Page 114 of Kotori
I stalk through the marble lobbies and up service elevators, past sleeping residents who have no idea death walks among them.
His door lock surrenders to practiced skill.
Daichi Shuichi sleeps in silk pajamas, comfortable in his expensive bed, dreaming whatever dreams twenty-five-year-old predators have when they believe themselves safe fromconsequence. The bedside lamp casts gentle light across features that make school girls melt. He's too pretty for the son of a yakuza. Handsome, refined, the kind of face that makes sheltered eighteen-year-old girls feel chosen by sophistication.
I settle into the chair beside his bed and watch him sleep.
For an hour, I simply observe. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The way he shifts restlessly, subconscious recognizing danger even in dreams. The comfortable arrogance that radiates from him even in unconsciousness.
This is meditation of the darkest kind. The focused calm that precedes surgical violence, the patient stalking that transforms hunting into art.
I want him to experience the same helpless vulnerability my daughter felt when she realized she'd been trapped by someone she trusted. The same terror of discovering that safety was an illusion, that someone had been watching, planning, preparing to destroy everything she thought she understood about her own worth.
When he finally stirs, I'm ready.
The slow transition from sleep to awareness. A slight shift, then another. His subconscious recognizes danger before his mind catches up. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, still caught between dreams and waking.
Then he sees me.
Terror floods his features as recognition hits. What my presence in his bedroom means. The Matsumoto mon embroidered on my jacket collar. The stillness that marks professional killers.
He opens his mouth to scream.
The knife appears at his throat before sound can emerge, the blade catching lamplight.
"Konbawa, Shuichi-san."
His entire body goes rigid with absolute horror. Sweat beads across his forehead despite the cool air. The kind of panic that comes from understanding you're about to pay for sins you thought were safely hidden.
"Please," he whispers, voice breaking with terror. "I can explain."
"You can listen." The blade traces his jawline with surgical precision, drawing the thinnest line of blood. "For three months, you convinced my eighteen-year-old daughter that sexual exploitation was education. That degradation was preparation for marriage. That compliance with your demands demonstrated sophistication."
Each word is delivered with quiet certainty, no visible rage, just the calm recitation of crimes that demand payment in blood.
"My daughter trusted you," I continue, watching him shake with absolute terror. "She believed your lies about education and preparation because she's innocent, curious, and wanted to become worthy of marriage. You took that beautiful innocence and corrupted it for your entertainment."
"I never touched her," he gasps desperately, as if physical restraint might somehow mitigate psychological rape.
"No. You did something worse." The knife moves to rest against his carotid artery, pressure light but promising. "You convinced her that exploitation was love, that manipulation was guidance, that she was complicit in her own abuse. You stole her sense of self-worth and replaced it with shame."
Tonight isn't about what he did, but about who he did it to. That hunting a yakuza king's daughter carries consequences that reshape the meaning of regret.
"The marriage proposal was brilliant," I acknowledge with professional appreciation. "Use the very evidence of exploitation to force compliance. Present yourself as generous salvation fromthe trap you created. Political manipulation through family honor."
His breathing becomes shallow, rapid, the kind of panic that precedes system failure. The scent of urine fills the air as his body surrenders to terror.
"Unfortunately for you, my daughter found the courage to tell me the truth." My voice drops. "And now you're going to learn what happens to predators who hunt in my territory."
"Wait, please, I can make this right—"
The blade slides between his ribs with practiced efficiency, finding the precise angle that punctures lung without immediately striking heart. He gasps, blood frothing at his lips, eyes wide with the dawning realization that death has come calling.
"My daughter truly believed she was guilty of shameful behavior," I murmur, watching life ebb from his eyes. "Three months carrying shame that belonged to you. Three months thinking she was dirty, complicit, deserving of whatever punishment awaited."
I adjust the blade slightly, opening the wound enough to accelerate blood loss without making it instantaneous. He needs time to understand, to experience the helplessness he inflicted.
"She's eighteen years old, you sick bastard. Eighteen." The knife slides deeper, finding the organs that will ensure this ends exactly as it should. "What kind of twisted predator grooms a teenager and calls it education?"
