Page 27 of Brutal Unionn
I breathe in.
And nod once.
“Agreed.”
7
SHO
Broad daylightin the middle of Osaka is a private spring—quiet, serene, and deceptively innocent. The onsen (Japanese hot springs)sits tucked between a stretch of high-end ryokan and traditional homes, a place frequented by high-ranking Yakuza members who like to wash their sins away in mineral water and pretend they’re still men of honor. One man in particular stands out: Matsuda Kenji, the current lieutenant of the Yakuza, the brain behind their financial empire. The man launders billions, manipulates the stock market like a puppet show, and plays politicians like flutes.
He also has a very specific, very disgusting soft spot—for barely eighteen-year-old girls and boys. And a knack for strict, predictable schedules.
My buddy Nickel runs this onsen with his parents. The second Kenji started coming around regularly, he let me know. That was two months ago. Since then, I’ve been patient. Watching. Waiting. Gathering patterns. And more importantly, gathering dirt. Because I know all about Kenji’spreferences—not from rumors, but from history. From my time in the Yakuza. From the years I spent as the heir.
During that time, I was their ghost and their golden boy. The one who bowed the lowest in public and slit throats in private. I learned every dirty little secret, every soft weakness and hidden shame behind the men who called themselves brothers. Back then, I pledged my loyalty to them with blood.
Now, I just want to spill it.
I’m seated on a flat rock under the shade of a maple tree, loose robes slung around my hips, feet dipped in the warm edge of the spring. Posing as just another guest, but that doesn’t matter, because Kenji is too focused on a dark haired girl to even think about me. My eyes track his every movement as he emerges from the changing area in a fresh linen yukata,summer kimono, sandals tapping quietly against the stone.
He spots me. I keep my expression lazy, neutral—like I haven’t just mapped the two guards posted at the edges of the courtyard. He nods once, a subtle, informal bow. I return it, just enough to acknowledge without inviting attention. From this distance, and at this angle, there’s no way he can see me clearly. The lighting is dim, my posture turned slightly to the side, and the tattoos—my most telling feature—are covered with medical-grade concealment stickers. Even if he squints, all he’s getting is a vague silhouette and a familiar energy he can’t quite place.
It’s been almost seven years since he last saw me. And if Kenji had any real instincts left—beyond his fixation on getting his dick sucked—I might’ve had to kill him right then and there. Instead, I watch as a flicker of curiosity crosses his face. Not recognition. Not yet. Just...interest.
“Aye lover boy,” a voice rings out over the tranquility of the spring. Kenji and I both sharply look in the direction of the voice. It's Nickel; he scurries across the stones with a goofy smile on his face. Nickel has always been loud, unorganized, rude and the exact opposite of me. He looks like the Japanese version of Buddha with a man bun.
Kenji approaches me with that ever-slick smile of his, something wrapped neatly in a cloth held in one hand.
“What about incognito did you not understand?” I whisper, my eyes still on Kenji whose head is cocked to the side as he watches our interaction.
He follows my eye-line to Kenji and bends at the waist, showing the utmost respect to that disgusting man. Once he rises, he turns to me.
"Thought you might be hungry," he says, extending the wrapped cloth toward me.
I raise a brow, skeptically looking at the triangle shaped cloth. Nickel has been known to cook some of the worst food in all of Osaka, maybe in all of Japan . “Onigiri?”Rice balls?
“Spicy crab,” he replies, crouching slightly to offer it at eye level like he’s doing me a favor. “Fresh.”
I narrow my eyes and he exclaims. “Ah! Okasan made it.”
I accept it, turning it in my hand. “I am only taking this because your mom scares the shit out of me. You don’t usually bring snacks to all of the assassins stalking out their prey in your Onsen.”Japanese hot springs.
He chuckles, low and smooth. “Old habits die hard. Besides, I figured if you were going to kill him, I believed you would have already doneit.”
I shrug, peeling back the paper. “Maybe I’m lazy.”
“Or maybe you’re waiting for Okasan to go to sleep so she doesn’t kill you for getting blood in the spring,” he says, standing again, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve.
I take a bite, the spice exploding on my tongue coupled with the cooling effect of kewpie mayo and the freshly made furikake.Japanese seasoning blend. The flavors remind me of my mother, how diligent and patient she was with everything she did. If I said I wanted ramen, I had to wait twelve hours because even with the cooks, nannies, and maids, she still made every dinner from scratch. Everything she did was a labor of love, even her death.
He walks away before I can answer, slipping behind a screen wall and into the steam like a snake disappearing into grass. I watch as the dark-haired girl with subtle curves walks demurely out of the women’s changing room, her bare feet making the faintest sound against the smooth, wet stones. A white robe, soft and silken, clings lightly to her frame, patterned with pink, blue, and purple flowers that shift gently with each step she takes. The steam of the hot spring curls around her like a veil, catching in her hair—long, straight, midnight-black—now damp at the ends, sticking delicately to the curve of her collarbone.
Kenji licks his lips, practically foaming at the mouth at her appearance.
She feigns embarrassment tucking her chin into her left shoulder as the robe slips off her right shoulder.
“No need being shy, doll,” Kenji chuckles, one hand out as he beckons her closer. “I won’t bite too hard.”
