Page 43 of Kotori
The warehouse door opens with a rusty groan that announces my arrival. Six young men freeze around makeshift furniture—stolen crates serving as chairs, cash scattered across a broken table, spray paint cans still dripping with evidence of their crimes.
The leader, maybe twenty-two, dressed in cheap leather and cheaper attitude, recovers first. Stands with the false bravado of someone who's never faced consequences.
"Oji-san, you lost? This ain't your neighborhood anymore."
Old man. The disrespect would be amusing if I wasn't already calculating which bones to break first.
"You damaged property under my protection." My voice carries no emotion, no threat. Simple statement of fact. "Explain."
"Your protection?" He laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Some old pottery guy? You yakuza are all the same."
I move.
Years of martial arts training, a lifetime of violence, muscle memory that turns the human body into a weapon. My fist connects with his solar plexus, dropping him to his knees as his diaphragm spasms.
The other five scramble for weapons—knives, a crowbar, one pathetic pistol that probably hasn't been cleaned since purchase. Street fighting tools against someone trained to kill with bare hands.
This won't take long.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Mizuki:Should we wait for you to start dinner?
The question makes my vision go red. My eldest daughter is asking about family protocol while these rats keep me from witnessing my bird's submission.
The leader struggles to his feet, still wheezing. "You can't just—"
"Can't what?" I grab his throat, feeling the windpipe flex under pressure. "Protect what's mine? Honor commitments made? Punish disrespect?"
I apply pressure—not enough to crush, just enough to make breathing work. His eyes bulge as oxygen becomes precious.
"You cost me something tonight. Do you understand that?"
He shakes his head frantically.
"Time. Moments that can never be recovered." My grip tightens. "I was supposed to see her in the dress I chose. Watch her submission. Experience something beautiful."
The cartilage begins to compress.
"Instead, I'm here. Teaching insects about consequence."
His face turns purple. I release him just before unconsciousness, letting him collapse gasping on concrete while his friends watch in horror.
"Your turn." I point to the next one. He's younger, maybe nineteen, probably following because he had nowhere else to go. "Come here."
"Please, I didn't want to—"
"Come. Here."
He approaches on shaking legs. When I grab his wrist, the bones feel delicate. One quick twist—radius snaps clean. He screams and drops to his knees, cradling a useless arm.
The one with the gun thinks firepower makes him brave. The bullet grazes my shoulder—a burning line of pain that only fuels my rage. I disarm him with a strike to his wrist, then use his ownweapon to shatter his kneecap. The crack echoes off warehouse walls, followed by his screams.
Blood seeps through my jacket where the bullet grazed me.
Thesechimpiradrew blood. Their second mistake.
Their first was interrupting my evening with my bird.
Their last.
