Page 80 of Kotori
Her eyes search mine, looking for explanations I'm not prepared to give. Not yet. Not when the threat is still being measured.
"Stay in the west wing tonight," I add, making it clear this isn't a suggestion. "It's safer."
"Safer from what?" The question holds equal parts defiance and fear.
I move to the door, unwilling to engage further when strategic planning demands my full attention. "From matters that don't concern you." I pause at the threshold, looking back at her—this foreign woman who has unwittingly become a catalyst for conflict. "Remember what I told you in the car, kotori. You're mine. And I protect what's mine, no matter the cost."
21
Kaito
Idrawbackthebowstring of my yumi, feeling the familiar resistance against my fingers. The ritual of kyudo brings order to my thoughts every morning, the discipline of Japanese archery connecting me to centuries of tradition. Each movement precise, controlled, deliberate, just as my next actions must be.
The arrow releases with a whisper, striking the target center with satisfying precision. I lower the bow and breathe deeply, letting the familiar rhythm settle my mind. But today, kyudo serves a different purpose. Not meditation or spiritual connection, but calculation. Planning. The preparation for justice that cannot be delayed any longer.
"The old fox made his move," I murmur to the spirits of my ancestors who watch from the shrine nearby. "Now he learns why sixteen generations of Matsumoto leadership doesn't bow to committee oversight."
Hiroshi overplayed his hand last night. Fabricated evidence to turn the Ishida family against me, questioned my judgment infront of witnesses, attempted to leverage my daughters' futures for his political comfort. The kind of betrayal that demands response. Obliteration.
But it won't be quick. It won't be clean. And it won't be private.
Some lessons require an audience.
I nock another arrow, focusing on the center of the target. The discipline of kyudo requires emptying the mind of distractions, yet my thoughts remain focused on the coming confrontation. Each movement—drawing the bow, controlling the breath, releasing the arrow—mirrors the precision with which I must handle the traitors in my organization.
I sense Takeshi's approach before I hear him. He waits respectfully at the edge of the practice area until I lower my bow and acknowledge his presence with a slight nod.
"Early morning for you," I observe, noting the shadows under his eyes. Takeshi rarely sleeps when there's work to be done, a trait we've shared since childhood.
He steps onto the practice ground, bowing slightly before handing me a towel. A simple gesture that speaks volumes about our relationship—formal in public, but comfortable with these small familiarities when alone. He's been more brother than subordinate since the day my father hired him twenty years ago.
"The early hours proved useful, Aniki." His voice carries the quiet confidence that has made him my most trusted advisor. "Three developments since last night. Sato-san accessed our secure financial archives at 2 AM, downloading transaction records from three years ago. Yamada-san received a late-night visit from someone who matches the description of an Ishida courier. And Hiroshi-san made several calls to external allies—specific content encrypted, but timing suggests coordination."
Perfect. Digital forensics confirming exactly what I suspected. The old bastard and his allies are continuing their conspiracy,preparing for extended political warfare. Exactly what I hoped they'd do.
I place the yumi carefully on its stand, the morning practice complete.
Takeshi waits. He's always understood that my clearest thinking comes after kyudo, when my mind is sharpened by the discipline.
"Any specific actions planned?" I ask.
"Informal gathering scheduled for this afternoon. 'Cultural discussion' at Hiroshi-san's private residence. Six confirmed attendees so far." Takeshi's tone carries subtle disapproval for their amateur conspiracy.
"Your thoughts?" I ask, though I already know what he'll say. In twenty years, we've developed an understanding that transcends words. He knows my intentions before I speak them, just as I know his counsel before he offers it.
"They've made their choice, Aniki." His expression remains neutral, but I catch the glint of cold anger in his eyes. Takeshi takes betrayal personally—especially betrayal directed at me. Perhaps even more than we would hate betrayal against himself. "Traditional correction seems inadequate given the circumstances."
I nod. "Excellent. Inform our friends that I'll be attending uninvited. Ensure appropriate preparations."
"Hai, Aniki." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "The kind of preparations that send messages?"
"The kind that end conversations permanently."
He bows again, this time deeper. When he straightens, the bond between us is palpable. Twenty years of shared secrets, shared blood, shared purpose. He doesn't need to say what we both know: we must eliminate a threat to our family, and he will ensure nothing goes wrong.
Hiroshi'sprivateresidencesitsin the historic district of Kyoto, surrounded by gardens that speak of old money and older power. The kind of establishment where retired yakuza advisors gather to discuss philosophy and politics while pretending their hands aren't permanently stained with blood.
Today it becomes a classroom.
