Chapter No.5 Smoking Fists

Morning came like a slow bruise—dark in the centre, spreading warmth too quickly to be comfortable.

Yami blinked awake on the bed upstairs in Club Silver Lotus. The hum of the ceiling fan and the scent of stale cigarettes clung to the walls. He'd fallen asleep with Kuzure no Ha resting against his shoulder and the faint taste of bourbon still on his tongue.

He forgot to return the katana after cleaning it. And absent-mindedly brought it with him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with one hand. His fingers smelled like old metal and lemon cleaner. The katana leaned against the nightstand like a loyal dog too battered to bark.

Yami exhaled slowly.

Last night's faces still floated behind his eyes—Tokito's quiet warning, Saeko's nervous smile, Souta's wordless concern.

He wasn't used to people sticking around this long.

Outside, the streets of Yokohama were already murmuring with life. Delivery bikes buzzed. Crows squawked from the power lines like old men complaining about breakfast. Somewhere downstairs, Souta was probably already brewing that black death he called coffee.

Yami stood, rolled his shoulders, and set Kuzure no Ha carefully down on the desk. The cracks in the sheath had begun to feel familiar. Like looking in a mirror with just enough dirt to soften the truth.

He splashed water on his face. Cold. Sharp. Real.

By the time he came down to the bar, the stools were empty, the ashtrays had been cleaned, and Souta stood behind the counter pouring coffee into two chipped mugs.

Without a word, he slid one toward Yami.

Yami took it, sipped, and winced.

"Still tastes like tire fire," he muttered.

Souta smirked. "Consistency is a virtue."

They drank in silence. The radio played soft blues. A saxophone wept through static.

"I have paged one of my former friends, he is the captain of the Nara Family—A subsidiary family under the Aokami Clan. There are three lieutenants under him, one of them is Amano."

face. He set the mug down with a soft clink, the bitter aftertaste of the coffee suddenly forgotten.

"You what?" Yami asked, his voice even, but something behind his eyes flickered.

Souta didn't look up from the bottle he'd started wiping down. "I paged him last night. Right after you went upstairs."

Yami leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Calling in favors for me now?"

"I'm calling in debts on my own behalf," Souta replied, not missing a beat. "You just happen to be the storm cloud hanging over my roof lately. Figured I'd rather get the forecast early."

Yami exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half frustration. "You trust this guy?"

Souta paused, then nodded once. "With my life...He's old-school Yakuza. Honourable."

Yami let the word roll around in his head like a loose coin in his pocket.

"Honourable," he echoed, almost to himself. "Funny word to throw around when we're talking about people who make a living outta threats and blood."

Souta finally looked up, his expression calm, but not soft. "There's blood, and then there's poison. People like your Tokito? They're cold steel. You know when it's coming. But men like Amano? They smile while they kill you. I'd take a clean-cut killer over a politician in a suit any day."

Yami's fingers traced the rim of his mug. The heat had already dulled. "And this Nara guy… he's supposed to be different?"

Souta nodded. "Kenji Nara. He's from before everything got corporate. Built his rep the old way—earned it in alleys and by settling scores himself, not from hiding behind lackeys. He used to come here too, back when Silver Lotus was younger and I had more hair."

Yami raised an eyebrow. "You trust him with a drink, a debt, or a fight?"

Souta gave a small grin. "All three. Man never drank anything weaker than shochu, paid his tabs in full, and once broke a pool cue across a loan shark's ribs because he threatened a single mother on his turf."

That quieted Yami for a moment. He leaned back slightly, taking another sip of the bitter brew, his expression unreadable.

"And you think he'll talk to me?"

"I think," Souta said, drying the same glass for the third time, "he'll listen. Because I vouched for you."

Yami tapped his fingers once, then twice against the cup. "You ever regret backing the wrong man before?"

Souta's hand stilled.

"Every man who's lived long enough has regrets," he said softly. "But you ain't one of mine. Not yet."

The weight of that landed heavy.

Not with guilt, but with something else—something slower and unfamiliar. Trust. Given freely, when Yami hadn't asked for it.

"…When?" Yami asked finally.

Souta reached under the bar, pulled out a napkin with a scribbled address and two times written in pen—one crossed out, the other underlined.

"He's expecting us around noon. Said if you got the guts to walk into his office without flinching, he might hear you out. Or shoot you."

Yami took the napkin, tucked it into his coat. "That supposed to be a joke?"

Souta shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

They lapsed into silence again. Only the radio filled the space, the jazz now leaning into something smokier, sadder—like it knew what kind of day it was shaping up to be.

After a moment, Yami asked, "You think he'll want me to apologize? About Amano's boys?"

Souta gave a snort. "You didn't kill 'em. You embarrassed them. Which is worse. Bruised pride takes longer to heal than broken bones, especially in this city."

Yami stared into his coffee like it might offer answers.

"He came at me with a blade," he muttered. "What was I supposed to do, bow?"

Souta raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me? I'm just the guy who sells drinks and advice, mostly to people too drunk to remember either."

Yami cracked a ghost of a smile at that.

But it didn't last.

He set the mug down. "Alright. Let's go see what kind of storm this is gonna be."

Yami set the katana gently on the bar. "Here. I forgot to put it back last night."

Souta gave it a once-over, then shot Yami a look. "You carried this upstairs like a damn teddy bear?"

"It was late," Yami muttered. "Didn't think much of it."

"Hm." Souta ran his hand over the sheath like one might check for bruises on an old dog. "She's cleaner than when you came in. You polish her in your sleep?"

"Probably," Yami said dryly. "Body's been moving before my brain's caught up lately."

Souta didn't comment. Just placed the katana gently under the counter, beneath the spot where the oldest bottle of whisky gathered dust like a shrine.

"You'll want to go in unarmed," he said. "Kenji's got a rule—no steel past the lobby. His men'll search you anyway, but it's about the gesture. Showin' your neck without flinching."

"Feels backwards," Yami muttered.

"Welcome to the Showa-era etiquette club," Souta said. "Where rules matter more than reason."

Yami pulled his coat over his shoulders, patting down the inside pockets like ritual. No weapons. No smokes. No backup plan.

"Let's get this over with."

...

Outside, the city was already sweating.

The sun hadn't even peaked, but heat shimmered off the asphalt like the whole street was exhaling at once. A delivery truck honked somewhere distant, the sound dulled under the low thrum of power lines.

They walked in silence.

Souta's coat was slung over one shoulder, his shirt open at the collar. Yami walked a step behind without meaning to—still getting used to moving through this world like it was his own.

After a few minutes, Souta finally spoke.

"You ever sit down with someone who could decide whether you walk out alive based on whether you smile wrong?"

Yami tilted his head. "I sat in a principal's office once after punching a kid who spat on me."

Souta grunted. "How'd that go?"

"Principal asked if I was proud of myself. I said no, but I'd do it again."

Souta cracked a sideways grin. "You get expelled?"

"Nah. Got transferred. Kid's dad was on the board."

They walked a bit further, shoes scuffing against uneven sidewalk.

"Kenji's not the kind of guy who plays board games," Souta said eventually. "You ask me, he'd rather flip the whole table than play by anyone else's rules."

"Sounds like someone I'd get along with," Yami said.

"Or someone who'll put a bullet in you just to keep the peace."

Yami didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The silence between them had the weight of truth.

...

Nara Office, Kanagawa Ward – 11:52 A.M.

The building wasn't flashy. It wasn't supposed to be. Three floors of old concrete and newer security—thick glass, reinforced doors, and a receptionist desk with no receptionist, just a man in a suit too big for his frame and a scar running down his cheek like punctuation.

He eyed Yami as they stepped in.

"No weapons?" the man asked, voice flat.

Souta answered for both of them. "Just nerves and manners."

The man gave a short grunt, then waved them through a metal detector that looked like it belonged in an airport, not a mob office.

Yami stepped through. No beeps. No drama.

Souta followed.

Another suited man appeared from behind a frosted-glass door and motioned them down a hall without a word. The carpeting was old but clean. A faint scent of sandalwood hung in the air, mixed with cigarette smoke and something older—something like lacquered wood and forgotten blood.

They reached a door. Real wood. Not faux paneling. It looked heavy.

The escort knocked once, then opened it.

Inside, the air shifted.

Kenji Nara looked like a man carved from silence.

He sat behind a low desk, cigarette in hand, sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms. His hair was short, grey at the sides, neat in the way that said he still shaved with a blade instead of a machine. His eyes were small, sharp, and black.

The room wasn't cluttered. One katana on a rack. A framed photo of an old baseball team. A half-drunk cup of matcha on a tray near the window.

"You know, I was surprised seeing a pager from you of all people, Souta." He stood up with a slight grunt, setting his cigarette in the ashtray with a practised flick. His voice was gravel poured into warm tea—aged, weathered, but far from weak.

"You still breathing, still stirring trouble," Kenji Nara said, walking around the desk like a man who didn't believe in formality, only presence. "Part of me figured you'd drunk yourself into an early grave by now."

Souta stepped forward with a low chuckle, offering a small bow. "Tried. Liver wouldn't cooperate."

Kenji's lips curled just slightly. Then his eyes found Yami.

And everything in the room shifted.

Not a word spoken. Just a beat of heavy silence, like the pause before a storm breaks over the sea.

"This him?" Kenji asked, without turning back to Souta.

Souta nodded. "Yami."

Kenji's eyes narrowed—not suspicious, just… measuring. Weighing. Like he was already judging the shape of Yami's life by the way he stood.

"Your name real?" he asked.

"It is now," Yami said, voice calm.

Kenji gave a short, dry laugh. "That's either a man with nothing to lose, or one who hasn't figured out what he's got yet."

Yami said nothing. Just stood there. Steady.

Kenji stepped in closer. Close enough to catch scent. Close enough to strike.

"You the one who put Amano's boys in the hospital?"

"I am," Yami replied.

"You regret it?"

Yami met his eyes. "Would you?"

That made Kenji pause. His face didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted—just a flicker. Amusement, maybe. Or recognition.

He walked back to the desk, sat down, leaned forward with his forearms on the polished wood.

"You know who Amano is to me?" he asked.

Yami didn't answer.

Kenji tapped a finger on the desk. "He's a roach with too many friends. Smart enough to keep his hands clean, dumb enough to think that matters."

Souta's brow twitched slightly, but he said nothing.

Kenji continued. "I don't like his kind. Never did. But politics is poison. You drink just enough to survive, or you choke on someone else's cup. That's the world now."

He leaned back, studying Yami.

"And then you show up. From nowhere. No flag, no backstory, no leash. You don't ask permission. You don't pay tribute. You just put three of his boys down like it was nothing."

He ashed the cigarette, watching the embers scatter into gray dust.

"You're a problem."

Yami raised an eyebrow. "And you like problems solved?"

"I like problems I can understand." Kenji's tone didn't rise. "Are you a loose dog sniffing around my yard? Or are you something worse—an idealist?"

"I'm not looking to start a war," Yami said.

Kenji chuckled. "That's exactly what someone starting a war would say."

He stood again, walked toward the window, hands clasped behind his back. Looked out over the skyline.

"I knew a man once—like you. Thought he could play lone wolf in a city full of packs. He was good. Strong. Too strong. Died with a broken jaw and a bullet in his spine, because strength doesn't mean shit when no one watches your back."

He turned.

"But Souta vouches for you. That's the only reason we're having this conversation."

Kenji stepped forward again, tapping the desk as he passed.

"So I'll ask you once—straight: What do you want in this city, Sukehiro Yami?"

"Dragon."

Kenji's brow arched at the word, his hands still behind his back.

"Dragon?" he echoed. "That's a hell of a thing to say in a room full of ghosts."

Yami didn't move. "I don't mean the tattoos or the titles. I'm not trying to be some myth people whisper about in hostess lounges."

Kenji turned back toward him slowly, arms unfolding.

"Then what do you mean?"

Yami took a breath—not deep, just steady. "I mean I want to live without crawling. I want to walk through this city with my chin up, not begging permission from cowards in suits or street thugs with more pride than brains. I'm not here to take over turf. I'm not here to build an empire. But I won't kneel to anyone who thinks power's an excuse to make others smaller."

Kenji studied him for a long moment, face unreadable. Then, he gave a short snort—half amusement, half disbelief.

"You've got fire," he muttered. "And fire burns everything around it if you don't know how to hold it."

He circled back to his desk, sat down, and tapped his knuckles twice on the wood—once for rhythm, once for control.

"You know why we call the old bosses 'dragons' in the first place?" Kenji asked, not waiting for an answer. "Because they were untouchable. Men who bent steel with words. Men who commanded armies without raising their voice. Men who bled the city dry, but kept it from falling apart."

He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the desk, lit another with a flick of practiced ease.

"You wanna be a dragon?" he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Then you better know what dragons do best."

Yami tilted his head, eyes narrowed. "What?"

Kenji leaned forward.

"They endure."

The word hung there, thick and bitter like smoke.

"You think it's about fists and fury? That's the easy part. Pain is easy. Rage is easy. Living with the weight of the people you couldn't save? Harder. Watching this city chew through people you tried to protect? Harder still."

He tapped ash into the tray.

"Dragon's not a title. It's a curse." He let that hang, then leaned forward. "So I'll ask you again—what do you really want, Yami?"

This time, the answer came slower.

"…To matter," Yami said finally. "To carve out something that lasts. To make sure that when I'm gone, it won't be like I never stood here."

Kenji went still. Then leaned back and stared up at the ceiling like he could see the past written in cracks.

"…You sound like me," he said softly. "Thirty years ago."

Yami didn't speak.

"Difference is," Kenji continued, "I buried every man I started with. Some to bullets. Some to greed. Some to silence. You still want this?"

Yami nodded once. "I do."

Kenji put out his cigarette. Carefully. Almost ceremonially.

Then he reached into the drawer beside him and pulled out a small item wrapped in cloth. He set it on the desk and opened it—revealing a black pin, shaped like an old coin with the kanji for 'Blue God' etched in gold leaf.

He didn't slide it forward.

Just let it sit there.

"Wear it. And see where it takes you."