Page 4 of Brutal Union
“Oh, baby,” I murmur, dragging a finger through the blood before bringing it to my lips. “If you wanted to play, all you had to do was ask.”
1
SHO
Two yearslater
This bar isfilthy.And not in the fun, seedy, neon-lit, Tokyo-underbelly kind of way. No, this place is the kind of dirty that makes you question every single life decision that led you through its door. The air is thick with the stench of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and the faintest hint of despair—probably coming from the half-conscious salaryman slumped over the counter, his tie dunking into a puddle of something Ireallyhope is just spilled whiskey, but smells like more of the vomit variety.Fucking super.
The walls, from what I remember, used to be a deep brick red and are now stained with years of bad choices, ash and nicotine. There’s graffiti carved into the wooden bar, half in kanji, half in English, all of it either threats or declarations of love—same thing, really. The flickering overhead light casts just enough of a glow to highlight the sticky film coating every available surface.
This place is a breeding ground for bad decisions. Lucky for me, Iexcelat those.
In the back corner of the bar there are two foreigners filled with sake and laughing hideously loud, and a part of me wants to throw my glass at them to make them shut up, but I know Roki the owner of the bar charged them about three times the amount he charged me for a glass.
So, I let them be. If they want to guzzle overpriced booze and cackle like hyenas, that’s their business. Roki’s probably thrilled—those two idiots are single-handedly covering his rent tonight.
Instead, I turn my attention to the lone figure in the shadows. He hasn’t moved since I walked in, just sits there, swirling his drink, gaze fixed on nothing. The kind of guy who either has a hit out on someone oristhe hit. Either way, not my problem. Not yet, anyway.
The couple near the jukebox escalates—she throws her cigarette at him, he gestures wildly, knocking over his beer. It splashes onto the floor, mingling with a suspiciously dark stain that’s probably been there longer than I’ve been alive. Roki doesn’t even blink. He’s seen worse. I don’t blink. I’ve done worse. Roki slides me a cup of saki and I catch it effortlessly.
“Ee, nani shiten da yo? Ore no ba ni yurei mitai ni samayotte sa.”Roki groans,hey, what are you doing? You're wandering around my bar like a ghost,rubbing a tall beer with a graying cotton rag.
“Eh, who else am I supposed to haunt if it is not you Ro?” I lift my shot glass of sake to him before dumping the rest of it down my throat, and sighing at the burn. Roki Ishikawa is not only the owner of my favorite bar but is one of the deadliest swordsmen in the world, and the only man to survive leaving the Yakuza apart from myself. The difference between us is that Roki is a free man, and I am a dead man walking.
“Shadow, are you trying to cause problems in my establishment?”
“Oyaji,Master.I would never.” I clutch my chest in mock surprise but Roki just rolls his eyes at me. “Besides, no one worth knowing knows that I am here, let alone in Japan.”
For the past two years, I have been a ghost.
Not just in the poetic sense—I mean that literally. No paper trail, no digital footprint, no place to call home. I’ve spent every minute erasing myself, slipping through the cracks of the underworld like smoke through a broken window.
The Yakuza want my head mounted on a wall. The Russians—well, Nadia, specifically—would probably prefer something more creative. And considering how much she enjoyed holding a knife to my skin the last time we were face to face, I can only imagine the fun she’d have if she caught me now.
But she won’t. Neither will the Yakuza.
Because I’ve perfected the art ofnot being found, unless I want to, and if it comes down to a fight, well let’s just say I am one hard fucker to kill.
I change names like most people change clothes. Travel under passports that don’t belong to me. Never stay in one place longer than a few nights, never use the same contact twice. I know every blind spot in every security system worth a damn, every border that can be crossed without a record.
And yet, here I am. Back in Japan. Back in Roki’s bar, like some suicidal idiot begging for fate to finally catch up with him.
Roki watches me carefully, polishing a glass like he’s considering whether it’s worth the trouble to throw me out. He won’t,though. Beneath that gruff, seen-it-all exterior, he has a soft spot for strays. And I am the strayedofstrays.
“You always were a cockroach, Sho,” he mutters. “Survive anything.”
I smirk, swirling what little sake remains in my glass. “And yet, here I am, waiting for someone to step on me.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, unimpressed. “You keep tempting death, one day death is gonna win.”
I shrug. Maybe one day death will win. But not tonight.
Not while I still have a game to play with Nadia.
I exhale, picking up my glass and swirling the sake inside. As I lift it to my lips, the door creaks open, and a gust of warm, humid air rolls in.
A sluggish man in denim jeans, biker boots and a leather jacket in the middle of the summer stomps his way through the bar. He leans over the bar and sighs, tapping twice which indicated that he was in need of attention and not Japanese.
