Page 30 of The Dragon 1
I looked back at him. “And you can’t smell it now?”
“I cannot.”
“But it’s everywhere.”
“It is not, Kenji.”
I glared at him.
Reo shrugged. “InThe Tale of Genji, Lady Murasaki wrote of how the scent of a woman could linger longer than her presence.It’s a symbol in courtship. An omen. The moment her fragrance outlasts her body; the man is already losing control.”
“Are you quoting 11th century literature to explain why I’m losing my fucking mind?”
“Yes and it fits.”
I let out a bitter laugh, walked behind my desk, sat down, and leaned back in my chair.
My body still buzzed.
The door opened again.
Hiro stepped in.
Not a sound.
Not a greeting.
Just quiet violence—a loaded gun placed gently on silk.
A lollipop was already in his mouth. The stick bobbed a little.
His gaze swept the room. He didn’t ask if I was alright. Because Hiro didn’t deal in softness. He dealt in finality.
He was my blood brother—born of the same ruthless father. A man who bred sons to have weapons and didn’t know the meaning of gentleness.
Hiro took position against the far wall and folded his arms.
The rest of the Dragon’s Claws stayed outside—because they knew the order of things.
Hiro was the head of the Dragon’s Claws. He was the first blade—the strike before the threat.
With him, I never had to speak a command.
When I exhaled, he read it as war.
When I stayed still, he struck anyway—because he already knew what I wanted, whatever violence I hungered for, before the thought had even formed behind my eyes.
The others?
The rest of the Claws?
They waited for Hiro to act and when he did, they followed, and many bodies fell.
Hiro's eyes passed over Reo.
The two shared a moment of silent communication.
What are they thinking?
