire him if he didn't, 'cause Beam owns it anyway. Whatever. Today was draining enough.

He continues to walk in the dim moon glow, losing track of time and distracting himself with a myriad possibilities about the future. He's so caught up in his own head that he doesn't notice the black car sweeping down the street until it's right beside him.

The window rolls down, and he's face to face with Beam again. He most definitely didn't expect them to find him so quickly, but then again, nothing about Beam has been predictable so far. There's no words exchanged as the door opens, more of an instruction than an invitation. Denji follows through without hesitating.

From a distance, a woman shrouded in darkness looks on as Denji steps into Beam's car. A sense of satisfaction glazes over her ringed irises, and once the car drives off, she walks the other way.