Noon crashes on Denji like a tidal wave.
It's hard not to remain in his room—no, his suite—and its amenities, but he's got a condition to fulfill.
To put it simply, Denji had experienced more luxuries in one morning than he had in possibly his entire life. He'd awakened at a decent hour for once—the mattress, soft beyond words, had powered up his rest, making his six hours of sleep feel like ten. Ample natural light cast the room in otherworldly white. If he opened the curtains, he'd be able to see every relief of downtown Tokyo. There was cable TV with international programming. Denji had burned a few hours watching it, even though he didn't understand a single word.
A miniature breakfast buffet had been rolled up to his room: little platters of grilled fish and rice, tamago-kake-gohan, pickles and miso. Then, a small display of Western-style foods: toast with butter and jam, a simple salad, and fried egg. He'd told the clerk he didn't order anything, and was promptly told this was "a courtesy of the owner". Huh. Denji scarfed it all down without a thought, massacre-diluted appetite having completely recovered.
A thorough soaking in the bathtub-slash-jacuzzi-slash-whatever later and he's on the heels of being late. He finds the small wardrobe beside the bathroom stocked with mysteriously tailored clothing, as if someone had taken his measurements in his sleep. Stacks of ironed white dress shirts, two suits, and an understated yukata. He opts for the black suit; keeping up appearances and all.
Denji fumbles a little with the tie, tying it in a haphazard way that's sure to come loose later. But the price of indulgence has caught up to him—he has to go, or risk feeling Beam's blade through his jugular. He locks the door and takes the elevator down, gravity-sickness making him grit his teeth the whole time.
With a metallic thunk, the doors pry themselves open to let Denji out.
The lobby, yesterday empty and pristine, has turned into a miniature Babel, overlapping and mingling tongues leaving no space for echo. Even the amplest seat in the lobby is occupied by a guest-to-be, luggage cast aside as they wait for their turn to check in.
Choosing the lobby's busiest time to be able to meet undetected had been smart of Beam. Or it would have been, had it not rendered the task of finding Beam impossible. Denji's eyes inspect head after anonymous head, hunting down a specific mane of black hair. He goes over the room twice, thrice more – nothing.
The clock reigning over the reception desk points past twelve. Where the fuck is he?
Three taps to his shoulder in quick succession give him a clue. Upon turning, there's Beam's brow bone and nose bridge and sharp teeth peering at him from the stratosphere. "Found you." The accent rankles in Denji's ears.
Beam's wearing nothing but geta and a blue yukata, eerily similar to the one in the suite closet. He just had to make Denji feel overdressed, hadn't he?
"This isn't hide-and-seek, dude," Denji says, already dreading the interaction. "Let's get this over with. Where are your men?"
"In restaurant," Beam reveals. There must be something hilarious about Denji's face, because Beam's smile is nowhere near dimming. "Come!" he says excitedly, reaching tentatively towards Denji's hand, but Denji pulls away before contact can happen.
"Hands off," Denji warns, an echo of last night's words.
"Ah, sorry," Beam says, but doesn't sound it.
"Whatever," Denji says, and moves to follow Beam. He walks at a pace Denji can follow, remaining only slightly ahead of him.
"You sleep well?" Beam asks. Denji is tempted to lie his way out, to avoid sounding indulged, but he had quite literally had the best sleep of his life. Admitting that much wouldn't hurt, right?
"Yeah, actually," Denji says, but refuses to elaborate.
They walk side-by-side past the elevators and find the hallway splits into two. Generous bilingual signage indicates that the gym and pool are to the right, the restaurant to the left.
"You liked breakfast?" Here Beam goes with the questions. Seems once he gets started, he can't stop.
"Yeah, it was delicious. Thank you for that," he says, his gratitude spilling out against his will, and has to mentally slap himself for it.
"Ah, my pleasure," Beam says, and leaves it at that. Until he doesn't.
Peering down with nothing less than mischief in his eye, Beam says, "It look good on you, that suit," as though the sight causes him personal satisfaction. Beam's gaze is a powerful thing, and Denji can feel it without having to make sure it's there. "Handsome."
The word makes Denji short-circuit for a second. "Watch it," he warns through a venomous squint, despite having been acquainted with Beam's blade. Beam doesn't seem fazed, instead barking out that obnoxious laugh of his down the hallway.
Whatever.
They make it to the restaurant. It's garish as the lobby, decked out in extravagant furniture, though more centered around a sober Western aesthetic. They snake their way through the general dining area and into a more private, cordoned-off lounge section. Before he can register the motion, Beam lets Denji pass through first, as though he was an esteemed guest.
The lounge houses only a small bar and a handful of booths, only one of which is occupied at this time of day. There's five men huddled around it. One of them has his hand outstretched, face down on the table; the other hand gripping a short dagger, moving rapidly in the intervals between his fingers. The others cheer and whoop, watching closely for blood that never comes. Beam's presence ends the game in a flash, the defeated dagger clattering on the table.
The men, all suited up just like Denji is, land their gazes on him, and he stares right back. Upon individual inspection, it dawns on Denji that these are the men largely responsible for the carnage at the casino. The earpieces confirm it—it's Beam's security detail. For some reason, he thought he'd be meeting Beam's fellow executives; but of course it'd make more sense for Denji to meet the team he'd be a part of.
"Ah, gentlemen," Beam begins. "This," he flourishes with open palms, "is Denji. You all saw him at casino last night." One of the men nods in recognition. The others remain impassive. More like analytical, actually, as if they're piecing a puzzle together. Their faces change once Beam reveals, "New member of team."
Immediately, they scoot out of the booth to properly greet Denji, once again as though he was some kind of guest. Odd hospitality seems to be Beam's thing. They list off their names. Yamashita. Kitagawa. Wakasugi. Takeda. Komachi. As they each bow to Denji, his hand in their grasp, they say some variation of the phrase "pleased to meet you" or "grateful to meet your acquaintance."
Denji tries to wave off the excessive formality. "Yeah, nice to meet you all, but I'm just a guy. You don't have to bow or whatever," but the men are unshaken. Once the display is over, they slide back into the booth, making enough space for Beam and Denji to join them.
The table is a bit of a mess, hanafuda cards and knives strewn about. In the center, a bottle of sake, a single half-filled glass among several empty ones. The drink is obviously not for the men to indulge. An ashtray is filled to the brim with acrid residue. Denji didn't expect anything less. The silence is filled by Beam lighting a cigarette, the first since Denji joined him. Then, he turns to face his men.
"Wakasugi, explain to Denji," Beam orders.
Wakasugi straightens and nods, voice steady but gaze strained. "Yes, boss," he quickly turns to face Denji. The deep, dark circles under his eyes allow Denji to imagine just how demanding the job might be. He wonders if Wakasugi also has his own suite. "Before you can join us, you have to complete a test of allegiance, and then you will be initiated into the organization."
"Test of a-lee-huh?"
"Allegiance," Beam says, but the word sounds strange coming from him. "Show you are loyal."
"So what, do I have to kill a guy? That it?"
Denji's bluntness seems to catch Wakasugi off-guard, because he stalls his response for a moment. "Yes, actually. That's exactly it."
"Denji, smart," Beam nods to himself.
"But," Wakasugi interjects. "That's not all. You'll also undergo rigorous questioning. Make sure you're not infiltrating from an enemy organization, and all that."
Beam scoffs at the notion. "I pick him myself," he says, a bit too proud. "Denji is fine."
"But boss," Wakasugi interjects, "He's going to work with us. With you." He's beginning to sound desperate; his lips wobble with every word. "We have to be thorough."
"Fine by me," Denji says. "I'll go the regular way. Don't need you to keep treating me like some sort of treasure." This gets a laugh out of Beam. Weirdo.
"Alright," Wakasugi says. "So that's the test. You execute the target, then we question you."
"Then who do I gotta kill?" Denji wishes they would cut the crap and just tell him things straight.
Hesitation takes hold of Wakasugi yet again. "We have a… situation going on with another gang."
"War," Beam cuts in.
"A war," Wakasugi amends. "It's been going on for a while."
"A year."
"If you're gonna cut off the guy every two words, why don't you do the talking?" Denji asks Beam, irked by the constant back and forth.
Beam laughs again. "Wakasugi talk better than me."
A fist impacts the table, ceramic on ceramic rattling like a ripple. "Kid, you've got balls talking to the boss like that," Komachi pipes up. A deep furrow on his forehead spells out his irritation with Denji's demeanor. That was quick. He's known him for all of three minutes. Denji returns his gaze, unimpressed.
Beam, however, has less tolerance for the outburst. He takes one of the empty glasses sitting on the table and slams it down, several shards emerging from it. Without pause, one of them finds itself flush to the man's jugular. "Komachi."
"My apologies, boss." It comes out stunted and rushed. No other words are needed from Beam to make him settle down, though rebellious eyes still linger on Denji after that.
"Whatever," Denji aims to push the conversation to its crux. "So you're at war with this other gang. What else?"
Wakasugi clears his throat and begins again. "They've killed many of our men, including executives, and taken over some of their operations. It's put us at a disadvantage economically and we've lost plenty of territory."
"So?"
Beam speaks up. "You kill man who killed ours."
Wakasugi pulls out a small picture of the guy and slides it towards Denji. "Kaneda Nobuto, patriarch of the Kaneda family, Yami-gumi."
"A big shot right off the bat?" Denji asks. "You have that much faith in me?"
"Yes," Beam says, stone-cold seriousness on his face. "I know Denji can do it."
There's that blindness in his faith again. Beam has absolutely no guarantee that Denji is capable of it, but he's steadfast in his belief. What an idiot.
Part of Denji is still waiting to wake up and find that the past 24 hours have been a hallucination. He shrugs it off, choosing to indulge Beam's confidence in him, misplaced though it might be.
"Whatever," Denji grits out. "When am I supposed to be doing this?"
This time, it's Wakasugi who responds, clearing his throat before he doles it out. "Tonight."
Now that jolts Denji out of his calm. He would've spit out his drink if he had one. "Tonight?!"
"Tonight," Beam confirms.
A curtain of smoke envelops the six of them. Denji feels the weight of all those eyes on him. One of the hanafuda cards draws his eye: a contour of red splitting the dark. Lightning. He tilts his gaze up to meet Beam's.
"Well, shit. I guess I have no choice, right?"
"You don't," Wakasugi says.
Still holding Denji's gaze, Beam speaks up. "Wakasugi, you go with him tonight. Make sure he get it done."
Another hesitant pause. "Yes, sir."
Oh, Denji's absolutely not looking forward to it. "Whatever," he says. "Not like I need a chaperone."
By now, Wakasugi is gritting his teeth; a vein has begun to protrude out from his temple. When he talks to Denji, he embodies a snake, perilous and sharp; not at all the docile, shaky tone he used on Beam moments prior. "You're disposable as of now. If you die, it'll be because you weren't cut out for this world. It'll be like you were really never here. I won't be a chaperone. I'll merely be a witness."
"You don't know what I can do, man," Denji rasps, irritation finally boiling over. "Watch how you talk to me."
"You gonna talk like that to your superior, brat?" Wakasugi asks. "I don't know what you've done to the boss here, but that's not how shit works around here."
From the corner of his eye, Denji can see the rest of the men nodding. Nothing new; he knows he's not exactly a crowd pleaser. But they're all deluded if they think he's one to ever hold his tongue.
"You're not anybody's superior, not yet at least," Denji argues back. "I could get up off this table and get the fuck out if I wanted to."
Beam's baritone resonates down the lounge; first uttering something in his native tongue, then switching to Japanese. "Silence," he says, forceful enough to get both men to settle down. Denji can hear Wakasugi swallow. "Or kill you both."
Denji doesn't buy it, not with the way Beam has been looking at him since they met; but the ghost of Beam's blade still haunts his jugular, so he decides to obey. It's far too early to get himself killed.
A weight clatters on the table. "You use this," Beam says.
Denji picks it up. "Seriously?!" It's a fucking utility knife.
"Not giving you gun yet. Need training," Beam says.
"This forces you to be stealthy and precise," Wakasugi says. "You don't have the leeway of a gun."
It's lame as hell, is what it is. "Whatever," Denji says, by now resigned to his fate. He's gonna have to pull his best moves or die trying.
"Wakasugi pick you up at eight," Beam says. "Have to be back before nine."
Denji shrugs. "Fine by me."
Beam nods in satisfaction. "Good. Denji can do it." His grin has returned in full vigor, and it doesn't feel like consolation. The guy truly has faith in Denji.
"Yeah, yeah," Denji dismisses, not bothering to look up from the table.
Silence takes hold. It's a bit chilling how, bar Takeda, none of the other men so much as said a peep. Denji doesn't even need to know under what threats they're being kept in line. They're working for a man who rips trachea with his teeth and grinds faces into pulp.
The man in question pipes up once he's through with his cigarette."Leave," Beam orders his men. "Need to speak with Denji."
"Boss, you sure?" Wakasugi asks, not without fear. "We shouldn't leave you alone."
"Leave." Beam repeats. His men know they can't do anything but obey. "Go to lobby."
Beam waits until the last footsteps have faded to ensure it's truly just the two of them. Then, in one swift movement, he's shoulder to shoulder with Denji, possibly the closest they've ever been. Immediately, Denji scoots away to create some distance between them. "Don't get so close, dude. You think this is a date or what?"
Beam laughs. "Did not say that."
"Well, don't get carried away. What is it that you wanted to tell me?"
"Ah," Beam begins. He takes a moment to organize his words. "Test is true. You kill that man tonight."
Denji already knows this. "Okay?"
Then, Beam dramatically lowers the volume (and pitch) of his voice. "But you kill another man too."
"Huh? Who else?"
He's too loud. Beam grimaces. "Shhh."
Denji repeats himself, lower this time. "Who else?"
"You kill Wakasugi."
There's a part of him that feels shocked at the words, and it's obvious from the way his jaw drops slightly open. He lets out a huh? as if he'd misheard. But then, the missing piece of the puzzle clicks into place. Beam's words from the night prior echo in his head. Need someone I can trust.
"I get why you don't trust the small fries, but them? You don't trust your own team?"
Another cigarette gets lit. "No," Beam says, as though it was a matter of fact. "All of them, traitors, traitors," he shakes his head dramatically, a rage that had been tightly sealed beginning to leak through. "Need to be purged."
The meeting had been tense, sure; but Denji hadn't suspected anything below the superficial. "What's goin' on with 'em?"
Beam grits his teeth, gripping one of the shards from earlier until his fist bleeds. "Can't say yet. But you must kill them all."
It's too much at once. "So, lemme get this straight. You saw me knock down one guy who tried to kill you, and now you want me to get rid of your security team? How does that make sense? Why me?"
A steady rhythm of Beam's blood drips onto the table, drip, drip breaching the silence. He does not look at Denji. "Need someone I can trust," the echo in Denji's head becomes voice. "Denji did better than they did. Denji is only one I need."
He understands where Beam is coming from. You pay these men to put their lives on the line to protect you, and then a random employee at your business disarms a threat that they didn't detect; doing it even better than they could? It'd be a no-brainer to fire them. But to have him kill them… It was a hefty demand to lay on him.
"I get ya, but couldn't you just kill 'em yourself?"
"No," Beam says, after a moment of pensiveness. "Has to be—" he garbles out a foreign word, before he lands on the Japanese word. "Natural. No trace. Denji is perfect."
Of course. So he can blame it all on the new guy, right?
Denji lets out a sigh. "I'll do it. But you better pay me good for doing this for you."
The mention of money breaks Beam out of his voracious reverie. He's back to looking Denji in the eye. It feels like they're on more equal ground now, somehow, now that Denji is aware of this secret. "Of course," Beam says, "Keep my word."
Under the table, he offers a hand for Denji to shake—the sign of a promise to be fulfilled. With a shark's grin stretching his lips, Denji takes it and squeezes.
"You're on, then."
