Page 38 of The Dragon 1
My elite monsters in tailored suits.
They joined us as we moved through the club, slipping from shadowed alcoves and velvet-draped corridors.
One by one, they fell into formation without a word.
I didn’t call for them because I never needed to.
They always remained waiting for me.
Kaoru appeared first, striding from one of the champagne lounges with two women still clinging to his lapels, both of them flushed and laughing as they kissed his cheeks and whispered goodbye.
He murmured something to make them giggle harder, then peeled himself away with a wink that could melt gold.
The moment he fell into step behind me, the charm drained from his face like a switch flipped off. Tall, slender, and heartbreak-handsome, Kaoru looked like he should be serenading someone under the moonlight.
Perhaps, it was the long pink hair.
But his custom Colt .45 rested snug beneath his jacket and his hands could dismantle a man the way a pianist broke silence.
Yoichi followed next, emerging from the high-roller suite upstairs and dragging a trail of cologne and cigarette smoke behind him.
He met our pace and ran his fingers over his smooth, bald head.
A rifle case dangled over one shoulder. His designer jacket was unbuttoned at the chest, revealing the silver wolf tooth charm that hung low around his neck.
Yoichi made violence look beautiful. He killed with flourish. Gambled with lives. And had a habit of quoting haikus while reloading a sniper rifle.
“A kill without beautiful words,” he once said. “Is just a death without meaning.”
Rin and Satoshi appeared next, stepping in sync from the private bathhouse wing.
Rin, as always, looked like royalty gone rogue—tall, clean-shaven, and dressed in all white. His hair fell to his waist but tonight it was braided in one long plait.
He had descended from a once-powerful Kyoto family and carried himself with the restraint of someone still bound by ritual.
Poison was his preferred weapon.
Silence his preferred mood. His signature moves were subtle deaths—a glass of wine, a brush of fingertips, a goodbye that came two days too late. He collected antique combs and never traveled without a tin of herbal breath mints, a detail none of us understood but all respected.
Satoshi was the counterpoint of Rin—ex-military, dishonorably discharged for something involving five bodies and zero witnesses. His presence was like a loaded gun in a church—too heavy, too loud, even in silence.
His jet-black hair was buzzed close at the sides but left slightly longer on top, always combed flat and neat as if he’d just left inspection.
But he had one soft spot: he only drank milk, even in blood-soaked rooms, and if anyone dared tease him for it, they bled for the joke.
One by one, they joined the formation, moving like a single organism built to hunt. These men didn’t just protect me—they carried pieces of my sins, my history, my blood-soaked promises.
Together with my Roar, Claws, and Fangs, I pushed through the double doors ofCastle in the Sky, leaving behind its warm, perfumed glamour and stepping into the cold, electric breath of Tokyo’s night.
Outside, the world reacted the way it always did.
A ripple.
Then rupture.
People scattered.
Men with cameras disguised as tourists tripped over their own feet to get out of range. Working girls crossed the street without looking, ignoring red lights and almost getting clipped by passing cabs.
