03-12-2023, 02:39 AM
He was led through the kitchen without incident. None of the Russians looked up. There weren’t many. The bar wasn’t a large establishment, but surely their passage didn’t go unnoticed. He couldn’t help but wonder how the Russians perceived their Japanese tenants. Not well, he had to assume.
He told Eido goodbye from within the privacy of the kitchen, then exited first. She followed a few moments later, but as he had explained earlier, he did not want to endanger them simply by association.
His gaze swept the bar on his way out. No Yakuza had joined. But as he crossed the end of the bar, Kiyohito paused in his tracks. A face looked up as he passed by. He was dressed in a black shirt, wearing a black suede jacket over it. His dark hair was swept back from an angular face. Kiyo’s heart jumped into his throat, and he had to stop himself reaching up to touch it.
The man didn’t frown. He didn’t do much in return at all except size up the individual who stopped to stare. He started to say something when another voice interrupted the memory replaying in his head.
“If that’s what you’re doing up there, Eidolon, then I expect a cut.”
Kiyo immediately went to the bar. Leaned over the edge.
“That’s not what she was doing,” he explained, voice firm but not aggressive. After a rifle around in the pocket of his jacket, he produced money and pushed it across the bar in his direction.
“Here’s a cut to prove it. Take it easy on her,” he added.
He didn’t seek out Eido’s face for a reaction. In fact, he largely left her out of the interaction between the two of them.
He wasn’t sure how the owner was going to take it, but he pocketed the money with a snort. Probably didn’t believe Kiyohito anyway, but no man would pay twice for that kind of service.
Then the stranger appeared at his shoulder. He ordered a beer, then checked the bar rail for sticky substances before propping an elbow on it.
“Do I know you?” he asked Kiyohito. As soon as he spoke, Kiyo identified him as Singaporean. There were enough in Japan to stand out and he certainly looked Chinese.
“No,” he replied.
“You stared like you know me,” he added. The beer was produced and the man pushed the bottle to his lips without the same concern for dirt as he did for his jacket. A smile curled around the bottle as his gaze landed on the pin on Kiyo’s lapel. He reached out to touch it.
Kiyo put up an arm to stop him.
The man smirked and gave him the space.
“What’s that one?” he asked instead, pointing at the pin.
Kiyo glanced at Eido, making sure she wasn’t a part of this. The man was being rudely intrusive.
“Korii-kai,” he explained. “Enjoy your beer,” he added before turning to leave. The memory from the dream still hovered like the echo of fate, and his heart had not yet stopped pounding. As soon as he saw the man’s face, he knew exactly what it meant, and it wasn’t a pleasant destiny.
Kiyo was several steps away from he heard the stranger ask the Russian how much ”his girl” cost.
The Yakuza flashed as swift as that knife in the dark. The man dropped with a maniac laugh.
He told Eido goodbye from within the privacy of the kitchen, then exited first. She followed a few moments later, but as he had explained earlier, he did not want to endanger them simply by association.
His gaze swept the bar on his way out. No Yakuza had joined. But as he crossed the end of the bar, Kiyohito paused in his tracks. A face looked up as he passed by. He was dressed in a black shirt, wearing a black suede jacket over it. His dark hair was swept back from an angular face. Kiyo’s heart jumped into his throat, and he had to stop himself reaching up to touch it.
The man didn’t frown. He didn’t do much in return at all except size up the individual who stopped to stare. He started to say something when another voice interrupted the memory replaying in his head.
“If that’s what you’re doing up there, Eidolon, then I expect a cut.”
Kiyo immediately went to the bar. Leaned over the edge.
“That’s not what she was doing,” he explained, voice firm but not aggressive. After a rifle around in the pocket of his jacket, he produced money and pushed it across the bar in his direction.
“Here’s a cut to prove it. Take it easy on her,” he added.
He didn’t seek out Eido’s face for a reaction. In fact, he largely left her out of the interaction between the two of them.
He wasn’t sure how the owner was going to take it, but he pocketed the money with a snort. Probably didn’t believe Kiyohito anyway, but no man would pay twice for that kind of service.
Then the stranger appeared at his shoulder. He ordered a beer, then checked the bar rail for sticky substances before propping an elbow on it.
“Do I know you?” he asked Kiyohito. As soon as he spoke, Kiyo identified him as Singaporean. There were enough in Japan to stand out and he certainly looked Chinese.
“No,” he replied.
“You stared like you know me,” he added. The beer was produced and the man pushed the bottle to his lips without the same concern for dirt as he did for his jacket. A smile curled around the bottle as his gaze landed on the pin on Kiyo’s lapel. He reached out to touch it.
Kiyo put up an arm to stop him.
The man smirked and gave him the space.
“What’s that one?” he asked instead, pointing at the pin.
Kiyo glanced at Eido, making sure she wasn’t a part of this. The man was being rudely intrusive.
“Korii-kai,” he explained. “Enjoy your beer,” he added before turning to leave. The memory from the dream still hovered like the echo of fate, and his heart had not yet stopped pounding. As soon as he saw the man’s face, he knew exactly what it meant, and it wasn’t a pleasant destiny.
Kiyo was several steps away from he heard the stranger ask the Russian how much ”his girl” cost.
The Yakuza flashed as swift as that knife in the dark. The man dropped with a maniac laugh.