Yuta Hayashi

[Kiyohito]

Kiyohito |  Ryker | Yuta

They waited a long time.

Ryker contented himself with a Wallet and leering at a woman that served them drinks in a way that made Kiyohito’s flat stare for his companion linger, but he was accustomed to such things. Men’s pride. Bragging after their exploits. The comments and racisms that infiltrated their world that sometimes made it feel like they lived a hundred years in the past. He’d wondered if it would be different in Moscow. It seemed he was disappointed.

Finally, two men in suits beckoned them to follow. Ryker joined him, speaking as they walked. Their escorts paid no attention. “Ever hear the story of the Buddhist priests who betrayed their order and lived out their punishments as goblins?”

Kiyohito glared up at Ryker like he was annoyed by the absurd question at a time like this. “Tengu? Are you trying to scare me with a ghost story, Mister Petroviç?”

He shrugged. “Just promise me you’ll tell me what it’s like when he turns you into his own personal goblin.” His smile was cruel as he nodded at what waited beyond closed doors.

Fear flashed his veins. Certainly not for tengu or goblins, but that he was so far over his head, he would be lucky to come out of this with it still attached. He had barely enough time to compose himself before the door slid open and they were presented.

Within, he bowed, and held his gaze low until addressed. He expected Ryker to be as irreverent as ever, but surprisingly, he came to stand at Kiyohito’s shoulder and was silent.

Yuta Hayashi was a second generation Yakuza who moved his business to Moscow when he was a man in his mid-forties. A decade later, he personally raised the Moscow-based Yakuza from seedlings to a flourishing tree, small still compared to the D-IV societies, but the soil was far rockier here. For that reason, Kiyohito respected him.

The boss grunted, and Kiyohito raised his eyes. Yuta was leaning against his desk, feet crossed at the ankle. He was a lean, athletic-looking man with a hard face from climbing a treacherous mountain with not but his own bare hands. Around them, the office was traditionally decorated. The katana of his rank was perched on a windowsill. Tea had been served nearby. His English was crisp and precise. 

“Ryker, you delivered as you said. I will not mistrust your word again.” Yuta said. To Kiyohito’s surprise, Ryker nodded with something that approximated deference. Just who exactly did this man serve?

It was to Kiyohito that Yuta studied next. The way he stood. Even the bruises on his face were under inspection. Finally, Yuta’s eyes fell to the pin on his lapel. Another one decorated Yuta’s. His own.

“Kiyohito of Korii-kai. I acknowledge you are responsible for stopping a war between the Edenokōji-gumi and the Russians. A war that would have cost a great deal of blood.” And to Kiyohito’s great shock, the man bent his neck in the barest of nods.

The breath rushed from his lungs, and Kiyohito dropped to his knees then and there as though the winds of fate pushed him down. He put his forehead to the floor at Yuta’s shoes.

“Forgive me, Hayashi-san. Forgive me on behalf of my brother for shaming you and your family.”

Yuta uncrossed his feet, standing erect. Kiyohito could only imagine the view of his bared neck prostrate before the Yakuza boss. He could only imagine the sword waiting nearby. The vulnerability of the posture was immense. His life was in this man’s hands.

“A brother loose on the wind. Who will his guns will find next? Will you beg my forgiveness, in my city, for his every disobedience? His every insult!”

The crack of his final word rang in his ears. He positioned his face lower. “Yes, forgive me!” He pleaded.

Ryker cleared his throat. “Mister Hayashi, you should know that Zixin Kao has spoken for Korii-Haruto.”

Yuta was silent. All Kiyo could see was the floor as Yuta’s shoes moved to confront Ryker.

“The Syndicate has claimed him?”

“Yeah.”

He murmured thoughtfully to himself. “Then I will claim his brother until I feel this debt is atoned.”

Kiyohito’s heart sank, but at least it was still beating in his chest.

Following instructions on his first assignment, Kiyohito and Ryker were escorted out. The moment they passed the gate, he pulled out a cigarette. After shaking hands failed to light it, Ryker’s zippo suddenly flared to life in front of his face, cupped by his palms.

He peered over the fresh cigarette up at the man that arranged all of this wondering yet again who exactly it was that Ryker served. He would figure it out eventually.

“Thanks,” he muttered as smoke swirled his lungs.

They returned to the car after that, and Kiyohito fingered the Korii-kai pin that was now in his pocket as they walked.