Scapegoat

The VVIP table at the club felt heavier than usual.

Enji, Arataki, and Haruto sat with Kikuchi, now joined by Nakamura. 

Across from them, slumped at the head of the table, was Old Futto—his gaze glued to his jeans, either too scared or too ashamed to look up.

Enji scowled, arms crossed. What a joke.

"Seriously, Old Futto?! Why the hell are you so weak?! Where's your damn determination to get stronger, man?!"

"Not cool, dude!" Arataki chimed in, shaking his head. 

"I even used my own mansion for this! Do you know what my dad would do if he found out? He'd kill me! But did I back out? No! I stayed silent!"

Haruto leaned back against the plush sofa, his arms sprawled out. "Yeah, and that's why I was surprised you weren't at my fight. Thought it was weird." 

He tilted his head. "Like, you—the guy who watches porn worse than hell itself—are scared of some blood and violence? Make it make sense."