Dept collector without malice.
Chapter 23: Dept collector without malice.
Most people lived their lives without ever noticing Kurosawa Takeshi.
He wasn't the loudest in the room, nor the sharpest wit.
He wasn't the brooding figure in the corner, either-those types wanted to be unnoticed. Takeshi simply was. A fixture. An inevitability. People passed him by without a second thought, only to realize later that he had always been there. Watching. Listening. Remembering.
And when they finally noticed him, it was already too late.
Because Takeshi only appeared when something was owed.
He was a Debt Collector Without Malice.
People had a certain image of debt collectors.
They thought of broken kneecaps, shattered fingers, menacing threats in dark alleys. The kind of people who made promises with baseball bats and settled disputes with blood.
Takeshi wasn't like that.
He never raised his voice. Never lost his temper. Never threatened violence.
And yet, people feared him.
Because Takeshi didn't need intimidation. He only needed the truth.
"You knew this was coming," he would say, voice calm, measured. "You borrowed. You agreed. Now it's time to pay."
And they would.
Not because he scared them, but because something about him made lying feel pointless.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't some supernatural ability. It was simply Takeshi.
A man who listened. Who watched. Who understood.
And in a world full of liars, there was nothing more terrifying than someone who saw the truth.
His reputation was built on silence
Takeshi never made enemies, but he made people uncomfortable.
He was the kind of man who remembered details others forgot. The name of the shopkeeper's daughter. The gambler's favorite number. The bartender who mixed drinks for a girl who left a man in debt.
He knew the office worker who borrowed money to impress a woman who barely remembered his name. Не knew the restaurant owner who took out a loan, believing in a dream that never came true.
He never judged them. Never pitied them.
He only reminded them of what they owed.
And when the time came to collect, there was no escaping him.
.
.
.
.
.
Tonight was no different.
Takeshi stood in front of a rundown apartment building, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat. The air smelled of old cigarettes and rain-soaked concrete. A single flickering streetlight buzzed above him, casting long shadows.
Unit 304.
A man named Murata Genji lived here. A man who had taken fifty thousand yen from the wrong people and thought he could disappear.
Takeshi knocked once. Twice.
Silence.
He knocked again, firmer this time. A rustling noise came from inside, followed by hurried whispers. Then, finally, the door creaked open.
Murata was a wiry man in his late thirties, his eyes sunken, his breath stinking of cheap liquor.
"You," he muttered, grip tightening on the doorframe.
"How the hell did you find me?"
Takeshi tilted his head slightly. "It wasn't hard."
Murata swallowed. "Listen, I-I just need more time."
"You've had time."
"I-" Murata licked his lips. "I don't have it right now."
Takeshi studied him, his expression unreadable. "Then get it."
Murata flinched. It was a simple sentence. No threats, no anger. Just reality.
"I-I can try," Murata stammered.
Takeshi exhaled through his nose, his gaze unwavering. "You will try."
Silence stretched between them. Murata shifted uncomfortably. Finally, his shoulders slumped.
"Fine," he muttered. "Give me three days."
"Two."
Murata's mouth opened, but no words came out. He nodded once, then slowly closed the door.
Takeshi stood there for a moment before turning away. The night swallowed him whole, just as it always did.
The debts are always paid.
The next morning, Murata paid.
No excuses. No delays.
Because there were some people you could cheat. Some people you could beg. Some people you could lie to.
But not Takeshi.
Because he was always there.
He was shadow that never left.
Days passed, then weeks.
Murata never spoke of Takeshi again.
Not to his friends. Not to his coworkers. Not even to the people who had lent him the money in the first place.
Because what was there to say?
That a man had come to his door, unshaken by his lies, unmoved by his desperation? That he had stared at him with quiet patience, stripping away every excuse, every delusion, until there was nothing left but the debt itself?
No threats. No beatings.
Just a presence.
And Murata knew-if he ever borrowed again, if he ever thought he could run-Takeshi would be there.
Not watching.
Not chasing.
Just waiting.
His name was whispered in quietness.
Takeshi's name rarely traveled through normal channels.
People didn't gossip about him in bars. They didn't swap stories about him over cigarettes.
But every so often, when a man found himself backed into a corner, when the walls were closing in, someone would murmur:
"If he comes for you... just pay."
Because arguing was useless.
Lying was pointless.
Running was a mistake.
Takeshi was not the kind of man who would send thugs to break down your door in the middle of the night.
He was not the kind of man who would threaten your family, your business, your life.
He was simply a certainty.
Like a shadow at dusk.
Like a debt coming due.
Like gravity.
And gravity always won.
A business is built on understanding.
Takeshi didn't work alone.
There were others-bosses, bosses , subordinate's, enforcers, men who handled things the old way when necessary. But Takeshi wasn't like them. He was never the one who shattered bones, never the one who left bruises as reminders.
Because Takeshi understood something they didn't.
Fear fades. Pain heals.
But a man who understands you?
A man who looks you in the eye and sees every lie before you can speak it?
That's the kind of man who stays with you forever.
There was a new name on the list.
Takeshi sat in a small, dimly lit café, stirring a cup of black coffee.
A folded slip of paper sat on the table beside him.
Another name. Another debt. Another man who thought he could outrun the inevitable.
Takeshi sighed, took a slow sip, and stood.
He left the café without looking back, the slip of paper now tucked neatly into his pocket.
Another name.
Another visit.
Another quiet certainty in a world of men who thought they could escape their past.
Because he was always there.