Chapter No.4 Yuji Tokito

Club Silver Lotus came alive just before the sun dipped beneath the skyline, that brief window when businessmen turned into drunks, and drunks turned into prophets.

Neon spilled across the windows like blood in water. The bassline of a slow jazz number pulsed through the walls, subtle but steady—like a heartbeat holding the place together. Behind the bar, Souta wiped down the counter with the same tired care as always, like it was a shrine.

Yami sat on the far end, Kuzure no ha on his lap, with a rag cloth placed on his hand by Souta some time ago.

"Since you have nothing to do," Souta had said earlier, sliding the rag toward him with a glance that was somewhere between a challenge and a favor, "might as well make yourself useful."

So Yami wiped down the katana with slow, deliberate strokes.

Kuzure no Ha. The Cracked Blade.

Up close, the imperfections in the lacquered sheath told stories in scars. Chips near the mouth. A faint, almost imperceptible fracture running down the length—like the weapon had been on the verge of shattering, but held together out of spite.

Yami's fingers paused at a spot where the lacquer had peeled, revealing the naked wood underneath. The crack wasn't just on the surface—it ran deep. Like something had tried to break this blade, and it almost succeeded.

He wondered if the same could be said for Souta.

The bartender watched him quietly for a moment before pouring another drink—bourbon, two fingers, no ice—and sliding it down the counter to a man in a grey suit hunched over the bar.

Regulars were trickling in now. A pair of construction workers with grime still under their nails. A woman in a crisp blazer with smeared lipstick and tired eyes. The kind of people who didn't want to talk but needed to be near something human.

Yami respected that.

The door creaked open again.

This time, it wasn't a regular.

The man who stepped in looked like someone who did belong in a manga.

Tall. Clean-cut, but something sharp in his posture. Like even while standing still, he was calculating the distance between everyone in the room and the exits. His black jacket hung open, collar popped like a delinquent, but there was something too clean about him—too controlled. His boots were polished. His gaze, colder than the outside wind.

Souta's hand stilled mid-wipe on a glass.

The man didn't say a word. He just walked in, slow and easy, as if measuring the place. He stopped a few feet from the bar, eyes locked on Yami.

"You're the guy who folded Amano's crew," he said.

Yami didn't respond right away. He looked up from the sword.

"And you are?"

The man smirked. "Yuji Tokito."

The name hung in the air for a moment like smoke.

Souta exhaled through his nose. "Of course it is."

Yami leaned the katana against the bar and stood, slow and casual. "You from Aokami?"

Tokito tilted his head. "Used to be."

Yami narrowed his eyes. "Used to be?"

Tokito's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I freelance now. Which is a polite way of saying I go where the money is. And right now… someone wants to know if you're a threat or just another punk with a punch."

Yami didn't blink. "And you're here to test that?"

Tokito gave a small shrug. "I'm here to talk."

Souta made a noise—something between a scoff and a warning. "Funny how that word means different things depending on who's saying it."

Tokito ignored him. "Just want to know one thing—Errr! What is it?"

"Yami. Sukehiro Yami."

Tokito raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching—not quite a smile, more like recognition. Or maybe amusement.

"Dramatic name," he said.

"Didn't pick it for your approval," Yami replied.

That actually got a small chuckle out of Tokito. He nodded, like he respected the jab. Then his gaze dropped briefly to Kuzure no Ha, resting against the bar.

"Nice blade. Doesn't look new."

"It isn't," Yami said.

Tokito looked around the room now. His eyes flicked from the regulars to Souta, then back to Yami.

"So here's what I'm thinking," Tokito said. "You drop Amano's guys. One ends up with a broken nose. Another's in the hospital with a dislocated jaw. And yet, instead of running or laying low, you're here. Polishing swords and sipping drinks like it's just another Tuesday."

He stepped closer, slow, like he wanted to see how far he could push before Yami pushed back.

"That tells me one of two things: either you're too stupid to be scared… or you want people to know you're here."

Yami didn't flinch. "You came all this way for a guess?"

Tokito gave a soft grunt. "Nah. I came to give you something."

He reached into his jacket, slow and deliberate, then pulled out a folded envelope and set it gently on the bar between them.

"Courtesy of the Aokami Clan. From Amano himself."

Yami stared at it. Didn't move.

"What's in it?" he asked.

Tokito raised both hands slightly. "I don't open other people's mail."

Yami picked it up, opened it slowly. Inside—just a single photograph.

A boy. Maybe seventeen. Black eye. Split lip. Obvious swelling in the jaw.

Same kid from the night Yami arrived. The one who pulled a knife. The one he put down with a single strike.

Yami didn't say anything. Just stared at the photo for a moment longer, then slid it back into the envelope.

"So that's the message," Yami said, flipping the photo back into the envelope. "They want payback."

Tokito tilted his head. "No. They want to know what you are. If you're just some hothead… or something worse."

Souta finally spoke, his voice low. "That's rich. Amano's boys jump people twice their age and cry foul when someone hits back."

Tokito didn't even glance at him. His attention stayed on Yami.

"Look," he said, "I don't care either way. But if you're planning on staying in Yokohama, you've got a choice. You either find a flag to stand under… or you get crushed between the ones already flying."

Yami's fingers tapped lightly on the bar.

"What if I don't want a flag?" he asked.

Tokito's smile returned—but this time, it had teeth.

"Then you better be ready to fight in the rain with no roof."

The two stood in silence, tension curling in the air like cigarette smoke.

Finally, Tokito stepped back. "No hard feelings. Just delivering the message."

Yami looked at him. "Why bother warning me?"

Tokito hesitated. Then said, "Because I've seen guys like you before. Lone wolves. Big swings. Good hearts—sometimes."

He turned to leave, then paused near the door.

"And because I don't mind seeing the Aokami get a little shaken up now and then."

He pushed the door open and stepped out into the night.

The room exhaled.

Souta picked up his rag again but didn't wipe anything.

"Yuji Tokito," he muttered. "That bastard walks like he's always five seconds away from a stabbing."

Yami sat back down. He picked up Kuzure no Ha again, placed the rag over the blade, and continued wiping.

He didn't look up when he said, "I'm not scared of flags."

Souta raised an eyebrow. "You should be."

"I'm not."

Souta poured him another drink. "Then, at least be smart. There's a difference."

Yami didn't respond. Just stared at the cracks in the sheath.

And wondered if a blade that refuses to break… ever really heals.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

A pair of heels echoed from the hallway that led to the back entrance of the club.

Souta looked up first. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't say anything.

"Ahem—Hi! I-I'm Kusigawa Saeko. My friends dared me to, um… come say hi to the hottest guy at the bar." the voice trailed off with a nervous giggle.

Yami looked up from the blade, raising one brow.

Standing in the doorway was a girl who looked like she had no business being in a place like this.

Late teens, maybe early twenties. School uniform jacket too big for her frame, worn over a casual red dress that probably wasn't school regulation. Hair pinned up like she'd tried to look older, but the effort only made her nerves more obvious. The soft blush creeping up her cheeks? That sealed it.

She bowed quickly—too quickly.

"I-I didn't mean to interrupt! I'll just—"

"Oi," Souta cut in, his voice dry. "This isn't a karaoke bar. You lose a bet, try a coin toss next time."

"I'm sorry!" she blurted, bowing again. "My friends are just being stupid, I didn't think—"

"It's fine," Yami said, voice calm.

Saeko froze mid-bow, peeking up.

He wasn't smirking. Wasn't laughing. Just watching her with a tired, neutral gaze that somehow made her straighten her back.

"You Kusigawa Saeko?" Yami asked.

Her mouth parted, caught off guard. "Y-Yeah… how'd you—?"

"You introduced yourself. Loudly."

Her blush deepened. "Right… right."

Souta huffed a chuckle, shaking his head. "She's got the volume of a megaphone and the nerves of a squirrel. Great combination."

Saeko shot him a look that was more pout than glare. "You're not making this easier!"

"Nope," Souta said, already pouring another drink.

Yami looked her over. Not in a judging way—just observant. A girl like her, stepping into a place like this on a dare, was either incredibly naïve… or hiding something.

"You don't drink, do you?" he asked.

"N-No."

"Then why'd you pick this bar?"

Saeko swallowed. "It… looked quiet."

Souta snorted. "We're a legend in 'quiet.'"

Yami's eyes didn't leave hers. "And what's the real reason?"

A beat passed.

She licked her lips. "I heard someone interesting hangs out here."

Souta raised an eyebrow. "So now we're a zoo exhibit."

She ignored him.

"Is it true?" she asked Yami directly. "That you knocked out three guys with your bare hands in Hamakita?"

Yami tilted his head slightly. "I only remember two."

She looked equal parts shocked and impressed. "So it's true?"

"Depends who's telling it."

"I heard one of them's still limping."

Yami gave a small shrug. "Could be. He led with his chin."

Souta sighed and muttered, "You've got a real gift for discouraging attention, huh?"

Saeko stepped forward now, eyes lit with curiosity. "Are you some kind of martial artist?"

"No."

"Yakuza?"

"No."

"Ex-soldier?"

"...Do I look like I buy war bonds?"

She laughed, hand over her mouth. "Okay, fair."

Yami finally leaned back, setting Kuzure no Ha gently back on the bar. "Why are you really here, Saeko?"

The question stopped her.

Her expression faltered for just a second—like a ripple across calm water. Then she smiled again, softer this time.

"My brother used to talk about this place. Said the bartender here made drinks strong enough to make you see your regrets."

Souta blinked. "Your brother…?"

"Kusigawa Jun," she said. "You probably knew him. He worked down in Honmoku."

Souta's rag stilled in his hand. "Jun was your brother?"

She nodded.

"He was a good kid," Souta said, quieter now. "Came here after work. Liked his bourbon cheap and his jazz loud."

"He talked about this place like it was home," she said. "When he died, I wanted to come see it for myself."

Yami's brow creased. "What happened to him?"

Saeko hesitated.

"Car accident. They said it was an accident… but the cops didn't ask a lot of questions."

Silence settled.

Souta set the bottle down. "That… sounds like Yokohama, alright."

She looked at Yami again. "I heard a rumor. That someone beat the hell out of a couple punks near the station. Same ones who used to shake down guys like Jun."

Yami didn't confirm or deny it.

"I wanted to say thanks," she said, bowing again. "Even if you didn't mean to do it for him."

Yami said nothing.

Just watched her.

Saeko straightened again, rubbing the back of her neck. "Sorry if I wasted your time."

Yami finally spoke. "You didn't."

She blinked. "Huh?"

"You reminded me," he said quietly. "Some things are worth showing up for."

Souta gave him a sidelong glance, then poured another drink without comment.

Saeko smiled, but this time it was more real. "I'll get out of your hair now."

"Come by again if you need a quiet place," Yami said.

"I might. But next time… I'm not walking in on a dare."

As she turned to leave, Souta called after her. "Tell your friends they owe you a real drink next time."

She laughed, waving behind her as the door creaked shut.

Yami stared at it for a moment.

Then he turned back to the bar.

"Her brother," he said. "He was with Amano's racket?"

Souta nodded grimly. "One of many who didn't play their game."

Yami looked down at Kuzure no Ha.

The cracks in the sheath didn't seem quite so broken anymore.

Maybe some things weren't meant to heal.

Maybe they were meant to endure.