Kiyo removed his suit jacket first and laid it neatly across the rail near where Sofia stood. Doing so revealed a gun holster small and strapped tight to his body. This he also unbuckled, gaze flat and even, and lay it aside. Methodically he flicked apart the buttons of a shirt he ironed himself that morning. It was folded into a neat square and laid atop the jacket and gun holster. Without even a moment’s pause, he tugged off the under layer. The cold air prickled his bare skin immediately, causing the many fine hairs on his shoulders to pebble from the canvas of tattoo artistry decorated there.
Unlike the formal clothes, the tank he dropped on the ground nearby. He had no desire to run new clothes onto his credit card and incite questions, but a cheap tank could be used to wipe his face afterward. He assumed he was going to need it.
Routine completed, his expression was flat as steel, dark eyes focused. When he returned to stand in front of Pavel, he looked the older man full in the eyes. Kiyohito's held on a long moment seeking the intentions of the man behind them.
Satisfied, he drew a breath and sank to his knees.
The first blow pushed him aside, but he returned to the starting position afterward.
The second blow caused his eyes to water, but again, he returned to his knees.
The third sprayed bloody spit from his lips. He was breathing harder when he centered himself again.
He did not look Pavel in the eyes. He didn’t cry out. Every time the physicality pushed him aside, he returned for more. Haruto would not have been able to do this, he told himself. Ultimately, that was why he was here. Not to atone for shame, though he spoke truth when he admitted as much, but so his little brother would not know this. Long ago there was another little brother he failed to protect. He vowed to not fail a second one.
And so he climbed back to his knees each and every time until the debt was paid or until the Russian knocked him unconscious.
The latter marked the end of it.
![[Image: RykerP.jpg]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/RykerP.jpg)
Ryker
The Yakuza always boasted those massive body tattoos. Ryker found the tradition ugly, but he acknowledged the balls it took to sit through the pain of endless hours in the chair. Kiyohito was young by Yakuza standards, which explained only boasting a sleeve and chest art, but the fact he slid to his knees and submitted so willingly took even bigger balls. But he was a fucking idiot. The pussy didn't even fight back. He snorted and pushed away.
Instead, he moved toward Sofia, leaning on the rail next to her while her brother was occupied. Her eyes were wild with the bloody sight.
“Get off on watching?” His gaze slid down to her waist, wondering if she was wet under there. He was back to flipping his knife open and closed again, but the snap of the mechanism was drowned by the noise in front of them. The fur of her coat whisked his skin as he leaned near, face tilted so his one good eye could freely roam her profile.
“You’ll be seeing me again,” he whispered into the cloud of her perfume before moving away again.
Finally, the Yakuza was knocked down and didn’t get up. Ryker shifted, glancing at Zixin to see how he would handle the departure.
![[Image: Zix.jpg?fit=5760%2C3024]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/Zix.jpg?fit=5760%2C3024)
Zixin
The handshake was victory. The Vasilev’s wouldn’t know yet, but similar deals were being orchestrated across the three main mafia families. This time tomorrow night and they would all owe Zixin Kao their loyalty. Arrangements indeed. In a week the Syndicate would come out top dog in Moscow. He intended to keep it that way.
He gave Pavel his space with a hungry lick of the lips. The Yakuza’s dedication to honor was his downfall, exactly as Zixin tested and proved back at The Hole. He watched the whole bloody ordeal proudly. Once the deed was done, Zixin returned to Pavel’s side and offered the pocket square straight from his jacket.
“For your hands,” he smirked. He’d coaxed Pavel to self-inflict his own physical pain twice in the same night. He'd not forget it anytime soon, but as much as Zixin delivered the Vasilev's into the fire, he pulled them back out again. “I’ll send you a tub of my favorite balm. It works wonders,” he nodded with genuine praise for the product even as he rubbed his own gloved knuckles in memory of similar circumstances. They creaked in the motion. More to the point, he was serious. Indeed, by the time Pavel returned home, a basket of the stuff would be waiting for him.
A tilt of the head and he offered to shake the man’s hand a second time. It must be trembling with pain, but Zixin gripped just a hair harder than he had the first time out of curiosity if the man would flinch.
Afterward, he smiled down at the Yakuza who was stirring by then. He shook his head in amusement and stalked into the shadows in the other direction.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he called as he crossed the bridge, but it was unclear to whom he spoke precisely.
Unlike the formal clothes, the tank he dropped on the ground nearby. He had no desire to run new clothes onto his credit card and incite questions, but a cheap tank could be used to wipe his face afterward. He assumed he was going to need it.
Routine completed, his expression was flat as steel, dark eyes focused. When he returned to stand in front of Pavel, he looked the older man full in the eyes. Kiyohito's held on a long moment seeking the intentions of the man behind them.
Satisfied, he drew a breath and sank to his knees.
The first blow pushed him aside, but he returned to the starting position afterward.
The second blow caused his eyes to water, but again, he returned to his knees.
The third sprayed bloody spit from his lips. He was breathing harder when he centered himself again.
He did not look Pavel in the eyes. He didn’t cry out. Every time the physicality pushed him aside, he returned for more. Haruto would not have been able to do this, he told himself. Ultimately, that was why he was here. Not to atone for shame, though he spoke truth when he admitted as much, but so his little brother would not know this. Long ago there was another little brother he failed to protect. He vowed to not fail a second one.
And so he climbed back to his knees each and every time until the debt was paid or until the Russian knocked him unconscious.
The latter marked the end of it.
Ryker
The Yakuza always boasted those massive body tattoos. Ryker found the tradition ugly, but he acknowledged the balls it took to sit through the pain of endless hours in the chair. Kiyohito was young by Yakuza standards, which explained only boasting a sleeve and chest art, but the fact he slid to his knees and submitted so willingly took even bigger balls. But he was a fucking idiot. The pussy didn't even fight back. He snorted and pushed away.
Instead, he moved toward Sofia, leaning on the rail next to her while her brother was occupied. Her eyes were wild with the bloody sight.
“Get off on watching?” His gaze slid down to her waist, wondering if she was wet under there. He was back to flipping his knife open and closed again, but the snap of the mechanism was drowned by the noise in front of them. The fur of her coat whisked his skin as he leaned near, face tilted so his one good eye could freely roam her profile.
“You’ll be seeing me again,” he whispered into the cloud of her perfume before moving away again.
Finally, the Yakuza was knocked down and didn’t get up. Ryker shifted, glancing at Zixin to see how he would handle the departure.
Zixin
The handshake was victory. The Vasilev’s wouldn’t know yet, but similar deals were being orchestrated across the three main mafia families. This time tomorrow night and they would all owe Zixin Kao their loyalty. Arrangements indeed. In a week the Syndicate would come out top dog in Moscow. He intended to keep it that way.
He gave Pavel his space with a hungry lick of the lips. The Yakuza’s dedication to honor was his downfall, exactly as Zixin tested and proved back at The Hole. He watched the whole bloody ordeal proudly. Once the deed was done, Zixin returned to Pavel’s side and offered the pocket square straight from his jacket.
“For your hands,” he smirked. He’d coaxed Pavel to self-inflict his own physical pain twice in the same night. He'd not forget it anytime soon, but as much as Zixin delivered the Vasilev's into the fire, he pulled them back out again. “I’ll send you a tub of my favorite balm. It works wonders,” he nodded with genuine praise for the product even as he rubbed his own gloved knuckles in memory of similar circumstances. They creaked in the motion. More to the point, he was serious. Indeed, by the time Pavel returned home, a basket of the stuff would be waiting for him.
A tilt of the head and he offered to shake the man’s hand a second time. It must be trembling with pain, but Zixin gripped just a hair harder than he had the first time out of curiosity if the man would flinch.
Afterward, he smiled down at the Yakuza who was stirring by then. He shook his head in amusement and stalked into the shadows in the other direction.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he called as he crossed the bridge, but it was unclear to whom he spoke precisely.