The Winter Table

[Zixin Kao]

The cold had teeth in Moscow this time of year. Sharp, gnashing things that chewed through fur and pride alike. Zixin cursed it every time it kissed his face, but today… Today it suited him. The streets below were frozen in place, movements cautious and slow, as if the whole city waited to see what would come next.

From the glass-walled penthouse of the Radiance Hotel, the skyline glittered like a constellation trapped beneath ice. Below, the boulevards of Moscow’s wealthiest district stretched clean and quiet, gleaming with salt and privilege. Up here, forty-one floors above consequence, the city felt almost tame.

Zixin adjusted the cuffs of his ink-black coat. The wool was a whisper of luxury against the charcoal collar beneath. No gold. No ornament. He didn’t need symbols. He was the symbol.

The suite had been stripped of Adrian Kane’s usual decadence. In its place: austerity. A long table of black-stained walnut bisected the room, framed by the icy glow of the windows and the low, ambient hush of a city kept far away. No waiters. No music. No distractions. Even the hotel staff had been cycled off the floor for the evening, replaced by trusted faces whose tongues were already bought.

This was not a party. This was not a negotiation. This was a claim.

A gentleman’s understanding had gone out through the channels: neutrality. No weapons. No retaliation. No blood on Radiance floors. Not tonight. Adrian’s hotel was considered neutral ground now, and no one had reason to test the boundaries yet. Still, eyes would watch from the corners, security swept and reswept. Adrian promised he would ensured it.

There would be seats at the table for the players: the Yakuza captain, likely first to arrive. Punctuality was as much ritual as reputation. The Russians would likely arrive fashionably late - though it remained to be seen whether the Stoyas, Petrovich's, or Vasilev's would arrive first. Adrian, of course, was already here. Always watching. He was both host and observer, in the way predators sometimes pretended to be idle.

Ryker would come when it amused him.

And then there was Ozymandias and Alistair. Wild cards in every way, especially allure. Zixin didn’t need their endorsement, but their presence would serve as a quiet reminder of the game already in motion.

Beyond the table, Adrian had arranged standing space around the edges of the room. A gallery for lieutenants, enforcers, middle-men. Those too important to be absent, but not important enough to speak. Besides, each party was unlikely to arrive unaccompanied. They would hover like shadows, eyes fixed on the table, ears hungry.

Zixin didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget. There was no need. The room already answered to him. And the city. If it didn’t yet, it would.

This wasn’t about violence. This was about inevitability. When they arrived, he would already be seated at the head of the table.

[Kiyohito]

Yuta Hayashi

The elevator opened without a sound, and from it Yuta Hayashi stepped onto the penthouse floor with the calm of still waters calm. He moved like a man already announced. Bbecause he had been. His name preceded him the way all reputations worth anything should.

Behind him, Korii-Kiyohito walked with eyes sharp as a scalpel, his hands tucked politely into the sleeves of his black winter coat. Though barely a year in Moscow, the younger man had already bloodied more than a few knuckles and earned a place closer to the heart of Edenokōji-gumi’s operations. He said little unless it mattered.

His two lieutenants followed, one broad and silent, the other wiry with a hint of nervous energy. Both suited in  blacks, as disciplined in step as they were in blade.

The warmth of the penthouse was immediate but not completely uninviting. He paused to examine the table in the center, positioned as if it was an altar, and they all knew who intended to sit at the center of its gravity. His gaze lifted to the man himself. Zixin was already there, of course. Seated at the head like a man who’d already called checkmate and was waiting for everyone else to see it.

Yuta took it in with a single glance and nodded once to the host, his expression unreadable beneath the precise lines of his coat and gloves. He walked toward his designated chair without needing to ask where it was. He recognized placement when he saw it.

No fanfare. No bowing. He simply pulled the chair back and sat. Kiyohito and the other two remained standing behind him, ghosts at the shoulder. No one spoke. Not yet. But their presence had been registered. And Yuta was content to let silence speak for now.

[Adrian Kane]

Adrian took his time.

He entered the penthouse with the casual poise of a man who already owned the floor. Because in this case, he did. In every legal and metaphysical sense of the word, the Radiance was his. Not leased. Not loaned. Owned. Brick, air, title, and blood with links throughout the entire city. The network of an invisible army.

Tonight, though, he relinquished the duties of host. Tonight, he was something else. A guest of sorts, but an honored one.

His suit was midnight blue, cut sharp and custom-fitted to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and the line of his frame. Understated gold cufflinks winked beneath the sleeves. A tie the dipped behind a vest taught against his chest.

He made a slow circuit of the room. No greetings. No small talk. Just a quiet, assessing sweep of those gathered already.

He recognized Yuta Hayashi, already seated like a statue. Stoic and unmovable as usual. Three other familiar faces were behind him, watching everyone’s hands. Meanwhile, the Russians weren’t here yet. Typical, he supposed, and wondered which of the families would show first. Zixin, of course, already claimed his place at the head of the table, chin tilted with his usual blend of menace and playfulness. Good. Let him have his moment - kid had balls. Adrian wasn’t here to steal the show. He was here to make them remember who he was.

He completed the circuit and slid into a seat not at the head, not at the foot, but center-left. Adrian crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, draped an arm lazily over the chair’s back. The vantage was precise. He could watch every face and every twitch of reaction. More importantly, every other man in the room would be able to watch him doing it.

[Ryker]

Ryker nursed a neat glass of vodka at the downstairs bar, boots crossed at the ankle, expression unreadable. From his corner perch, he watched the parade filter through the lobby. Lieutenants and bosses alike, masked in false civility. It wasn’t a circus, not exactly, but it had all the trappings of a very grim gala.

He didn’t have final orders tonight. No target in the traditional sense. Just a whispered invitation to be present.

He dressed the part anyway: pinstriped jacket, crisp collar undone with purposeful casualty. A pocket square was folded sharp against the dark fabric, just for extra panache. 

Then his wallet vibrated.

He glanced at the caller and grimaced. The kind of grimace a soldier makes when the old general calls, and your better instincts say let it ring.

He answered anyway.

"Yes, sir?"

“You’re there?”

“Of course. You still want me to attend?”

“Yes. You’ll represent my interests. And our mutual employer’s.”

Then silence. The call ended.

Ryker darkened the wallet with a sigh like a man accepting a hangover before the drink. The voice hadn’t shouted. It didn’t need to. Orders like that came from the kind of man who didn’t speak twice.

He downed the rest of his drink, set the glass down with precision, and headed for the elevator.

Just outside the penthouse entrance, he made the expected pit stop. A mockingly polite man in a suit offered him a velvet-lined tray. Ryker rolled his eyes and reluctantly dropped his pocket knife on it.

“Careful. That knife's seen more action than your wife,” he muttered, and moved on before the man could respond.

The doors to the suite opened. Heads turned.

“Gentlemen,” he said, drawling it just enough to coat the word in mock ceremony.

He poured himself a glass of water from the decanter near the wall and took an open seat without asking. His eyes flicked to Zixin, to Adrian, then to the others, cataloging hierarchy with a spy's instinct.

[Mikhail]

Mik loved the cold. Not like the freeze your balls off, can't ever get warm no matter how many layers you wear cold. Nah. That was for losers- those who decided they wanted to prove how resilient they were.

Way he figured it, proving yourself meant being comfortable when it was cold. I mean how hard was it to freeze to death, right? Ooooo....look how manly I am, jumping into ice so my balls retract up into my throat and my dick inverts istelf into a right nice vagina.

Nah. He was good- he and his dick.- in a nice black wool coat and soft scarf to keep all the cold from sneaking down his chest. The cold on his face, searing his nostrils, in his lungs, the bite....fuck, but that was nice. Cold from the inside out, that was the good bit.

So he waited at the entrance of The Radiance for a while, letting himself enjoy the shift in season. Truth was, he was there to watch. And to learn. And to hang out his shingle. Let people see him.

The powerbrokers in Moscow had images to maintain. Protocol to keep. Honor to defend.

The irony, of course, was  that for all the power and influence they amassed, the less free they were to act. Father Guido couldn't exactly make a deal with Pater Giorgos without looking weak and all that. And God forbid some moron underling get pissed at some chump at a bar and pistol whip him so that one eye ran milky- only to find out he was somebody's brother's nephew's cousin's boyfriend. And suddenly you were in a vendetta that the whole family had to defend.

Back before Pops had died, he listened to the stories. And as fun as they were, it amazed him at how stupid people were. Or rather, how stupidly they were forced to act because of pride or some such.

So Mik had found his path, walking the between way- above and below, left and right, sideways and upside down.

And not surprisingly, he did well. He wss trusted in a way few really knew. Facilitating more than a few meetings, smoothing over brushes and problems, helping grease everyone involved....we'll hey. 

The Lady had shined on him, so far. Would it last? Probably not. But knowing that just made him enjoy it more. And killing and fucking, laughing and drinking along the way, well, at the end of the day, could you really expect more from a universe that did not truly give a fuck about you?

So anyway, Mik enjoyed the cold as he noted the entrances of the underworld greats, one by one. He showed none of his laughter to them. Image, right? It was all just PR. They postured and preened for their audience.- each other. 

Until finally his balls complained a little. Or maybe his dick. Both were feeling numb. And if he listened to anything it was his dick and balls. When they said enough, well fuck but it was enough.

He slipped through the door and followed one of the gents in a dark silk suit. Guy at the door looked at him, brief smirk on his face. Mik winked. Gregor was his boy- and gave him a cursory pat down.

Others would notice- but probably all assume he was representing one group or another. And with no one knowing, they might just chat him up to let him know the way things stood with Stoya or the Yakuza or whomever.

The ante-room was impressive. I mean how could it not be. And Kane? Jesus, but he was beautiful, in a cold austere kind of way. Mik wasn't sure he'd actually want to fuck him- the guy seemed to walk as if he had something up his ass- and not in a good way. Partners needed to be relaxed. 

Still, he could enjoy the view.

But he also noted Ryker. Been a while. That guy definitely had a sense of humor. Good for a drink or two anyway. Now only if Oriena showed up. He couldn't help but look around. Now that would be fun. He definitely wanted another crack at her. Pouty, angry, chaotic. Talk about The Lady made flesh.

She might kill him. But if that was the price, we'll, he'd count it a bargain. Crazy chicks were the best fucks by far.

He raised the glass of champagne he'd swiped from some chumps' place to Ryker and saluted. Tonight might just turn out to be more than just his job.