Archive of Our Own ^beta

The cigar between his teeth has a particular kind of stench to it, the toxic kind of smell that threatens to kill anything around it. He flares his nostrils, and takes it all in. He watches as the light at the foot of the cigar glows when he sucks on it, watches the way it illuminates the side of Nishida’s face, stern and anxious and soft, watches the way the cigar’s fumes reach him and envelop him.

Together, they sit side by side in the back of a car that’s more expensive than the both of them combined, his legs spread wide enough that his knee is knocking into Nishida’s, despite Nishida’s usual posture of keeping himself held tightly close together. He’s invading Nishida’s personal space, as he usually does. He’s bouncing his knee, bouncing it, and bouncing it, fist clenching and unclenching and clenching, the sound of leather squeezing and unsqueezing filling the car. Nishida’s breathing too heavily, mouth agape, huffing like he’s moments away from death, the smoke of the cigar too strong for his weak lungs. It makes him want to bark out a laugh, call him a pussy, but he stays quiet. His heart is pumping, hard and fast with a certain kind of adrenaline that makes him want to jump out of the car, roll against the asphalt, see how many scars he can get from it. It’s why he’s fidgeting, bouncing his knee and squeezing his hand again and again until his fingers go sore, he doesn’t know if it’s nervousness or the drugs or the alcohol, and he doesn’t care enough to think about it. He turns to Nishida, watches his face twist in a way that tells him he’s about to say something stupid. His hand twitches, yearning to be lifted against him, hit him, but he keeps it held in a fist, held against his thigh.

“Oyaji,” Nishida begins, said with the right amount of fear and adoration to make Majima’s stomach twist, “Are… Are we really leaving the Tojo Clan?”

Like it knew the perfect time to do so, the car drives over a lump in the road as it’s turning, the both of them being violently rocked to the side. Nishida watches as the cigar hits the floor of the car with his usual state of terror.

Leaning down to pluck his cigar from the floor, held between his thumb and index finger, Majima finally speaks. He leans forward, hand against the driver’s headrest, and he rattles it, and then lifts the hand to form a fist.

“You know how to drive, motherfucker? I’ve seen toddlers that can drive better than you!” He shrieks, watching the way the driver clutches the wheel with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

“I’m sorry, oyaji!” The driver cries out, a violent shudder running through him, violent enough that Majima can see it. “I’ll do better!”

Majima falls backwards, spine slamming against his seat as he settles back down, ignoring the wincing Nishida is currently doing, clearly pained by the driver’s own anguish. He presses the heel of his boot into the driver’s seat, and brings the cigar back to his mouth, clutching it between his teeth until he knows he’s leaving marks in it. He acts like he totally forgot what Nishida initially asked, and in a way, he did, but he won’t admit that outloud.

So, Nishida repeats himself, ducking his head as he says, “Are we really leaving the Tojo Clan?”

Nishida watches Majima’s expression shift, a strange grin distorts into expressionless nothing distorts into anger distorts back into that strange grin, all in a matter of moments, like a slot machine spinning until it lands on a loss, a slot machine to play which Majima you’ll get. He lurches his foot suddenly, watching it push into the driver’s seat. With great composure Nishida would surely lack, the car remains steady, despite the force of the kick.

“That’s what I said,” Majima tells him, beginning breathy and ending growling. For a moment, he coughs on the cigar fumes after a particularly long inhale. “-You deaf or something?” He wheezes.

“No,” Nishida yelps, ducking his head more, “I heard you loud and clear, Oyaji! But…” His voice trails off into a small peep, and he doesn’t continue the thought, and Majima doesn’t doesn’t force it out of him.

Majima hears the rest of the sentence, though, hears it in his head, as he reads Nishida’s expression; ‘ Is this really the right choice?’.

Majima’s never been the type of man to make the right choice. He puts the cigar out on the leather seat below him, and flicks it out of the window. For a moment, he can’t bring himself to look at Nishida, and he can’t figure out why.

The car comes to a halt after a while, the asphalt underneath the wheels making a wet, crackling kind of sound. It’s beginning to rain again, pathetic little sputters against the roof of the car, Majima watches Nishida climb out of the car in his usual rushed state, nearly tripping over his own foot, Majima wants to trip him himself, for a split second, he wants to see his skull on the curb. Nishida opens Majima’s car door, slowly and respectfully, and bows his head for a moment. His appearance clashes against the backdrop behind him, the cracked sidewalk, the building that looks like its been abandoned for years, decorated with cracked windows and graffiti, and then there’s Nishida, with his clean white dress pants and periwinkle shirt. Right behind him, there’s the faint, old stain of vomit streaking the side of the building.

Majima steps outside of the car one foot at a time. Two loud heel clicks, like a bastard king descending from his throne. He puts his hands on his knees as a brace as he lifts himself up, grunting as he does so. When he’s on his feet, he puts his hands into his pockets and steps up onto the sidewalk, glancing over at the rainwater and litter all collecting towards the drain right by him. Glancing behind himself, he watches Nishida climb back into the car, but not entirely, his lower half sticking out as he reaches back inside to grasp for something, grunting like it’s something difficult to do. While Majima scoffs, Nishida pulls himself out, gripping the briefcase Majima forgot existed until just now.

“Oyaji,” Nishida says, stepping right up to Majima, but keeping that right amount of distance he’s perfected over the years of knowing him. He holds out the case, saying, “Don’t forget this.”

“I didn’t forget it,” He lies, taking it from him in a forceful manner, scrunching his face up. “Scram, get outta here, I got shit to do.”

Nishida always has this look on his face, in the same way his dress slacks look against the backdrop of the cracked, vomit-y building, his baby face clashes against those eyes in his thick skull, that deep crease in his brow. Majima’s noticed it, but it always shifts the slightest sort of way, when he looks at Majima. Just the slightest shift of his brow goes from his focused kind of look into a whole other beast. It doesn’t happen when they’re both on the clock, but it always happens when they’re like this, outside this very building, on an exact day like this. It pisses Majima off, but maybe it’s why he keeps him around like he does. It’s always that same, genuine, stupid look of concern. It makes Majima hate him and like him, the feeling’s all the same.

So, in this very moment, Nishida is looking at him with that exact look.

Majima puffs his chest out, turns his shoulder just a bit. He’s rearing up his hand to fling out at Nishida, a non-committal kind of gesture, and if it hits him, that’s just a bonus, but it never leaves the station, because Nishida quickly bows his head, and the expression is gone.

“I will see you soon, Oyaji.” He announces with a funny kind of devotion.

Majima scrunches his face up more.

“We’re out of the Clan, kid,” He tells him, “You’re outta the fuckin’ job.”

And then, he turns around, his back to him, but Nishida’s still there.

“Goodbye, Oyaji,” Nishida replies, and they both know Majima’s words mean nothing, because Nishida’ll be there regardless.

And then, Nishida climbs back into the car, for real this time, and closes it behind him. Majima’s back is still turned, but he knows the feeling of being watched, and he can feel Nishida’s eyes on the back of his head. He wants to throw the briefcase at the car, and his fist tightens around it in preparation, but he doesn’t do it. The car drives off in an anti-climactic way, the horrifying sign of true civilian life, and the feeling is finally starting to set in. He wants to throw up on the building again.

His eye glances up, the five-story building staring back in a mocking sort of way. On the fourth floor, he greets the broken window with the ripped curtains hanging outside of it, flowing against the wind and rain. With Terada’s investment in hand, he trudges up the steps in a walk of shame, and pushes his shoulder against the door that gets stuck the more he comes here. Rain immediately muffles, replaced with the sound of the lightbulb flickering, replaced with the sound of his boots on the cold ceramic floor, replaced with the faint sound of a tv, and replaced with the sound of the old man on the first floor who knows Majima more than Majima knows him, arguing with someone on the phone. He doesn’t regard Majima, and Majima doesn’t regard him, and that’s the entirety of their relationship.

Second floor, Majima listens in on the woman whose face he’s never seen, but he knows she has a baby. Her doorknob is still broken, and the door frame is still horribly chipped.

Third floor, Majima listens in on nothing. The man who lived closest to the stairs died a long time ago, and nobody has come to replace him. His blood may still be on the pavement.

Fourth floor, Majima listens in on himself, and he almost feels like a stranger looking at the back of his own head. He fishes for his key as he walks, and he feels his body become heavier and heavier and heavier, approaching a literal non-literal black hole, the mold stain right outside his room door greeting him like an old friend. It smells damp, like it always does, and then he shoves his key into the lock, twists it once, and then again, and then jiggles it around. It always gets stuck, and always requires a good amount of strength to pull it back out, and when he opens his door, he does it hard enough to make the whole place shake, slamming his shoulder into the door like he’s Death on a job, and finally he enters. Home sweet home. The eviction notices are a decoration, a celebratory wreath on the front door.

The first thing he does is not take his shoes off. He hasn’t done that since the first bottle broke, and he just didn’t want to sweep it up. There’s a lot more glass now, but he’s lost count at this point. The truth is, Majima’s apartment isn’t his own. The air he breathes is Shimano, all around, he looks at the broken window, and thinks about the idea of fresh air. For most of Majima’s career as a patriarch, he has slept in his very own office, his very own space that couldn’t be invaded by that Shimano smell, he slept on the couch, and he liked it. There’s no more office anymore, and this is all he has now. Shimano’s dead, he reminds himself. This smell is all he has left. He throws Terada’s investment into the corner, right by the door, watching the briefcase slam against the wall, and resigns it to a dust-collecting fate. His apartment is the result of bender after bender after bender, it’s not a home, moreso an explosion in slow motion, getting worse and worse and worse in appearance. All of the half-eaten, rotten food is still here, on the counter, on the table, on the floor, and no amount of willing it will make it go away, but Majima can never bring himself to care. This isn’t his home, after all, and why should he care what a stranger’s apartment looks like? He walks over the used needles on the carpet, walks over the used up candles he figured would turn his life around, walks over the shirts and pants and socks he forgot he had, and he puts his head on hold until the next time it is needed.

In his fridge, he pushes over a rotten take-out container to grab the neck of a beer bottle that’s been there for months, and he closes the fridge with his foot. Even now, it still has that strange, faint hum that indicates something is wrong with it. He cracks the beer open with the edge of his counter, listens to its hiss, watches the bottle cap fall to the ground along with the rest of its kin, and he drinks. There’s no more usable needles in his apartment anymore, they’re all broken and on the floor now, and there’s no more pills in the bathroom cupboard. This is a completely party-free apartment, and Majima hates it more than anything else in the world. As he drinks, he hovers over the broken window, watching it like it’ll somehow fix itself before his very eye. The curtains are still drifting, and the rain is still falling. Despite this apartment feeling like a frozen moment in time, life continues on. It continues on without the apartment, and it continues on without him. It’s a miserably sad, pathetic scene, and so he laughs in a nearly wistful kind of way, with the brief memory of the half-bars of his window in Sotenbori, and how it compares to the broken glass of the present day. He wonders if it means anything. He doesn’t feel any freer.

For exactly three hours, Majima will sleep on the stained couch given to him by the man who once lived on the third floor, motionless and curled, and he will wake up, just as outside of himself as before. It’s enough time for the sun to set, for the nightlife to take over, and when he leaves this apartment, he will screw on another head onto himself, the sort of face with a grin that pisses everyone off.

For Majima’s first night as a civilian once again, he walks Pink Street with that big dick swagger that fucks with the men that glance his way. With no change in attire, Majima is just as yakuza as the day before, and the day before that, and there’s no shaking that kind of attitude. There’s no entourage following him, no Nishida chasing after him, and yet, people still cower when they see him. With no bat on his shoulder, his hands are in his pockets, and in the edge of his eye, he can catch the lights of the neon signs reflecting off his chain necklaces, shimmering in a way that’s bright and alluring. No matter what, people will see Majima Goro glowing, even if he feels like he’s got nothing to do anymore. The men he recognizes recognize him, and they either nod their heads in respect, or they curse him with a nasty sort of glare, but he stays smiling, and when he looks at these men, he shows his teeth. He figures that civilian life is what you make of it, so he makes a vow to enjoy it so hard that he hates it. He’ll enjoy it until the only way out is through a window, and he promises himself this. He’s going to have a fun, miserable existence, and he is going to enjoy the rage. A wiser man would ask why the most fun he can have is at the expense of himself. There’s a different kind of wind in the air, now that it’s barely 2006, the Tojo Clan is Kamurocho, and it is a new kind of machine, and Majima wants to watch it from afar. He wants to watch it crash and burn like the worst kind of accident, and he wants himself to be completely blame free. No matter what, nobody could say it was his fault. He was hospitalized for most of December, 2005, after all.

He sees everything coming from a mile away. Maybe it’s a super power, or maybe it’s a sort of curse. He’s stopped being surprised by things, so when the boys that recognize him on the street start gunning for him, he brushes them off with the no-care attitude of someone cleaning shit off the bottom of their shoe.

Where Majima goes, violence follows. Sometimes, it’s not his fault, but usually, it is. Sometimes that’s the only type of fun he can have.

On this night, Majima finds himself in a nightclub he’s frequented since 1997. It’s an underground kind of club, the kind where you have to walk a long flight of stairs down to even begin to hear the thrumming music. He doesn’t let people touch him, and he has his own designated seat, a large, long couch where he sits right in the middle, the farthest seat from the action, but the seat with the widest view of the whole club. To onlookers, this is a strange choice. Majima doesn’t dance, the usual one thing people come to clubs for. He crosses his legs and bounces his foot, but overall, to anyone who glances his way, Majima is an indifferent customer. However, Majima does this for a very good reason. One who is aware of Majima’s own past may have an idea of why, but nobody truly knows Majima’s past, so he sits as an enigma. Majima is a gargoyle, an unofficial bouncer. He sits, and he watches, because watching is something Majima has perfected over the years. It’s something practiced, something he had to get right, as a disabled man, he’s had his hurdles. Not many people think about it, and he’s had to acclimate to that. When people are on his blind side, he has to know they’re there.

When he hears a yelp over the overwhelming music, he hears it.

She, the yelp, belongs to an employee. Majima lazily turns his head towards the commotion, though nobody else seems to notice.

Standing above a group of men in suits, with pins on their lapels that catch the light, her wrist is captured by the man in the middle. They’re seated on a couch similar to the one Majima hogs, but one that is much closer to the party. Majima gets up.

“Let me go, you asshole,” The woman growls. She has a deep, experienced voice. “I don’t fuck around with sleazebags like you.”

“I like a feisty girl,” The man in the middle replies, and as Majima approaches, he can barely recognize the Nishikiyama Family pin. “My boys like you, baby. They want you to stay.”

The woman picks up a glass, one she had brought for the men, and splashes it all over the face of the man in the middle. In a moment of shock, she is able to pull her wrist free from the man’s hand. Majima can see a forming bruise. That is when he strikes.

“Get behind me,” He whispers, close to the woman’s ear, his back hunched. He puts a hand on her shoulder, pulling her away from the man, and closer to him. His voice is deep and low, commanding and respectful. He moves smoothly, and with the woman much shorter than him, she dips underneath his arm and to his back in a practiced way.

“Same old shit with men like you,” Majima announces. He puts a foot on the table. The men surrounding the man in the middle take one look at him and their faces go pale.

Scrubbing his eyes, the man in the middle snarls.

“Stupid fuckin’ bitch–” He curses, and when he opens his eyes, he immediately meets Majima’s gaze. “The fuck?”

“I want you out.” Majima tells them, smiling. “Find a different club to ruin. This place is my turf.”

“Your turf? Get over yourself, old man,” The man in the middle hisses. “You don’t own shit. You’re not even in the clan anymore.” He laughs, and the rest of his men laugh, too. “You oughta walk away before you do some serious damage to yourself, grandpa.”

“Oooh,” Majima hums, sliding his foot closer. He rests his hand upon his knee, and he bends his back to hover over the party. “I like a feisty boy,” He mocks. “But you don’t want to fuck with me.”

The man in the middle rises, and Majima steps entirely onto the table, knocking over a couple glasses. Lifting his foot, he presses it against the man’s chest, pushing him right back into his seat. The other men around him gasp in shock and fear at the utter disrespect.

“How about this. If any of you can knock me off this table, I’ll let ya go. If not, I fuckin’ kill ya.” He hee-hee-hees, his fingers shaking. He removes his foot from the man in the middle’s chest.

The man in the middle, clearly a very prideful, stupid man, smirks. He’s up for the challenge.

“You’re on, old man. We’ll fuckin’ destroy you. Right, boys?”

The men around him, who are clearly weaker, and more skittish, take a look at Majima, then back to the man in the middle. Defeated, they all nod. “Right, aniki!” They all agree, like absolute morons.

Now, as the man in the middle stands, one might contemplate the psychological aspects of Majima Goro’s antics. As the man in the middle throws a punch, and it collides with Majima’s gut, and Majima remains perfectly, completely still, as if nothing hit him at all, one might ask questions about why Majima does the things he does. As one of the other men grab Majima’s arm, and Majima twirls around, kneeing the man right in the elbow, surely breaking something, one might come to the conclusion that Majima enjoys this, enjoys being a hero. As he grabs the skull of another man, lifts him up, and headbutts him hard enough to surely cause the both of them concussions, one might come to the equally possible conclusion that Majima does this out of some sick self-punishment.

He is graceful, and he is clumsy, but he doesn’t get off the table. The altercation is over in 4 minutes, with all of the men groaning in pain.

Perhaps all of that psychological analysis meant something. The truth is, surely all of it is correct. When Majima acts as a bouncer, he is reintroducing himself to a very old, very deep-rooted trauma he is incredibly familiar with, and a deep-rooted trauma he learned. Truly, habits are hard to break, and when Majima protects people, he is being both benevolent and selfish. He wants to hurt, so he seeks it out. He will never forget what men like this did to him, and he’ll never let it happen again. That is the honest-to-god truth, and it all comes from violence.

With all of Majima’s cards on the metaphorical table, unaware a psychological analysis has even taken place, Majima bows for no applause.

“Get the fuck out,” He growls, wheezing out a funny giggle. “Pussies.”

They rush over each other to escape, and when they’re out of Majima’s vision, and out of existence itself, Majima jumps off the table, brushing his coat off. The woman, who has remained in place, gives him a funny sort of look. This is a woman he has known for years by the name of Fukuyama-chan. Perhaps she’s more aware of Majima than Majima knows, judging from the look of near-pity in her eyes. Regardless, she thanks him, and he returns to his perch, eager to repeat the cycle.

After this night, Majima returns to his apartment. He hasn’t had a full dinner in 4 days, but he sleeps regardless.

The next night, he will repeat the process of his prowl around Kamurocho. Again, men recognize him, and again, they glare. Majima has the sneaking suspicion that something will happen tonight.

This type of something begins later, in a bar without a name. Of course it has one, but Majima never checks. It could be on Shichifuku, or it could be on the Champion District. It’s a bar that hasn’t taken a large financial hit from the 2005 incident, and it’s a bar that hasn’t been graced by the presence of the Dragon, so it remains perfectly untouched and undestroyed. It could be that’s why Majima doesn’t bother with its name. If the Dragon never visits, is it a place that truly exists at all? It’s a crazy thought, Majima knows, but crazy thoughts are all he entertains himself with now. Of course this place exists, because he is sitting inside of it, drinking whiskey like the rest of the near-familiar miserable sacks of flesh that sit near him. There’s dust on the counter, chairs that have yet to be broken over the heads of rowdy guests, a barkeep that has never seen an ounce of violence outside of his tiny television. This is an ugly, pathetic sort of bar, Majima decides, but he doesn’t move. That is until he senses something shifting next to him, on his bad side. Someone is sitting next to him, someone heavy. He tilts his head, just enough to catch a glimpse of this poor stranger. He smiles.

This is a boy of the former Majima Family. His name is Takano. And he isn’t happy to see Majima.

This is a Story that requires context of which Majima can barely, but perfectly recall. It will depend on his mood, whether or not he knows it. Right now, he can remember everything. He even remembers this boy’s favorite color, and the name of his baby sister.

“You come to get down on your knees and tell me you’re sorry?” Majima sneers, setting his glass upon a coaster made of a napkin. From the size of the glass, he’s left an imprint in the napkin, and he fits the glass perfectly onto it, not an inch off. “Not really in the forgivin’ mood.”

Takano has choppy brown hair, bleached tips, and full pouty lips. His nose sticks upwards, his eyebrows are bushy, and his ears stick out of his head, adorned with piercings of all kinds. His coat is leather, and his pants are ripped. Amazingly, Takano is the model citizen for delinquents everywhere, a gold standard for what it means to be a troublemaker. And right now, unknown to Majima, he is the new leader of a semi-large movement.

“You think I’d want forgiveness from you?” Takano replies with as much attitude as a boy in timeout. “You’re not hot shit, old man. Not anymore.”

“Hoh,” Majima hums, raising a brow in mock-amusement. “You’re all grown up now, aren’t you, Takano-chan. Got a big pair of swingin’ balls now? It’s about time they dropped.”

“Oh, shut up!” Takano yips, and though he won’t admit it, he is attempting to do his best Majima impression, with the way he bares his teeth in a grimace-smile. “I don’t need you to patronize me! You said it yourself, you’re not the boss of any of us anymore!”

Takano is an open book, and Majima hates it in the same way he hates himself. Majima has fostered a lord-of-the-flies island of rowdy, devoted, honest boys, and when Takano looks at him, he has the look of hurt on his face.

“You actin’ like a man now, Takano-chan?” Majima says, and he is hit with the distinct feeling that his father once said this to him long ago, “You wanna hit me, kid? I’m real bored here.”

Takano, a boy who is easily humiliated, lets his face go red in anger, lets his pierced nostrils flare.

“You’re just-” He stutters, “You’re just a coward, old man! Couldn’t handle the Tojo Clan anymore, so you just dipped! A real leader doesn’t do that shit!”

Like an orphaned child, Takano’s face twists in disgust and pain, and for a moment, Majima remembers his earlier interaction with Nishida. ‘We’re out of the Clan, kid, you’re outta the fuckin’ job’.

So, to rub salt into the wound, Majima puts a heavy hand on Takano’s shoulder, and for once in his current life, Majima is living in a world where he can still be surprised, as Takano smashes his glass into the side of his face, right against his cheekbone, and the shattering sound is absolutely deafening, and absolutely exhilarating. Majima Goro, through no fault of his own, has left his mark on this nameless bar.

“Come on,” Takano calls, while Majima is holding his face in his hand, beckoning the rest of the customers over. When Majima looks up, he is hit with the realization that these are all boys he recognizes, and for a moment, he is filled with absolute, complete pride. These are the Defectors of the Majima Family’s demise, the younger, inexperienced boys who put their whole world into Majima, angry that they have nothing to die for now.

And this, this is the moment when Majima recalls just what got him into this spot. That context.

Majima’s departure, and dissolution of the Majima Family, brought more fire than Majima was willing to deal with. He said he was done, so he was fucking done, and there was nothing more he had to do. By throwing out all of the family out to the dogs, he has resigned himself to this glass-face fate. For a reason, Majima never gave it, and it only brought more anger to the boys he raised up. There was a divide, within the dying family, the older aged members being the Loyalists, the men who could slip into other families within the Tojo Clan, and the men who would leave alongside Majima amicably. This is where you find your Nishidas. And then, the Defectors were born. These are the young men who swore their lives to Majima, the boys who saw being beaten as a sign of love and respect, and the boys who felt absolutely, completely abandoned. Without Majima, these boys immediately backed out of the Clan, but not amicably like some of the Loyalists, no, these boys left angry and betrayed, with no hope in the future of the Tojo Clan. This is where you find your Takanos. A whole army of Majimas. Regardless if you’re a Defector or Loyalist, everyone that was in the Majima Family joined for Majima and nobody else, and that was what made it something different. You signed up for the beatings, for the humiliation, because Majima was just that intoxicating. When Majima defected from Shimano in 2005, his men and boys followed, and nobody complained, because none of them liked Shimano like they liked Majima. This is why Majima left like he did, and nobody will be able to understand but him.

So, when his boys came begging to him to give them a reason, he laughed at them, and told them to fuck off. The family was dissolved, and that was the end of it.

Back to the nameless bar, Majima finds himself still hunched over himself, holding his cheek, surrounded by boys whose backstories he remembers more than he remembers what he ate for breakfast today. Takano, Hayashi, Tatsukawa, Inoue, Okumura, Adachi, Ogawa and Fujita.

So, Majima stands out from his seat, sees the barkeep cower behind the counter, and he cracks his neck. This is what they came for, so it’s what he’ll give them. When he smiles, he smiles with intent, and he smiles wide enough to split his cracked lips. These boys have hit the Majima jackpot.

Without a blade, Majima will have to rely on his own intoxicated strength to carry him, but he won’t even have to try. They may be his boys, but they’re still all, completely, utterly, weak. They’re tissues, the same breed of napkin he uses as coasters. So, when Adachi throws the first punch, Majima catches it, and he breaks his wrist as he flips him over onto the bar counter, listening to the sound of shattering glass. His body rolls off the counter, behind it, alongside the terrified barkeep, and Majima launches out a kick immediately after, catching Inoue right in the stomach.

Majima Hee-hee-hees right in his face.

He keels, falls over, arms wrapped around his gut. Majima scoffs in disgust, and parries Tatsukawa’s punch, twirls around him and Hayashi and Okumura, nearly dancing on the tips of his toes, for these boys, it’s like he's everywhere, echoes of him through the entire bar. When Tatsukawa punches again, he ducks underneath it, watches it collide right with Fujita’s jaw, watches Fujita back up and collide right with Takano. This is the lack of coordination Majima expects from a group of angry, lost souls, and it pisses him off more than he can put into words.

“Fuckin’ morons!” Majima laughs, still ducked. He whips around, catching Ogawa’s gaze, and smiles.

When he punches Ogawa, he listens real close to the crunching noise of his nose, and laughs at the immediate rush of blood down his mouth. He kicks him, high enough to reach his chin, and watches him theatrically fly backwards, head snapped upwards towards the ceiling, and he hits the ground with a crumpled thud. With his back turned, he listens to the sound of wood snapping, and at the right moment, he catches the wooden leg of a bar stool. He whips around, ripping it out from Tatsukawa’s grip, and he slams it right against his skull, hard enough to shatter it all into little wooden pieces.

“Pathetic,” He muses, watching him hit the ground, out cold. He expected more.

Regardless, he can’t focus on it. Adachi, having recollected himself from his forced gymnastics, has climbed back out from behind the counter, a broken bottle in hand. As Majima grabs the shoulders of Takano, headbutts him until he can’t stand it anymore, Adachi stands above the rest, and when Majima throws Takano against a table, it breaking against his body and sending him crashing to the ground, Adachi strikes. He jumps, the shattered bottle in his grip like a knife, and Majima catches him, unphased from the weight of the man. His arms around Adachi’s waist, he spins the two of them around, and sends them both crashing down onto Takano’s body. The bottle escapes his grasp, and Majima quickly jumps back onto his feet.

He watches the rest of the boys, the ones still conscious, cower away, purple on their faces like it’s glowing.

“You don’t fuckin’ cower!” Majima demands of them, he holds a chair in his hands, hovering over Inoue. “You hear me?! Nobody starts a fight and pussies out with me!” He holds the chair with enough strength to keep it above his head, nearly scraping it against the ceiling.

Inoue, terrified, holds his arms over his head, knees bent to his chest. He’s shaking like a leaf, and he’s nearly in a fetal position. Majima wants to vomit. In this moment, he remembers that Inoue is the youngest of this group. He is only 18, and his birthday is in April. He has a dog, and he named it Baby.

Majima doesn’t know why he does it, but he lets the chair drop behind him. It crashes to the ground with enough force to shake the ground beneath it. It’s not mercy. His stomach is twisting in a state of familiarity. So, he backs up, legs threatening to shake, and silently calls a truce, basking in the feeling of hypocrisy.

With glass still in his cheek, he sits back in a bar stool that hasn’t been broken yet, and watches his boys recollect themselves. It’s the disturbing, annoying sight of what happens after a fight, the sort of shit Majima hates. The shaking, the heavy breathing, the slow recovery. The blood dripping down the side of his face is keeping him present.

Takano, despite his damage, is the one who helps everyone up. Adachi, who is the heaviest of the group, carries Ogawa with his arm thrown over his shoulder.

“Whatever.” Takano spits, voice cracking. “This isn’t done.”

Despite it being very done, he holds to his convictions. Majima has to hand it to him. He’s learned from the best.

And then, they empty out. Majima, and the barkeep, are the only things keeping this place alive. Majima suspects it’ll go out of business after this. The man, still quivering, attempts to speak, but Majima cuts him off with the slamming of money on the counter. This is enough to cover the damages, and unbeknownst to Majima, it’s also enough to pay for the hospital bills of the man’s sick son. Majima will never hear the rest of this Story, because he leaves before the man can say anything else.

When he steps out of the bar, he lights a cigarette. The first person that sees him screams at the glass pieces lodged in his head, the blood caking his skull, and he ignores her. Keeping on his feet is an act of defiance. He’s the son of a bitch who lost his eye and lived. He’s been to the Hole and back. When people cower at his appearance, he feels proud. It means he’s winning.

On days like these, before Shimano died, he’d wander back to the family office. He’d listen to Nishida fret over him like a mother hen, and he’d smack Nishida over the head for caring so much. Sometimes, when he’d show up with wounds inflicted by his father Shimano, he wouldn’t even bother with hurting Nishida. It was how Nishida knew the level of pain he was in. When Majima wouldn’t speak, neither would Nishida. He wonders what’s going to happen to him now that something like that will never happen again. Somehow, like a wish granted, he sees Nishida in the sea of civilians, right in the center. Nishida's across the street, across from where Majima stands, cigarette lazily hanging from his bloody lips. Nishida's face goes sick and pale like it always does when he’s moments from vomiting, and he's moving, bisecting the crowd with force, pushing them aside all while apologizing.

“Oyaji!” He cries, visibly nauseous. “Are you– What– You need a doctor!”

“Fuck off.” Majima dodges him, and glares. “Are you stalkin’ me?”

“Yes!” Nishida admits without shame, exasperated. He produces a handkerchief from his pocket. He presses it against Majima’s cheek, against a cut without glass in it, and Majima pushes him.

“Cut that shit out! Fuck!” He howls, the cigarette falling from his lips and landing in a small puddle, hissing in its final moments alive. “I’ll put you in the fuckin’ hospital if you don’t get the hell out of my sight!”

But, Nishida, always loyal, remains standing, so Majima pushes past him, hard enough to nearly knock him down, shoulder to shoulder, and he starts walking. In that puddle, lies his last cigarette. Nishida whips around, desperate to catch up to him, and when he does, he walks beside Majima, not behind.

“Oyaji, please listen,”

“Quit callin’ me that.”

“Just listen to me!”

“What the hell do you want.”

And then, Nishida stops. It takes Majima a few steps more to realize it. When he does, he turns around, turns his good eye towards Nishida. A sharp light casts him in a bright blue light. The shadows in his face are cut like marble in his pale face. Whatever he’ll say, it means something. Majima’s come to realize that a good message is always accompanied by decent lighting.

“Come to the office, Oyaji,” Nishida asks. “One last time, please. It’s important!”

Majima considers this for a moment. With the two of them looking at each other with expressions of finality, Majima says; “Nah.”

Nishida sputters, watches as Majima turns back around and keeps walking, and his hands shake into fists. He follows Majima.

“Oyaji, please,” He begs, “It’ll only take a moment, please!”

“Nope. Done with that life, Nishida. Got better shit to do.”

“No you don’t!”

Majima stops, and he turns back around. Nishida nearly smashes right into his back.

Once again, Majima is surprised tonight, because Nishida refuses to cower. His pity-eyes are replaced with an angry brow as powerful as the rest of his ex-Majima Family Brothers. Majima raises a brow.

“I always– I always showed up! No matter what! I’d always be there! We’re…You’re not my boss anymore! I’m not asking you as my boss, Oyaji, I’m asking you as my friend! Please!”

The anger in his face is gone. Majima wants to make him hurt for ever daring to look at him with such a vulnerable look on his face. Not in this world. However, there’s a deep part of him digging its way out of him. It will peek its head out in this moment, and it will be dragged back down the next moment. He hesitates, and for a second, he understands why he’s so angry at Nishida. Friend, he calls him. Friend. The truth is, Majima is far from a friend, and they both know this. That deep part of him is his own vulnerability. Maybe they’re both scared of the same thing.

“If it’ll get you to quit yappin’,” He groans. “Fine. Fuck it. Come on.”

Nishida’s face doesn’t light up, but it eases, and once again, he follows Majima from the back.

Majima’s sure it hasn’t been that long, and yet it feels like he’s been an eternity away. When he opens his office door, it doesn’t jam, and it doesn’t require shoving. It’s a simple, working, functional door. It creaks as he steps inside, and Nishida is close behind. With a bent finger, he flicks the light switch, and the office is revived. Two rooms, one large, one small. His room is the smaller of the two, and it is in the back, past the main room. Everything remains untouched, so that means his couch is still in there, in his personal office room. Usually, this room, the one they’re in now, is always bustling. Majima’s boys would come in and out by the minute, loud and annoying and just how he liked it. They’d practically taken over the entirety of the building. This particular office is only on the second floor, but Majima’s boys could be found on every floor. In this main room, there are two couches, leather in material, with the arms nearly ripped completely. A table sits in the center, still covered in magazines and cans and ashtrays. In the wall, a dartboard sits there unused, as nobody but Majima had the aim to do it right. Darts are still lodged in the wall, everywhere but on the dartboard. One is even on the ceiling. The light in this room is yellowed, but it casts everything in this warm hue. It makes it appear kinder than it actually is. Eventually, this office will be hollowed out and replaced with something else. Maybe a dentist’s office. Maybe an accounting firm, and all that will remain of Majima’s legacy will be the holes of a million darts in the walls and ceiling.

Nishida coughs into his fist, sliding out from behind Majima, and Majima turns to him.

“Oyaji, if I look at you one more time I think I might throw up,” He says, gesturing towards his face. “Can I please get the glass out of there?”

Majima chooses the most light-hearted of responses, going against his attitude he’s been keeping through the night. After this response, he will go back to his rude, glowering demeanor.

“What, you don’t like it? I was gonna make this a part of my normal attire,” He says, grinning so it stings his face.

“I will throw up!” Nishida announces, refusing to push Majima into his personal office himself, he walks past Majima, pushing the door open, and Majima follows him.

Like a stage play, Majima’s memorized all of the choreographed moves. He sits on the couch that faces his desk, faces the large emblem of the Majima Family, and he waits. Nishida doesn’t have his own desk, moreso a small table with a shelf next to it, and on that shelf, sits his most vital of items. The easiest to grab item is the first-aid kit, and the second easiest to grab is a pistol, and the third easiest to grab is a calculator. On the bottom shelf, closest to the ground, is Nishida’s safe, and behind Majima’s desk, with a blanket over it, is Majima’s own safe. So, Nishida grabs his first-aid kit, grabs a water bottle from the mini-fridge Majima keeps in the corner of the room, and returns to Majima’s side. The glass shards are small, but definitely in his skin, but they’re luckily nowhere near his good eye, even though it’s on his good side.

Wetting a rag, Nishida presses it to Majima’s cheek, not against the shards, but around them. He’s cleaning the blood away.

“I…I saw Takano and some of the other foot soldiers leave that bar, Oyaji. He did this, didn’t he?”

“Yep. Got me real good, but after that, little shits couldn’t touch me once.”

“I heard he’s leading some sort of new gang, not Tojo. I think that’s where most of the family has gone off to.”

“Ha!” Majima barks, throwing his head back. Suddenly, he yelps, squinting his eye shut, and he leans back forward. The rag got caught on the glass. That’ll teach him to move when Nishida is working. “That little shit? Leading? They’ll crash and burn in a week.”

“I agree, but I still think we should keep our eye on it,” He replies.

“You’ll keep an eye on it,” Majima corrects. “I got better shit to do.”

Once again, Nishida doesn’t believe him, but this time, he lets it go.

“I wouldn’t underestimate the family, Oyaji,” Nishida says after a moment of silence, “We’ve kept up with you until this point.”

When he says We’ve, there’s an unspoken insistence on I. I have kept up with you.

“They fight like shit, Nishida. Should’ve seen ‘em.”

“I think anyone fighting you would lose, Oyaji. When I was escorting Takano on a collections job, he was merciless, nearly deadly, you would’ve been proud. He really gave them hell!”

“Yeah….” Majima hums with recollection, and then he deadpans. “Yeah, I remember that. I told him not to start a fight. Fuckin’ nincompoop.”

“Fine, Oyaji.”

Majima always hates it when Nishida acquiesces to something. He hates it when anyone gives up, even against him. It stuns him in a way he can’t bounce back from.

Luckily, Nishida sets the rag aside. The blood is mostly gone, so he can see what he’s doing. The room is surprisingly well lit. In the corner of his eye, he sees the tweezers catch the light for a moment. He blinks, and looks at Nishida. He looks pained, like he always does.

“Oyaji, I need to–” He stutters, because he’s been in a room with both Shimano and Majima. “I gotta touch your neck. It’ll go faster than asking you to tilt your head right.”

Majima lets out a small breath.

“Yeah. Fine. Fuckin’-- Do it. Whatever.”

It enrages him the way Nishida respects the barbed fence around him. His lungs fill as Nishida presses a hand against the side of his neck, his thumb against his jawline. He knows the chin is off limits. He’s never touched Majima’s chin.

His hand is warm and small, not big and cold. It’s what he focuses on, as Nishida begins to pull the glass out of his face. He tilts Majima’s head towards the light, and Majima goes without a fight. It makes him hate himself. Some rational part of him knows it’s okay, but the rest of him is setting off the alarms, telling him to go fucking apocalyptic. Nobody, not even Nishida, tilts the Mad Dog’s head in such a careful way. What the hell is he even thinking? When Nishida pulls out another piece, his head gets sucked out with it, and he forgets that entire string of thoughts.

“Oyaji, um, I had another reason for asking you to come here.” Nishida says, knowing it’ll be awhile before Majima replies. He’s always patient, the idiot-saint that he is, and he waits.

Majima forces himself to focus on the moment. He’s realized that, normally, Nishida’s hands naturally shake, but when he’s working, when he’s really focused, his hands go stone-steady. He looks down at his own subtly shaking hands, and wonders if his do the same.

The last piece comes out, and Nishida lets out a long, long sigh of relief. His hand slides off Majima’s neck, and Majima returns to himself.

“What’s the reason?” He finally replies. It’s been exactly 5 minutes since Nishida spoke. “Be–Fuckin’ gentle, asswipe!”

Nishida is pressing another piece of cloth, softer than the rag, against his cheek. It’s moist, something medicated.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Nishida yelps. He backs off, sliding away from Majima. “Okay! I’m done.”

Instinctively, Majima’s hand goes to his cheek. With his glove, all he can feel is the indication of a large bandage. It scratches against the leather of his fingertips. “I asked ya a question.” He winces.

Recollecting everything within the first-aid kit, and without a safer spot to put the remains of the glass, he placed it all into the rag he used to clean Majima’s cheek. Majima watches him rise, escape into the bathroom for a moment with the rag, and return. Carefully, he slides the first-aid kit back into its place in his shelf, and when he’s done, he stands right by the couch, in front of Majima. His hands are behind his back. Majima sits up, and then he stands up fully, and in an act of impulsiveness, he sits himself in his office chair once again, his bad foot up on his desk. He watches Nishida place a hand on his hip, the other running against his shaved head in a near audible way. He swallows, and Majima squints his eye.

“It’s about West Park,”

Majima learns forward, his leg sliding off his desk.

“What?”

Nishida’s hand roams from his head to the back of his neck, rubbing insistently. Something about his body language hints at utter shame.

“West Park’s been taken over by Takano, and the rest of the men who left the Tojo Clan after you did…They’ve established their own independent gang.”

“Takano?” Majima asks, his brow pinching together.

“That’s right, Oyaji,” Nishida answers. His fingers go to his necklace, which he begins to pull on nervously.

“They took over West Park.” Straightening up, Majima presses the back of his hand against his forehead, shaking his head softly, before slamming his fist against the desk. “Fuck! Fuck me! You knew that!”

“Oyaji–” Nishida pleads, but Majima isn’t having it.

“Shut the hell up, you piss-for-brains! You knew that shit, and you didn’t fuckin’ tell me straight away!”

“I. Oyaji, I wanted to tell you after I made sure you were okay! I didn’t want you to faint from shock, or something. I thought… A man, he gave me a bouquet– and– I– They’ve bullied the homeless population out of their own shelters! It’s only a matter of time before they move on Purgatory. The authorities aren’t doing anything!”

“I’m fuckin’-- Sick of these little shits! Sick of you!” He grabs an ashtray off his desk and throws it at Nishida, like that’ll fix things. It hits his arm, and he yelps. The ashes completely stain his baby-blue shirt. “You look away from ‘em for one. Fucking. Second! Dumbasses!” And then he throws a pencil at Nishida. It hits him in the forehead. Without anything else, Majima grins. His cheek stings, but he forces himself to smile harder until he knows his gums are showing. He laughs once. Just one, loud, terrifying ‘Ha!’.

“The…The bouquet had a note in it, look! Look!” Nishida yelps, wincing. He gestures to his own small table, rushes over to it, and lifts a small card. “It wants you to–”

“It ain’t my fuckin’ problem!” Majima shrieks, balling paper up and throwing it at him. “You can deal with it yourself!”

“They’re your men, Oyaji!” Nishida replies, sounding like he’s about to hyperventilate.

“I told you,” Majima gargles, growls and then shrieks. His hand wraps around a coat rack, one that had been resting peacefully and covered in dust in the corner of his office, right by his desk. He lifts it, howling; “I’m done! When I say I’m done, I’m fucking done! You useless fuckin’ moron!”

Nishida cowers, caves in on himself. Hiding his head, he bends down in a near-squat, letting out a whimper. This is what it feels like to be on the other end, Majima thinks for a second time this night.

He screams, throwing the coat rack to the side, missing Nishida by a few feet. It hits the couch, bouncing behind it. It’s a loud affair, and when it lands, Majima screams again, and then he laughs. Crouched over himself, he stands up straight again and runs his hands through his hair, pulling on the roots until it hurts.

For a moment, all that’s left in the room is their shared heavy breathing, Nishida letting out shaking whimpers, attempting to sound controlled, and Majima, violently wheezing, shaking with rage. With each breath out of his lungs, so goes the immediate anger.

“Do you feel better?” Nishida finally asks, visibly quaking. He begins to brush his arm clean from the ashes.

“No.” Answers Majima. It’s honest, and he wants to break his window. He lifts his head, waving his arm towards Nishida, suddenly gaining another wave of energy. “Alright, come on! Spit it out, what’s the note say?”

Nishida, a bit startled, drops it in surprise, and then, nearly trips himself trying to catch it. He holds it up in victory-shame.

“It says; ‘Even when you’re not in the clan, you’re causing problems. For the sake of all of us in Purgatory, I ask that you come to Serena. Try not to bring attention to yourself, and bring the lackey, too.’.”

“Serena?” Majima asks, sneering. “What the hell is a guy like this showing face in Serena?”

“I don’t know, Oyaji. Wait, Serena was where Kiryu-no-ojiki stayed in December, Oyaji!”

Majima rubs his chin, his mouth opening as he hums. “Hoh. You’re right. Guess nobody’ll bat an eye seein’ a freak like me steppin’ into Serena, if Kiryu-chan was waltzing through there on the regular.”

“Oyaji, Serena’s been…It’s abandoned. We shouldn’t go through the front. We should look for a back way in.”

Sometimes, Majima forgets how being in the hospital for most of a major event will keep you out of the loop. He scowls.

A thought pops in Majima’s mind.

“Bouquet, you said a guy came up to ya and handed you a bouquet, and the card was inside.” He rolls his wrist as he speaks, like that’s what’s pulling his thoughts together. “That’s the Florist’s shit, ain’t it?”

Now, the Florist of Sai is an enigma, much like Majima himself, although the Florist works much more within the shadows of Kamurocho. While Majima’s never seen him in person, he’s aware of his existence. Most of the old guard within the Tojo Clan know about him. With this out of the way, another thought pops into his head.

“Where’s the flowers?”

“What, Oyaji?” Nishida stutters.

“Where’s the damn bouquet, moron! You drop it on the way here, or somethin’?!”

“You’re allergic to pollen.” Nishida replies matter-of-factly, and for a moment, he speaks clearly, without fear. “I threw it out.”

A bit astonished, and rather embarrassed, Majima is left speechless. His mouth opens, and then closes, and he suddenly has the urge to throw more objects at Nishida.

“Whatever!” Majima suddenly blurts out with the attitude of a 14 year old going through a rough time, and not a nearly 42 year old ex-yakuza. “Come on. We’re going to Serena.”

Majima begins walking out, and Nishida, with the note still in his hands, dashes to keep up with him. Nishida keeps quiet about the ashes coating his arm sleeve, and hopes nobody will point it out.

Time has crawled into the AMs at this point, as Majima and Nishida walk side-by-side.

Within Majima’s head, he thinks. About Takano, about Terada’s investment, about Shimano. He squeezes and releases his hands, grinding his teeth audibly in a way that makes Nishida wince in the corner of his eye.

“Oyaji, I’ve been wondering.” Nishida eventually says.

“Uh-huh.” Majima replies. He raises a brow. “What’s up.”

“Why did Terada give you that briefcase?”

“Ya wanna know why? ‘Cuz he’s a businessman bitch.”

Nishida coughs on his own spit. He makes a noise that sounds like a snarfle.

After a moment, Majima decides to be honest.

“It was a handout, that’s what it was. Somewhere around a million yen.”

Nishida chokes again. “A- A million?!” He squeaks.

“Yep. Said it was oughta good faith, but I could see right through the bullshit. I don’t take ‘charity’.”

“So what are you going to do with it?” Nishida asks after contemplating a life where he had the briefcase instead.

“Blow it all on booze ‘n babes. What do you think?”

Nishida’s face scrunches up in an ugly kind of way, but he ends the conversation there.

“Do you ever think about what Kiryu-san is up to now?” Nishida starts a new conversation after a couple minutes.

“How ‘bout we be quiet, now?” Majima replies. He claps a hand onto Nishida’s back, which causes him to yelp.

“Okay, Oyaji.”

Stepping within the shadow of the Serena building, looking up its floor from the street, his shoulder against Nishida’s, Majima is struck with the sudden feeling that he is walking into another man’s Story. It’s the same feeling that filled him when he stormed Dojima’s office in the 80s. He supposes that in this world, everyone has a Story of their own. There’ll always be moments of overlap. Something of a crossover of legends. For a second, he wonders if Kiryu Kazuma has ever had that feeling himself. Something tells him that he hasn’t.

“Come on,” Majima nods towards an alleyway.

As soon as Majima and Nishida set one foot into the alley, a connection is remade. Nostalgia fills Majima’s lungs, as he walks. With his hands in his pockets, he can’t help but walk with a familiar swagger. For a moment, the year is 1995, and Kiryu Kazuma is just on the other side, looking at him with those determined eyes. On this trip down memory lane, Majima comes to the realization that most of his feelings towards Kiryu come from other people, the stories they’ve told about him. Before 2005, and before 1995, they were aware of each other. Majima was his superior, and Kiryu respected that in a wholly pure way that pissed Majima off. Kiryu was a mean son of a bitch, but he was honest, and with those two things, Majima was enraptured. There was a lot he did in 2005 for Kiryu, but none of it could be described as pleasant. He smiles, but once he realizes it’s too endearing, he twists it into a grin. To answer Nishida’s question, he does wonder what Kiryu is up to now, thank you very much. He looks towards the U-shaped staircase that goes up to the roof of the building, and walks towards it.

He tries the door without a light. It’s a sight that calls solely to him, a door that says, ‘ I’m where you want to go!’ in just its appearance. Just his luck, it turns out to be the right door, and it opens without protest. He wonders how whoever called him here got in, as there’s no indication of a break-in. Shrugging off the feeling, Majima steps inside, and Nishida follows close behind. Dust is in the air, and with the back door open, light catches the dust in a near-glittery way. The air is thick, and without any lights on, the bar appears…sad. Once, it was occupied, and now it is not. Majima is stricken with a random, violent sadness. A distinct loneliness. Abandonment. It’s almost like this bar doesn’t know it’s gone.

On the bar counter sits a lonely flip-phone. Majima makes his way to it. Like he’s stepped inside a haunted house, Nishida taps his fingers together nervously. Majima gently wraps his hand around the closed phone, and with his thumb, flips it open, and almost like it knows, it suddenly lights up, a loud jingle ringing through the bar. Nishida yelps, and Majima lurches his hand forward, caught off guard. He glances towards Nishida, and then back at the phone.

He accepts the call.

He brings the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?” He asks, into the receiver.

“About time you showed up,” The voice of an older, stubborn man answers. There’s the gentle sound of shifting, like he’s leaning back in a seat. “Majima Goro.”

“Where the hell are ya?” Majima demands, twisting his head around, “How’d you know when to call?”

“Can it with the questions, will you?” The man says. “Do you know who I am?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.” The man deadpans.

“You’re the Florist,” Majima replies quickly.

The man makes a noise of approval. “This got me on short notice, so forgive me for the secrecy.”

Ignoring him, Majima shakes his head. “Cut to the chase, old man,” He huffs.

“You’re not a dumb man, so I’m gonna assume you know about my affiliation with Purgatory. Truth is, I’m not even there at the moment. I doubt the new tenants on top wouldn’t have let you through, either, so this is the best alternative I got. Your boy, Takano, him and the rest of your pack, they’re calling themselves the Takano Family.”

“Takano Family?” Majima echoes. “Not even flyin’ Tojo flags. What do they think they’re doin’, tryin’ to pull that in Kamurocho?”

“You ask me, they’re a bunch of no-good posers. If it isn’t them, it’ll be some other punk-gang thinking they’re the next big thing. Problem is, they’ve got something the others don’t.”

“Size.” Majima answers for him. “The Majima Family had above 3,000 members.”

“You got that right. An army of angry teenagers with daddy issues are currently setting up shop in West Park. You can see how this is a problem.”

“Why don’t you deal with it? If it’s such a hassle for ya.” Majima growls.

“At the moment, I’ve got my own business. Besides, I’ve got the feeling that it’d be better if you handled it. Hell, they might march right out of the park if you tell them to.”

Majima barks out a laugh. The Florist is not impressed. “You’re too busy, so you’re just throwin’ the burden onto someone else?”

Though he can’t see it, Nishida’s brow quirks in a brief expression of irritation.

“I’m sure you’ve got your own shit to deal with,” The Florist says sarcastically. He makes it so obvious on purpose. “Oh-hoh. Getting drunk and high and passing out in alleyways, that’s a stable career right there. Oh, yeah. I know about all of that.”

Majima’s felt watched for a long, long time. For once, he is absolutely, horrifically glad. He feels justified. He was right, and it wasn’t paranoia. He is being watched. He grins painfully. Eyes are everywhere, and he’s always known.

“You know all about me? You a big fan? Well, fuck you. I’m not helpin’ you.”

On the other side of the phone, Majima can hear the Florist flick a lighter, and then inhale. If he tries, he can almost smell the cigar the man is surely holding between his lips.

“You’re a funny guy, Majima Goro. I’m not the type of man to ask for favors. You think a man who colluded with the Omi would be more careful of how he acts around other people.”

Majima glares, and his grin immediately drops. Holding the phone tighter than he should, he hisses.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about, old man?” He snarls, his free hand balling up into a fist.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, kid. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. You’re the guy who bought West Park back in 2004, you and that meathead boss of yours.”

The Florist should never be underestimated, Majima has learned. He grinds his teeth, and hollowly chuckles.

“If you’re that good, you would’ve known that plan never worked out.”

“And I’m sure the Tojo Clan would feel much better knowing that.”

“Blackmail doesn’t work on a guy like me,” Majima tells him. “If the Tojo Clan want the full Story, they can talk to Katsuya Naoki. As for me, I was just doin’ my job as captain.”

“You’re not the least bit scared?” The Florist asks. He’s intrigued.

“Nope. I’m done bein’ scared. I’ve spent my whole life livin’ in fear. If the Tojo Clan have a problem with me, I’ll take ‘em all, and I’ll fuckin’ win. That’s a promise.”

For a moment, the Florist is silent, and then, he chuckles. He’s impressed.

“You’re just like Kiryu-san, aren’t you?”

Once again, he is left with that feeling like he is in another man’s Story. He doesn’t like it.

“Eh?”

“You’re not afraid of anything,” The Florist hums, “A stupid decision, but a noble one.”

Majima scrunches his face up in confusion.

“You were supposed to sell to Dyna Chair, but you didn’t.” The Florist continues, detailing a Story not yet told, and Majima has a feeling that someday, it will resurface. “You know why you did that?”

“It’s not your fucking business,” Majima hisses, “Why I did or didn’t sell. What are you getting at?”

“You’re not the lunatic the Tojo Clan thinks you are, despite appearances,” The Florist answers. “Ask your little buddy with you, he’ll agree. What I’m getting at is that you’re soft. A man like you doesn’t throw his own boys out to the wolves. A man like you doesn’t turn a blind eye to Kamurocho’s homeless population getting kicked outta their own community.”

“You don’t know me.” Majima replies coldly. He wants to drive a knife through the bar counter he’s staring at. He wants to see it ruined. When he turns to Nishida, Nishida stands up straight and looks him right in the eye.

“Maybe you’re right.” The Florist chuckles. “Try this one on for size. Kamurocho’s currently seeking the man who owns West Park. They can’t just knock it down and start building, that’d be encroachment. Different buyers are lining up, but nobody knows who actually owns the land. That guy is you. Right now, they’re trying to set into motion that revitalization project your boss was adamant on capitalizing on. You have the power to completely shut it down.”

Majima is struck with the feeling that he’s been here before, like a play that switches its actors around. Who is he playing right now?

“You get something out of this?” Majima asks. “What, are you one of those ‘buyers’?”

The Florist laughs. “Hell, no. But, as a matter of fact, I don’t give a shit what they do with the land. West Park was always more interesting underground than on top. One of the buyers, though, are the Tojo Clan.”

Majima lowers his head. He sneers.

“Of course they are,” Majima groans. “But I ain’t sellin’ to them. Not by a long shot.”

“I knew you’d say that.” The Florist replies. “Judging by the new leadership, they’ll respect that. That still leaves the issue of Takano and the rest of your runts. With their size, it’s only a matter of time before they step on the Tojo Clan’s toes. They’ve probably already started, and I doubt the Tojo Clan’s going to have much mercy for men like that. The difference between either you or the Tojo Clan dealing with Takano, is if they’ll all leave in body-bags or not.”

“You’re tellin’ me the Tojo Clan’d be willin’ to wipe out a bunch of foot soldiers that got a bit too rowdy?” Majima huffs.

“You willing to wait and find out?” The Florist asks. The longer this call goes on, the more Majima notices the faint sounds of computers.

For a moment, Majima closes his eye, and he thinks.

Are these his pawns, or are they his boys? Disposable, or family? He remembers the look of hurt in Takano’s face, in Nishida’s face. He remembers the look of terror in Inoue’s eyes, as he stood over him, and for a brief moment, he remembers the look of Sagawa’s face, as he held him by the throat against a restroom wall. This is a dilemma of which Majima doesn’t know the answer. Does he care? Does he really care what happens to his own men?

Maybe he doesn’t, and everything Sagawa and Shimano taught him is true. Two different sides of power, and two different sides that crafted Majima. Power is information, and money, and strength, and hatred, and in this world, that is all that matters. Majima is a weapon, a battering ram, he’s a good listener, and he does his job the best he can. It’s that rage he feels when his boys are too damn weak. Maybe he’s learned from the best. A man takes after his fathers, after all. There is no escaping your nurture.

Maybe he does. Maybe there’s a reason he’s remembered bits and pieces of every single man on his team. He lets Nishida touch him when he’d stab anyone else who got too close. It’s that sense of pride he feels when he feels bested, or when his boys stand up to him. He’d treat them all to barbecues, he’d take them out drinking. He felt rage when his boys were hurt by people that weren’t him. When stripped away to his barest essentials, Majima Goro is a man who loves painfully. There is no escaping your nature.

He hates that he doesn’t know. Both of these could be true, or neither of them could be true, and Majima would never be able to know. Something is wrong with his brain.

Both of these conflicting beliefs come together to form his response. Regardless, this is his problem.

“I’ll get them out.” He answers, after long deliberation. “After that, I’m givin’ up West Park. The city can do whatever the hell it wants.”

“You do that. I’ll keep in contact. My boys’ll find you. If anyone can get rid of this pest problem, it’ll be you.”

“Whatever.” Majima replies. After an impulsive thought, he ends the call and snaps the phone in half.

Once again, it is just the two of them, Majima and Nishida.

“Oyaji–” He stutters, “You said you’d…”

“That’s right,” Majima says, and if he had the option, he’d light up a smoke. “We got a couple thousand men to evict. You’re with me whether you like it or not, Nishida.”

Nishida bows his head, nodding violently. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Oyaji!” He answers, though it’s said more miserably than proud.

Majima slaps his hand against his head in a strange kind of pat. He grins, and hee-hee-hees. “That’s my boy,” He says. “We’d be fools to go waltzin’ in there right now. We’ll need a plan.”

For a moment, Nishida is astonished, a little amazed, and a little excited. Planning has always been his favorite part, and now he’ll plan alongside Majima.

“Of course, Oyaji!”

“Right now, I got a job for you.”

Two’s a party, but three is even funner. Somehow, his grin grows wider, and he doesn’t care about the pain it causes his face. While Majima may be trespassing in Kiryu Kazuma’s Story, there’s always a chance for reconciliation. This is an impulsive thought in Majima Goro’s brain, but it may be the worst one he’s ever had, so it’s quite possibly the best idea. While Kiryu Kazuma has disappeared from the spotlight after his 4th Chairman stunt, something tells him he’s still in Tokyo. Does he miss the man who nearly killed him in Shangri-la? The man he took a knife for in the Yoshida Batting Center? It’s complicated. It’s more complicated than he wants it to be.

Regardless, he rubs his chin, and makes a bad decision.

“You find out where Kiryu-chan lives. I think I’ve got a job for him.”

He wakes up to the sound of rain and police sirens. This is the beginning of something new.

With sweat drenching his bare back, he sits up, convulsing. He looks up, his bed facing the window in his empty bedroom, and he struggles to breathe. He breathes in, out, in, out, in, out, until his throat stings. Finally, when the sound of sirens subside, he rubs his face. He doesn’t know if they were real or not. In this city, there’s no telling anymore. He looks behind his shoulder, seeing the stain of sweat on his cheap mattress, and he frowns. He hasn’t had the time or money to buy bedsheets for himself, so the smell will remain. In a quick thought, he hopes people won’t notice. In the thought right after that, in a moment of self-consciousness, he knows they will. Welcome to your new life, Kiryu Kazuma. This will be a Story worth forgetting. To Kiryu, he’s okay with that. With a relieved sigh, he thinks one word; ‘Finally’ .

He looks at his thrift-store alarm clock, rubbing the sleep-crust away from his eyes, and he sighs. 6:00 AM on a weekday.

Kiryu arises, his feet heavy upon the hardwood floor. His jaw hurts, aches from the night before. He’s never been a teeth-grinder before, and the new development worries him, but doesn’t worry him enough to go to the dentist. Each step he takes, a new chore pops into his head, like a mental cordboard. Each step is a new pin. First, Haruka needs to be taken to school. Second, he needs to show up to his job on time. Third, he needs to do the laundry. Fourth, well, fourth is interrupted by the brief, intrusive thought of blood on his hands. When he looks down, all he sees are his cold fingers. They’re only red because this apartment doesn’t hold heat properly, and Kiryu hasn’t gained the landlord’s trust yet. When he returns to his mental corkboard, he finds it fallen on the ground. He can’t bring himself to pick it back up. He fishes a shirt out of his closet, pulls it onto himself, and glances towards the seven empty beer cans on the small, glass table. How long have they been there? As always, he frowns at them, certain that if he does it hard enough, they’ll somehow clean themselves up. He doesn’t clean, and he doesn’t shave, because once he has a shirt on, the first thing he does is push his window open. This window is sticky, requiring the annoying kind of uneven pushing that gets on his nerves. Push the top, push the bottom, push the top, push the bottom, until he finally just beats his fist against the middle with his fist, pushing it completely open. This is the ritual he must go through to smoke a cigarette. He knows Haruka doesn’t like the smell, because it stings her nose. While Kiryu smokes, he watches the cars pass by, watches the black-ant pedestrians whose umbrellas are the only things he can see, a rainbow of circles passing each other. The rain grows louder, and then it subsides, only to do it again.

This is the type of day he’d associate with a funeral. Good mourning, he greets, good mourning.

It’s still winter, so eventually, this rain will most likely ice over, and Kiryu will have to deal with the consequences of that, whether it’s carrying Haruka on his back out of fear of her slipping, or getting fired from his job because he was just too busy helping the road crews salt the road. They always seem to be short on staff, Kiryu notes.

When he finishes this single smoke, he flicks it out of the window, surely to land on some poor sap’s umbrella, and he struggles to shut the window again.

Everything in this apartment is barebones, as Kiryu pitters around. The narrow hallway barely accommodates him, and the faucets are leaky and there’s spiders and there’s noisy neighbors, but in Tokyo, this was the best he could manage. He’s never been a well-off man, but there’s something about facing the reality of the word poor that terrifies him. It’s a declaration of reality. This is the real world, and in the real world, he is a poor, poor man. You can’t make rent on the good-will of strangers you rescue on the street. This apartment isn’t large, but it’s larger than anything he’s ever lived in before. The lack of things makes it seem larger and hollow-er than it actually is. He supposes his previous apartment, when he was younger, only felt that small because he had things to fill all the space, until there was barely any room for him left. That was the sort of thing that made him feel at home, but now, in this desert, he’s a deer in the headlights.

By the time he blinks, standing in the middle of the kitchen, it’s 7:00. How long was he smoking? His pack is in his sweatpants. When he checks it again, he is missing 3 cigarettes. Who did that? It’s time to wake Haruka up.

When he opens her door, he does it as quietly and gently as he can manage.

Her room is smaller than his in every way, like somebody took his room and shrunk it to accommodate her small stature. Nearly just as empty as is, it is salvaged by the dresser and nightstand and pictures she’s drawn. These were the best pieces of furniture Kiryu could manage, and it wasn’t a question about who it would go to. No matter what, it’ll always be for her. Plushies sit in the corner, stacked on top of each other half-hazardly, all won from claw-machines, and the drawers for her dresser are all open. Neither of them have figured out how to fold clothes right. She doesn’t have a full set of clothes yet, so most of the drawers remain empty. A representation of Kiryu’s own failure. It proves to him that he needs to work harder. He wants to see every corner of that drawer filled with all the clothes she could ever want.

In her bed, like a cozy caterpillar, lays Haruka, bundled up in her blankets. Only her small head pokes through, her face smashed against a pillow Kiryu wishes was softer.

Softly, he knocks his knuckles against her door.

“Haruka,” He hums, “Get up.”

Not expecting that to come out of his mouth, and watching the way her face twists in disturbance, he tries again.

“You need to get ready for school, Haruka,” He attempts. This time, he sounds much kinder. “I don’t want you to be late.”

A light sleeper, unlike him, Haruka stirs awake. One eye pops open, and then another, and then she’s sitting up, her hair sticking upwards in ways it shouldn’t.

“Hi, Haruka,” Kiryu says. He smiles. “Good morning.”

“Hi, Ojisan,” She squeaks. She doesn’t smile back, but that’s okay.

Dense, but not stupid, Kiryu takes a few steps into her room.

“You didn’t sleep well, did you?” He asks. They share a certain kind of look.

After a moment, she shakes her head. Pulling her feet from the comfort of her blankets, she throws her legs over the edge of her bed, dangling. She still has blisters on the back of her heels.

“I’ll be okay, I think.” She tells him, “Can we make breakfast?”

Frowning, Kiryu puts a hand on his chin for a moment, nearly covering his whole mouth. He turns his head in thought.

“I don’t know if we’ll have the time, Haruka. How about you get ready, and then we’ll see, okay?”

Haruka looks down at her feet for a moment, and then she looks back up at him. She makes a noise of affirmation, nodding.

Sawamura Haruka has been with Kiryu Kazuma since December of 2005. She grew up in an orphanage, her mother and father are both dead, and the man who swore to take care of her is standing here at this moment. She is somber, and she is forgiving. Kiryu’s own childhood, according to him, was relatively normal, but lonely, and with her sharing this connection, he assumes hers was just as normal and lonely. They’re both orphans at heart. At this time, it’s too early to call him ‘father’, but he is her guardian, and he isn’t giving her up easily. He knows how cruel the system is. He can’t let her get lost in it. As long as Kiryu can keep her safe and happy, he can have control on his life. He is both benevolent and selfish. Sometimes, it even feels like she is wiser than him. She is a traumatized child, and Kiryu, once a traumatized child himself, doesn’t know how to confront this truth. This is all a relatively normal life for him, for her. They’re okay. As long as they have each other, they’re okay.

His life will forever be a series of hastily made decisions, but this will be one he will never regret.

Regardless, he lets her change, so he can change himself. Back in his own room, pushing his grey suit aside, he pulls his work clothes off their hangers, and hastily dresses himself. Without a mirror in his room, he has to guess that he looks fine. His socks are yellowed, old, and the left one has a hole in it, but seeing as these are his only pair, he must wear them. When he’s all dressed, he knows he’s ready. Kiryu is a man of little, only him and the clothes on his back will carry him. Deep down, he is unaware of the paranoia that somehow, in an instant, it will all get taken away from him. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have any sentimental keepsakes. They’re all gone now.

Grief is no excuse for missing school, however. Haruka needs to be at school by 8:00, and nothing is going to keep him from getting her there, and then he has work by 8:30. This is manageable. He can do that.

While Haruka is still in her room getting ready, Kiryu rushes in the kitchen. He can’t cook, and that’s just a sad truth. He’s never had to cook, so he never learned. He prepares instant noodles, the kind in the styrofoam cup, the only kind he can afford at this time. The flavor is chicken, and he hopes she’ll understand. His next paycheck, he’ll get dinner. He’ll get a real dinner.

He eats nothing. She comes out of her room, and she quietly accepts breakfast. She understands. She always does.

“Hey, are you doing alright with your school work?” He asks her. He reaches out and fixes a stray strand of her hair.

Silently, her mouth full, she nods. It’s a tired, slow kind of nod.

When she swallows, she replies. “It’s really hard. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get it."

A look of concern crosses Kiryu’s face, the deepening of his frown. Leaning forward in a subtle hunch, his hands together on the table they sit at, he runs his thumb over his knuckles.

“The teacher doesn’t help you?” He asks.

“He’s too busy,” She replies. Her eyes are downcasted. She says it like it’s not a problem. To her, it isn’t.

“Do you want me to help?” He asks. “I’m not good at it, but I can try.”

Haruka then looks up at him, a not-entirely-convinced look on her face. She doesn’t reply, but Kiryu can hear her in his head. ‘You’re too busy, too,’ She’d say, also saying it like it’s not a problem. He frowns harder.

After a moment, after she finishes her quick breakfast, Kiryu checks his watch.

“Shit,” He huffs, “We should go. Let’s move, Haruka.”

Haruka’s footsteps are light and quick, a gentle pitter-patter almost like the rain. She grabs her bookbag, small like her, and Kiryu meets her at the genkan. First, he pulls his shoes on, then he reaches for hers. This is a pair different from her black rubber boots she wore in December, and they dwarf in size compared to his large hand. They’re white sneakers, the velcro kind, comfortable for her feet. It was one of the first things he bought after the apartment, since they’re better for her feet.. She takes them, and pulls them on. Her socks are asymmetrical, one scrunched up, the other pulled over her calf, so Kiryu holds her back from reaching the door.

“Hold on,” He says, adjusting her socks for her, correctly bunching them up at the collar of the shoe. Sometimes, appearances are everything, he thinks, even if it’s what’s inside that counts. “There you go.”

“Oh,” She looks down at her feet, as Kiryu stands back up straight. “I’m sorry.”

Their door has several locks on it. They’re all locked before bed. Click, click, click, click. While Kiryu engages himself with these locks, he turns his head towards Haruka.

“It’s okay, Haruka. You look nice.”

She does, and he means it. If only he could change that somber look on her face, but he supposes he isn’t much different.

So, as they leave, Kiryu shuts the door behind him and relocks everything, and then he takes her hand. Perhaps it’s his paranoia speaking, but he has to walk her to school. He knows she’s independent, and traversed Kamurocho all on her own, but he can’t stand the idea of her in the Tojo Clan’s sights again. Too many times was she taken against her will because Kiryu wasn’t there to protect her. At least, now, he has a chance. Everyday, he will watch her until she’s safe inside the elementary school. Her hand is small in his, and it’s cold. He hopes he can warm her up.

“Can we go visit their graves soon?” She asks, once they’re on the street. The rain has mostly subsided, thankfully, because Kiryu doesn’t have an umbrella.

“Hmm.” He hums. “I could ask for time off. I work everyday.”

She nods, head turning away from him, eyes on the ground. “Okay.”

“I will take you, Haruka,” Kiryu promises, his voice stressing. “It might just be awhile. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” She tells him. “I understand.” Suddenly, she looks back up, eyes widened. “Will you be there when I get out?”

She asks him this everyday, and everyday, he replies the same way.

“Of course, Haruka.” He answers, a gentle smile on his face.

They’re a man and girl of few words, but they understand each other. In the way their hands tighten around one another, they’ll always be able to understand each other.

The school, which isn’t far from their apartment, is large, but doesn’t have a large budget. Kiryu can barely remember his early school career, but there’s something strangely nostalgic about watching the different kids all shuffle inside. The younger children hold their parent’s hands until they’re inside, while the older ones quickly skip inside, not minding the slippery ground. He remembers the teasing, kids pushing one another playfully. He remembers boys pulling on his hair, and he remembers punching them right in the nose. He always thought it was strange that he was punished alongside the instigator, in those cases, and he remembers being an angry child because of it. The boys were playing, when they pushed him around, but he was cruel, when he threw them around. It reinforced something within him, something he’s unsure he wants Haruka to follow. Justice is something that is routinely unfair. Justice is something you have to take within your own hands to make right.

When they stop outside, Haruka turns to Kiryu to wrap her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his stomach. Again, she repeats, “Will you be here when I get out?”

Gently, he places a hand onto her head, soothingly rubbing circles. “I will, Haruka. Have a good day, okay?”

“Okay, Ojisan.” She takes a deep breath, and Kiryu is extremely proud of her. She wraps her hands around the straps of her bookbag and exits his life until 2:35. It will be an incredibly lonely life until then.

He checks his watch again. He has some time ‘till 8:30, but he’s not willing to waste another second. Once he watches Haruka disappear behind the doors of the elementary school, he turns around, and starts running. If he’s on time, he’ll be able to catch the train to Ikebukuro before it departs.

The rain subsided long before Kiryu showed up to the site. On this cold day, Kiryu pulls a beam up onto his shoulder and begins marching. This is a construction site, in the middle of Ikebukuro, currently in the process of becoming an apartment complex. He hasn’t been here for long, and his fellow employees still give him nasty looks when he suddenly disappears for hours, but he’s an honest worker. Being one of the larger men, Kiryu is a heavy-lifter, hauling shit left and right. Nobody bats an eye at the scary look on his face, because most of the other men here wear the same look. He doesn’t talk much, and the most his fellow employees get out of him is a few grunts. With a thick jacket to keep him warm, Kiryu works until he’s sweating. This is what he does everyday, what he’s been doing for weeks upon weeks. The calluses on his hands have never been more apparent, along with the bags under his eyes. Sometimes, he is reminded of his days behind bars, with the way his body acts on auto-pilot, but this is the life of a man working for a small-time, non-union construction company, with men just as angry and miserable as him. Here, nobody respects him. He finds that he likes that. The site is still barebones, the skeleton of what’s to come being the center of it. Right outside of the site, near the various cones and barriers, sits a trailer. This is where the Foreman sits, and sometimes, the Owner. All business matters exist in this trailer, so it’s a place Kiryu never goes. He gets paid by the hour, and he gets off at 9:00 PM, so during each hour, he imagines something he could buy. A nice dinner, more clothes, more furniture, none of it means anything if Kiryu doesn’t work himself to the bone. Kazama would tell him that this is life, and to just suck it up and fight through it.

Kiryu is a bricklayer, wheeling what feels like a ton around the site. With the base of the building set, the steel skeleton completed, it’s up to Kiryu, and a few other men to make sure the brickwork looks as it should. With gloves on to protect himself, Kiryu is lifting, and lifting, and lifting, and lifting, every single day, and sometimes, he feels just like the bricks he sets. He cleverly imagines that a company is a bit like this building, if one brick is off, it could throw off the whole operation. Everything must be set perfectly, held together by the mortar. This is his life. If anything is off, it will all crumble. Sometimes, as he’s doing this monotonous, auto-pilot job, he wonders if he’ll be the wrong brick. It’s always so loud on the site, loud enough to remind him of Kamurocho.

At lunch, Kiryu sits right outside the site, on a curb. He forgot to pack himself a lunch, but he can get through it. A man taps his head with something wet and cold.

“What–” Kiryu slightly jumps, turning his head. He frowns. “What the hell do you want?”

The man standing above him is offering him a can of Boss. His stringy black hair is pulled up into a low ponytail, and sweat drenches his face. He has bushy eyebrows and a round face, with a mustache on his upper lip, and a golden necklace peeking through his jacket. Kiryu doesn’t recognize him, but he doesn’t recognize most of the people here. It sometimes feels like a revolving door with how many people leave and join.

“Ease up,” The man says. He has a confident voice. “Just handing you a drink. You looked like you needed it. You look like you got a stick up your ass.”

Kiryu hesitates, and his scowl softens. He looks away for a moment. “I’m not thirsty.” He says.

The man, after a heavy sigh, sits next to him. Kiryu slightly shifts away from him.

“You’re gonna need it, old man. Just take it and thank me later.” He says, pushing the drink into Kiryu’s face. Kiryu notices the man has a tremble in his hands, but it’s probably just the cold.

After a moment of deliberation, Kiryu relents.

“Tch, fine.” He sighs, taking the drink from the man. “Which one are you?”

With his own drink in hand, the man smiles for a moment. “The name’s Murata. You?”

Kiryu doesn’t respond as he cracks open the can, listening to it hiss. “No one interesting,” He finally replies.

The man now named Murata gives him a funny look, like he isn’t entirely convinced of Kiryu’s tough-guy schtick. Sitting with his legs up, he rests his wrists on his knees.

“Come on, guy. You’re built like a stallion, and you work like one, too. That’s pretty damn interesting.” He says, and then he takes a drink.

Kiryu grunts, and drinks as well. He’s never been a coffee guy.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Murata says.

“I don’t talk to people that waste my damn time,” Kiryu hisses, glaring. “What do you want from me?”

“Can’t a guy just want a friendly conversation?”

“We’re working. That’s all I care about.”

And then, Murata sighs, decidingly losing the argument. He leans back, resting his can behind him.

Kiryu takes another look at him. He doesn’t seem like a necessarily annoying man, nor a man he would assume to hold harmful intentions. He doesn’t know why he’s snapping at him, but he can’t find himself to stop. Words come out of him involuntarily. He’s still on auto-pilot. He’s never been a necessarily chatty man, anyone could tell you that. Resting his can by his leg, Kiryu puts his hands together. Normally, he wears gloves when working, but they’re currently in his pocket. His hands look dry and cracked and wrong, but firm and large and strong. The veins on the back of his hands are accentuated from the stress, bulging out.

“You look like the type of guy working for something,” Murata says, after a long moment of silence.

“Huh?” Kiryu raises a brow, lips parting. “Working for something?”

“Yeah, you got that look in your eyes. You got family? A wife?”

Kiryu turns away. He will remain secretive. He despises the idea of his cards being on the table.

Murata looks out across the street, up towards the cloudy sky, grey and dreary.

“I’m working for my Ma,” Murata tells him. “She’s getting up there in years, and I wanna give her a good life before she kicks it, y’know?”

Kiryu runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t bother to gel it anymore. He retrieves his pack of smokes from his jacket pocket. Sticking one between his lips, he feels for his lighter.

“Shit,” He grunts. He must’ve left it on the table back home. What an idiot, he thinks, a complete, utter idiot.

“Here,”

Murata suddenly produces a lighter from his own pocket, lifting it up to Kiryu’s lips. In a practiced motion, he lights Kiryu’s cigarette for him before he can think.

As Kiryu registers what just happened, Murata returns his lighter to his pocket.

“Thanks,” Kiryu mumbles. It’s all he says.

“No problem. Wanna tell me your name now?”

Kiryu wonders how he should respond. He could tell this man his real name, risking identification. He could give him a fake name, but any ideas slip his mind. This man, Murata, stands out. He looks as civilian as you can get. So, like most of Kiryu’s decisions, he responds hastily.

“Kiryu.” He answers.

“Nice to meet you, Kiryu.” Murata replies, smiling.

Suddenly, a commotion catches their attention. Kiryu’s head whips around, finding the source. It’s coming from inside the site, behind the barriers. Screaming, the angry kind of screaming. Kiryu jumps to his feet, leaving Murata behind, who watches him as he disappears back into the site.

Two men push each other violently, hollering at each other, a ring of the other workers surrounding them. The gravel tumbles as Kiryu runs across the site, crackling under his heels. He won’t get involved, he won’t get involved, he won’t get involved, but his feet carry him all on their own. Where danger calls, Kiryu goes. He’s living on borrowed time, at this point. He doesn’t understand why he does the things he does. Tensions are always high in this job, especially with this certain construction company. The workers are mistreated and overworked, so they take it out on each other. This is a normal occurrence, and Kiryu has no reason to get involved. He looks behind him, noticing the lack of Murata, who must still be outside. He’s smarter than Kiryu, at least, decidingly staying out of it.

Kiryu pushes through the crowd of hardhats, finding himself in the eye of the storm. One of the men is short, but bulky, while the other is pure muscle, nearly taller than Kiryu. If Kiryu were sociable, he’d know that the short one is named Umeda, while the taller one is named Kameyama. Umeda’s face is pinched up into an ugly scowl, with a patchy beard complimenting it well, while Kameyama has a clean face, but wears the same ugly mug, drenched in sweat. If they were to both calm down, Kiryu would find they’re both relatively normal men, but people do strange things in times of stress.

“You think you’re hot shit?” Kameyama says, lifting up Umeda by his shirt, fisting the fabric. He gives him a solid shake. “Say you’re sorry, you little shit!”

“I don’t owe you anything, you ugly fuck!” Umeda screams, grabbing Kameyama’s head, digging his fingernails into his cheekbones, scratching at his face, and kicking his legs.

Kameyama slams Umeda down, a satisfying fwump echoing through the site. Umeda holds his back, howling, small pieces of gravel sticking to the back of his shirt. Kameyama braces himself to bring his foot down on Umeda’s chest, and Kiryu knows that with his large size, he’s sure to break ribs. Kiryu finally relents. This has gone too far, and the Foreman is surely to show his face soon. He needs to break it up before somebody needs a hospital visit.

“That’s enough.” Kiryu demands, standing behind Kameyama. He grabs his shoulder, pulling the man hard enough to bring him to the ground, falling backwards with a thud, nearly sliding against the ground. Standing above him, Kiryu looks down at him, hands balled up into fists. “Leave the fighting for when we’re not on company-time.”

“The fuck?” Kameyama groans, snarling at Kiryu. “You entitled little shit,” He huffs, jumping back onto his feet. “You think we get the same breaks you do? You got time to pick up your little shit from school, and we don’t.”

Kiryu? Getting special treatment? He’s never heard of such a thing. This man must be insane. Everyone deserves breaks during work. He can’t be the only one, right?

Kameyama lifts his fists up, and after a moment, so does Kiryu.

“If I can’t make you back down, I suppose I’ll just have to beat you until you calm down.”

“Good luck, fucker.”

Behind Kiryu, men help Umeda up to his feet, pulling him into the anonymous blob of hardhats, while Kameyama cracks his neck loudly. A construction site is no place for a fight, but Kiryu has no other choice, despite clearly having other choices. The choice has been made for him.

Dragging his feet across the gravel, Kiryu steels himself, his knees bent in a near-squat, fiery gaze on Kameyama. Kameyama runs, hollering as he lifts his fist, big and meaty, and brings it down, not anticipating Kiryu catching it. With both hands around Kameyama’s fist, Kiryu pushes, and pushes, and pushes until Kameyama is forced to back up, nearly falling right on his ass, arms flailing. With an opening, Kiryu descends upon him, punching him right in the head, his hardhat vibrating against his skull, and with his other fist, punches him right in the jaw. The crowd ooohs in response, as Kameyama struggles to regain his composure. With Kameyama’s large size, he wraps his arms around Kiryu’s waist, lifting him up off of his feet and onto Kameyama’s shoulder. Dizziness overcomes Kiryu, and before he knows it, Kameyama has brought him back down, Kameyama’s full weight on top of him, sandwiched between a rock and a hard place. Kiryu eyes squeezing shut as he wills the pain away. Kameyama jumps back onto his feet, gloating in the face of Kiryu’s anguish, and he kicks him right in the side.

“You’re not so tough now, are you?” Kameyama screams, face split in a wide grimace. He doesn’t like this, but he can’t help himself.

Kiryu, a man who has been through much worse, gets up. The crowd astonished, Kiryu returns to his previous stance, giving Kameyama the type of look that could kill.

“I’m not losing to a meathead like you,” Kiryu taunts, rubbing his nose with his thumb. His face had gotten crushed underneath the weight of Kameyama’s back.

Circling each other, it feels as if the crowd moves with them. To Kiryu, it’s a blur of colors around them, different obscured faces all staring at him. This is his stage, and this is where he’ll always end up. Kiryu Kazuma never loses.

Kameyama scoffs, his lower jaw jutting out, his nostrils flared. For the both of them, the cold doesn’t exist. Just the adrenaline in their veins, the sweat on their faces. Perhaps this is a connection Kiryu makes with everyone he meets on this stage. He’s never spoken to this man before, but his eyes tell a Story. This is a man who is overworked, like the rest of them. The wedding ring on his finger is tight on his meaty finger, the type of ring that refuses to leave its wearer. It looks well taken care of, catching the light in certain angles, but it still appears worn and scratched. It’s well loved. This is not an evil man, but a fight is a fight. No matter what, a fight must be fought. Somebody will come out on top, and Kiryu knows it will be himself. It’s not entitlement, or a sense of zealous pride, Kiryu has to win. If he doesn’t, nothing will matter ever again. This is Kiryu’s language, and he is a fluent speaker. He can feel that Kameyama understands this as well.

They meet in an instant, blood rushing through Kiryu as Kameyama punches him, his large fist socking him right in the eye, the certain kind of punch that’ll bruise in an instant. Kiryu retaliates with his own punch, knocking Kameyama right in the mouth, the force strong enough to surely knock a tooth out. Kameyama takes a step back, and then he steps forward again, lifting his arm up in a right hook. Kiryu acts fast, catching Kameyama’s fist, and then the other one, until he’s holding him off from both sides.

With his hands preoccupied, he knocks his forehead right into Kameyama’s nose, a crunch echoing through the site. He howls, hands quickly going to hold his face, and Kiryu uses this opening to his advantage. He digs his heel right into the gravel below, nearly spinning his whole body around as he winds himself up. Before Kameyama can react, Kiryu unravels, spinning with a speed nobody could expect, bringing his foot down upon Kameyama’s skull, watching his jaw deform as he silently screams. The power of his kick brings Kameyama down onto the ground, where Kiryu’s foot remains on his head for a moment. The crowd all back away, but Kiryu doesn’t notice. These are a group of men who have now come to respect and fear Kiryu. A familiar kind of bile rises up Kiryu’s throat, threatening to leave him.

Panting, Kiryu’s body refuses to relax. HIs heart continues to pound, sweat clinging to the undersides of his arms. His mental corkboard has been broken into two, right over his own head. Kameyama writhes, holding his face, but he’s too much of a man to whimper. His other hand digs into the gravel, there’s nothing there to give him purchase, so he sits there with rocks in his fist.

Suddenly, the crowd of hardhats disperse, a large split forming. Like a forest fire, destroying everything in its path, the Foreman arrives, his face red.

“Kiryu,” He screams, as Kiryu whips around. The Foreman shoves his face right into Kiryu’s, and he is a very large man, larger than Kameyama, and taller than Kiryu. He slaps a hand across Kiryu’s face, the noise sharp. The crowd winces, and tries to return to work. “What the fuck is the meaning of this?”

Kiryu, taking the hit with a straight face, bows his head.

“I’m sorry, Foreman Sugimori.” Kiryu apologizes. He looks back at Kameyama, a look of terror in the large man’s eyes. The wedding ring on his finger is glittering. “It…”

Foreman Sugimori growls, his lip pulled in a terrifying snarl. He continues to push into Kiryu’s space, until nearly their noses are touching. “Huh? What was that? I oughta have you fuckers kicked out on the streets, wasting my god damn time and money. Explain yourself! Who started this?”

Kiryu was a late participant. If he were there any sooner, he would’ve heard the argument that preceded the fight between Kameyama and Umeda. Umeda, a shorter man, had been carrying a beam, and Umeda, tired, had not noticed Kameyama right by him, knocking Kameyama right in the back of his head, and Kameyama, also tired, finally snapped. The argument had contained a lot of threats of getting the other fired, which terrified the both of them. While Kiryu didn’t get to see this, the terror in Kameyama’s eyes tells it all. It wasn’t either of the men’s faults. So, Kiryu takes in a sharp, crisp breath, and proves himself to be an entirely different kind of man to Kameyama, and anyone else watching.

“It was me,” He answers. “I started this. He had nothing to do with it,” He says, gesturing to Kameyama. The man looks like his heart is about to snap in half.

“Kameyama!” Foreman Sugimori snaps, turning to him. Foreman Sugimori steps away from Kiryu and towards Kameyama, pulling him up by the collar of his shirt. “Is he tellin’ the truth?”

Kameyama gives Kiryu a certain type of look, and Kiryu gives one back. With Foreman Sugimori’s back turned, Kiryu gives him a nod. Kiryu realizes he didn’t know the man’s name before. Internally, he says hello to Kameyama.

“It’s true,” Kameyama says, but he clearly doesn’t like doing it. “I was just minding my business when this guy just started beating the shit out of me. I barely had time to react.”

If Kiryu’s so hellbent on ruining his own life, he can at least do what he can to protect others. He’s sure Kameyama deserves this job more than him.

Foreman Sugimori lets go of Kameyama’s shirt, and turns back around. Pure vitriol is in his eyes as he hovers over Kiryu, an absolute beast of a man. Foreman Sugimori is a man who is very good at his job, but he is an extremely hateful, cruel one. He doesn’t have an ounce of empathy in him. Kiryu thinks he’d do very well with his own family.

“I want you out,” Foreman Sugimori demands, spitting in Kiryu’s face. He grabs Kiryu and pushes him backwards, and Kiryu lets him. “I want you out, you hear me? You’re done!”

A wave crashes over this forest fire trainwreck, as Kiryu watches a figure step into the site behind Foreman Sugimori’s shoulder.

“What’s the meaning of this?” The Owner asks. His voice is commanding, but smooth. He is the ice to Foreman Sugimori’s fire.

Foreman Sugimori whips around, while Kiryu straightens his posture, as do most of the other employees that notice the Owner.

“Shimura,” Foreman Sugimori greets, putting on an entirely different kind of tone with him. “Caught him beating on another worker.”

Shimura nods his head towards Foreman Sugimori to acknowledge him, and then passes him, stopping right in front of Kiryu. He must be looking at the bruises on Kiryu’s face, with the way his eyes squint. He is an older man, with grey hair he keeps slicked back.

Shimura is a businessman to the core, and also very good at his job, but he is a much kinder man. When Kiryu first showed up looking for a job, Shimura was impressed by the man’s determination, and his heart ached at his personal strife. Kiryu had told him about Haruka, about being her guardian by himself. This is why Kiryu is allowed to leave at 2:00, and return at 2:40. While he’s not a coddler, Shimura knows his employees are human, and when he’s on the scene, Foreman Sugimori changes himself almost entirely. Shimura considers Kiryu for a moment before opening his mouth.

“This isn’t like you, Kiryu,” Shimura says, a cold look on his face. “I thought…”

Kiryu lowers his head in shame. “I’m sorry, Shimura. I don’t know what came over me.”

Shimura shakes his head solemnly, and Kiryu is struck with a suddenly sad nostalgia.

“I told him that shit doesn’t fly here,” Foreman Sugimori says, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“Please,” Kiryu asks, eyes squeezing shut. He’s not above begging. “Give me another chance.”

Once again, Kiryu has messed up. Once again, his life is a life of hastily made decisions. If he’s not careful, he will bring everything down with him, like a brick. While Kiryu is a hard worker, and determined, he is rash, and reckless. He looks among the crowd, looks at Kameyama and Umeda, who refuse to meet his gaze out of utter shame. Shimura places a hand upon his shoulder, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, son. Your time here is done.” He says, and so Kiryu’s fate is sealed.

Foreman Sugimori looks at Kiryu with a somber look. The truth is, he doesn’t derive pleasure from berating those underneath him. All he is is a man with anger issues, and he is a man who just wants to do his job, same as the rest of the people here. He’s not enjoying this. None of them are.

So, Kiryu leaves, and it’s not even long after lunch time. He doesn’t catch Murata on the way out, but he wants to tell him that he does have something he’s working for. Something vastly important to him. He’s not fit to be Haruka’s guardian.

On the train back home, Kiryu can’t help but feel watched. He wonders if whoever has their eyes on him knows how much of a failure he is. The truth is, Kiryu Kazuma is no Fourth Chairman. He is a whole lot of nothing. The crowd that surround him pay no mind to the tattoo underneath.

He has around two hours before Haruka gets out of school.

What he does is go back home to their apartment first, deciding to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable. Nothing happens close to home, being a quieter community compared to other parts of Tokyo. A large shopping arcade is nearby, and mostly everyone has greeted Kiryu with kindness. When he looks up at the sky, he notices the clouds are growing heavy again. It’s only a matter of time before the rain returns. People walk past him, all heading in a single direction, while he’s the man going the opposite way. A woman chastises her son, a man is struggling to talk to his daughter on the phone, and a girl is walking her dog. They’re all talking, but Kiryu is silent. Back into the apartment building, nobody greets him inside. Moneyless, Kiryu makes his way up the flight of stairs, no groceries, no gifts, nothing. In a strange parallel Kiryu doesn’t know about, he listens to the voices he can catch on each floor before progressing to the next one. These are people he doesn’t know, people he’s never seen the faces of. They sound happier than him.

He has to do a lot of unlocking before he can get inside his own apartment, but he manages. Click, click, click, click, before he can step inside. He pushes the door open and toes his shoes off, leaving them discarded in the genkan, rather than putting them up. He throws his keys onto the small round table in the kitchen, the noodle cup still sitting there. His lighter is there, too. He opens the fridge, nearly empty and sad. This is an old fridge, one that’s been here long before they ever moved in. That’s the case with pretty much everything here. There’s a few takeout containers, and a couple of beers held together by a six-pack ring. He’s not thirsty, and despite not eating lunch, he’s not hungry either. He guesses that his appetite is just shot. He looks down at his palms, dirty and damaged, and he wonders about his face. He wonders what Haruka will think. His chest aches, like a sinkhole just opened up inside of him.

Kiryu forces himself into the small bathroom, where a stained mirror greets him. The shower never has hot water, and the sink has a dripping problem, but Kiryu tries to not think about those things. He rests his hands on the rim of the sink, gripping the ceramic tightly, and faces himself. This is the first time he’s gotten a good look at himself in a long time. His face is bruised, his eye reddened, sure to form into a full black eye soon. He has blood between his teeth, so he runs his tongue against them in an effort to hide it. He should shower, get the sweat and grime off of him. A construction site is not an entirely clean place. He has dirt on his face, and on his cheek, nearly invisible indents from where gravel dug into him. He sighs, and pulls his shirt over his head, leaving it discarded on the floor. He looks down at his knuckles, bloody and cut, and lets them drop to his side. He looks back at his face, his gaze. He looks haunted. Good mourning, plays back in his head, good mourning. He’s starting to feel like a broken record at this point.

He undresses himself completely after this, and reminds himself to put his dirty clothes in the hamper also inside the bathroom. The mirror isn’t full-body, so he just stares at his own head, a little of his chest. Refusing to consider himself any longer, Kiryu steps inside the shower.

He’s never been able to understand the idea of the shower washing away your stress. As he feels the lukewarm water run down his body, he doesn’t feel any better. He watches the grime swirl in the water before disappearing down the drain. He runs his hands over his body, almost like he’s scared it’ll disappear from him, too. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back so it isn’t in his face. With a small amount of soap and a 2-in-1 shampoo-conditioner bottle, Kiryu attempts to clean himself. The froth collects at his feet as he violently scrubs his own head, eyes clenched shut. His fingernails scrape against his scalp, and when he pulls his hands back, he sees the strands of hair he pulled out coating his fingers. In a moment, it’s all circling the drain. The water hitting him is almost like the rain. At least, in this bathroom, he can pretend he doesn’t have any issues. Like his mental corkboard, he can place everything into small boxes, lock them up like his front door.

His hands roam his body aimlessly, like a lover that hasn’t seen him in awhile. The thought floats strangely in his mind. It sticks to his chest, to his heart, before dripping down into his stomach. He presses a hand against his chest, gently gripping his breast, and greets the old feeling of arousal. He scowls, leaning forward to press a hand against the wall, head hung low. This is a type of arousal that comes in dark and alone moments. Stress eats away at him every hour of every day, drags behind him like a ball and chain. When he’s secure, this is what follows. An empty and nearly nauseating arousal, his stomach muscles flexing, drawing tight.

In moments like this, Kiryu sees his body as something separate from himself. He knows what women like, but is unsure of what he himself enjoys. He cups himself, apprehension bubbling from within, and he freezes like that. Kind, but distant, attentive, but lacking investment, is how the women he’s been with described him. His emotions have always been kept safely under his bed, so he struggled with forming romantic connections. He couldn’t see himself as the type of man to have those types of urges, even when he did. He’s locked tight, and this is where he finds himself now. He’d pleasured the women he slept with, but not much was done for him. He never minded, don’t get him wrong, but there’s a deep part of him realizing that he just couldn’t handle the idea of being pleasured himself. His body is a weapon. He’s never felt deeply about anybody before. He doesn’t feel too strongly about himself, either. He thinks there’s nothing wrong with him, and everything is wrong with him all at the same time. He wants to touch, but he doesn’t want to be touched. To be touched, it’d feel like a fight, like everything is. It’d be tiring. He’d lose that control he holds over himself. At least by himself, he isn’t at risk of losing himself.

So, he moves his hand, running his palm against his dick. His hand is rough, and his fingers are pruned. He feels wholly alone with himself. He touches himself like he would if he were with somebody else. It’s not what he wants, but it’s all he knows.

He pushes himself to rush, and he feels as though somebody is wringing his whole body. He grits his teeth, his breath short and labored, his hand against the wall balling up into a fist. He fucks himself until his wrist hurts, until he can’t take it anymore and brings himself to his knees. The showerhead is aimed directly at him, hitting him right in the face, but he doesn’t care. He lowers his head, chin nearly colliding with his chest, and he keeps stroking. His hand no longer purchased against the shower wall, he desperately grips his own flesh. He scratches his own thigh, grabs his own breast. This is a fight with himself, he realizes. It’s never like this when he’s with a woman, this hollow resentment against himself. Panic rips through his heart, his gasps stinging his throat, as he bucks himself into his palm, panic that all of his work will be for nothing, that he’ll be ripped away at any moment. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to relax. His glutes are tensed so tightly they begin to hurt, and he leaves his own marks on his breast, but that’s okay. He doesn’t have fantasies, but he imagines himself. He demands an orgasm out of himself, his body locking up. His wrist refuses to move anymore, and he begs it to move, as his dick throbs. He comes with a whimper, still in this tiny box of a shower, on his knees. The nausea is still there, and his stomach is still balled up tight, but he’s done.

Kiryu dries himself off in his room, dragging the towel over his head back-and-forth. Gone are his work clothes, so he pulls on his real skin. Like an old friend, Kiryu greets his suit. Good mourning, again, good mourning. His shirt grips him a bit looser now, as he works the tails of it into his pants. No matter what, he’ll find himself back in these clothes time and time again. He wants to see his brother scoff at it. He wants to see him laugh. He holds his arms, his hand over his mouth, but he doesn’t cry. Kiryu Kazuma does not cry, and neither did Shintaro Kazama. Monkey see, monkey do. When he walks, he is forced to regain his anger in each step. Monkey see, monkey do. It will keep him alive.

He’s doing this all for Haruka. He can’t give up now. He’ll take as many jobs as it takes before he finds one that sticks. He’ll keep messing up, but he’ll keep trying. Kindness and resilience will pay off. He has to believe this, no matter what, it will pay off.

Before he leaves, he eats week-old takeout from the fridge. It doesn’t taste any better, and it makes him hungrier than before. He checks his watch. He has an hour left before Haruka gets out of school.

He steps outside as a new kind of man, the likes of which this side of Tokyo has never seen before.

He walks with purpose, one hand in his pocket, as he descends the stairs to the ground floor.

“Hiroshi, please,” He hears a voice plead.

Right by the entrance of the building, the landlord, an older woman, holds onto the hand of an older man, shaking it profusely. Kiryu, not having been spotted, watches. It’d be rude to intervene, even if they are blocking the entrance, and he’d much rather leave.

“He’s your son, Hiroshi,” She continues. She is a woman by the name of Tajima Ritsuko. “You can’t even bring yourself to see your own son?”

The man named Hiroshi gives her a cold look, pulling his arm from her grasp. He wears an impressive suit, and his hair is nicely coiffed.

“He’s no son of mine,” He says, pushing the door open. “Just a useless nobody. I’ve got better things to do than spend my time around leeches like him.”

The vermin named Hiroshi then departs, leaving the old woman deserted. She holds a hand over her mouth, letting out a quiet sob. This is when she takes notice of Kiryu. She quickly turns away from him, hiding any sign of distress, expecting him to just leave.

Guided by his heart, Kiryu takes a detour.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice quiet.

She sniffles, turning her face towards him. She is short and hunched, so Kiryu towers over her.

“It’s nothing,” She stutters, “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“He was blocking the way out,” Kiryu replies, “I just want to make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

After a moment of deliberation, Ritsuko wipes at her eyes. Perhaps she sees the gentleness in Kiryu’s eyes, or perhaps she’s just so lonely, she’ll talk to anyone at this point. Regardless, her shaking fingers adjust her hair as she speaks.

“That man was my ex-husband,” She sighs. “He’s the CEO of a pharmaceutical company in Osaka.”

“Wow,” Kiryu remarks. It always seems like the men in charge are the ones who act the most immature. “He definitely did seem like a show-off. What’s he doing talking to you now?”

“It’s…” She lowers her gaze, “About our son, Shinji.”

“Shinji…” Kiryu echoes, nearly jumping when he hears it out of his own mouth. “It sounded like a pretty heated argument. A man like that shouldn’t talk about his own son that way.”

Sadly, she chuckles. She has the kind of wrinkles that indicate she’s smiled a lot all her life, but nowadays she wears a lonely look on her face.

“When we were still married, Hiroshi loved Shinji like a father should, buying him toys, playing ball with him, but after we divorced…” She holds a hand up to her chest, “It was like Hiroshi became an entirely different person…Shinji was a complete stranger to him.”

‘What a coward,’ Kiryu thinks. No matter what, a father should provide for his son. A father who discards his son like that is no man at all.

“That sounds like it was hard on Shinji.”

“It was…It was very hard,” She says, “But it was harder for him when Hiroshi found a new wife, and had more children. He raised those kids like he should, but Shinji was cast aside. He didn’t even spend time with him.”

“He replaced his own son?” Kiryu mutters.

Ritsuko wipes at her eyes once again. “Shinji is 20 years old now, but he has no drive. He doesn’t care at all about his future. I thought Hiroshi could’ve talked to him, talk some sense into him! But as you saw…”

A man with an absent father with no idea of how to go forward with life.

“Where is Shinji now?” Kiryu asks.

“He’s working at the shopping arcade by the station,” Ritsuko tells him, “Shinji works as a cook at a restaurant called Captain Beef.”

“Captain Beef?”

“I think it serves steaks,” She answers. “When he was younger, he dreamed of being an actor. He’s so creative…”

Kiryu, in this Story, takes a moment to think. It would not take long to stop by the shopping arcade to see this Shinji. Perhaps he’d even get a chance to talk to him, maybe give him a piece of advice. He shouldn’t be waiting on a father that’ll never show. It’s never too late to change, but if you’re not willing to make that effort, then you’re not worth waiting for. He’ll be able to possibly change the lives of Shinji and Ritsuko for the better, and he’ll be able to do it before Haruka gets out of school.

Finally, Kiryu nods. “I could talk to Shinji, ma’am.”

Ritsuko’s wet eyes widen. “I can’t ask that of you. This is just…a family affair.”

“I understand what it’s like to have a difficult living situation, ma’am. Please, it’s no bother.”

Kiryu manages a smile. It seems to work.

“I don’t think I remember your name, son. You live here, right?”

“It’s Kiryu. I live here with–” He pauses. This is a moment of truth. “I’m the guardian of a little girl.”

“Oh,” She hums, trying to remember him. Eventually, she nods. “Kiryu…I’ll remember that. Thank you, dear. Thank you so much. I wasn’t able to get through to the boy, but maybe you could.”

Kiryu nods and turns, pushing the door open. Again, he looks back at Ritsuko and smiles. “I’ll see you after I’ve talked to Shinji.”

The shopping arcade is a long, serpentine structure, with an overhead roof. The rain’s really picked up now, so Kiryu is thankful for the cover. It has over 100 shops, varying in what they sell, or what they are, and it’s usually packed. It’s a place Kiryu never visits, because he doesn’t have a reason to, so he feels like a fish out of water as he walks. People beckon others towards their stalls, and the smell of food drifts through the air. He can’t help himself from comparing it to Kamurocho, but it’s truly night and day. Kamurocho was neon, blues and purples that drowned everything around it in its lights. It was a whole other beast, and it was home. He doesn’t know what to make of here. Kamurocho is only 30 minutes away, but it feels like an ocean apart. He doesn’t feel changed, but he feels out of place. This doesn’t feel like his, but he’s trying to be okay with that. This is for Haruka, rather than him. If Haruka can find a home here, it’ll all be worth it.

He bumps into someone.

This person falls, tripping over Kiryu, and landing onto the concrete below with a thud. The bag they were holding slips their grasp, and all of their belongings go flying.

“Shit,” Kiryu stutters, immediately crouching down.

This person is a man with a round face, and he’s wearing a skittish look. He takes one look up at Kiryu and turns away, quickly grabbing for his groceries.

“I’m s-sorry!” He wheezes. He has a goatee and is wearing a cashmere sweater.

“No, no,” Kiryu reaches for the groceries closest to him, vegetables, and continues, “It was my fault. Here, let me help.”

The man, bug-eyed, looks at the groceries, then at Kiryu. He seems to ease up.

“Oh. T-thank you, sir.” He says, letting Kiryu assist him. Luckily, the people all around them make room, a small opening in the sea of pedestrians.

When everything seems right, Kiryu stands back up and offers the man a hand. With wide eyes, the man takes it, and Kiryu pulls him up to his feet.

“Um, thank you,” He says again, “I’m sorry for b-bumping into you.”

“I should’ve been looking where I was going.” Kiryu apologizes, “You have a good day, okay?”

The man quickly laughs, his expression shifting like a slot-machine. Fear, thankfulness, nervousness, landing on happiness. “I will,” He says, laughing awkwardly again, “I will!”

He walks past Kiryu, and Kiryu realizes he’s right in front of the Captain Beef building. Lucky him, he thinks. He wonders if coincidences like that happen for a reason. There’s a large window right by the entrance, where Kiryu can see a man working, although he has a hat, so Kiryu can’t see his face. There’s a chalkboard sign outside the door with ‘Steak Diner’ written in English.

The door jingles as Kiryu steps inside. The floor is a shined dark wood, with several tables seating various people. A fan whirls in the corner, while what sounds like jazz plays through a speaker. Posters coat the walls around him, and the people seem like they’re enjoying their time here. The pleasant smell of beef crashes right into Kiryu, and he realizes he is more hungry than he realizes. His stomach growls. The man he saw through the window beckons him over, smiling. He’s a younger man, with curly hair.

“Table for one?” He asks.

Kiryu rubs the back of his neck. “No, I’m looking for a man named Shinji. Is he working here today?”

The man adjusts his hat, raising a brow. “Oh, yeah, he’s in today. He’s cooking right now, but if you’re willing to wait, I’ll let him know he’s got a visitor.”

Kiryu considers this for a moment. It can’t be that long of a wait, right? He nods. “Sure.”

So, the man leans over the counter, gesturing to an empty seat, and Kiryu takes it.

A man and a woman are talking about their mother. They seem to be siblings. A man and his friend are laughing with each other with full mouths. And then, there’s Kiryu. He sits alone, his hands put together.

The man that was behind the counter approaches Kiryu’s table. He points behind himself towards the kitchen.

“He’ll be out soon. In the meantime, do you want anything to eat?”

Kiryu raises a hand, shaking his head.

“No, I’m fine,” He replies, his stomach growling. He hopes the man doesn’t hear it. “I don’t exactly have money to spend.”

The man offers him a sympathetic look. He adjusts his hat again. “It’s on the house, then. You look like you need a decent meal.”

“Oh.” Kiryu furrows his brow. Does he look bad? Sickly? What does he mean by that? While Kiryu jumps to negative conclusions, what the man really means is that Kiryu looks tired, his face is covered in bruises, after all. The types of people he comes into contact with here are different from the ones in Kamurocho, but Kiryu can’t help but assume the worst. He shakes his head. “Can you tell Shinji I’m here on the behalf of his mother?”

Something changes in the man’s expression. His mouth opens, then closes. He nods.

“You got it.”

And then, he disappears.

So, Kiryu waits. He tries not to be an impatient man, but he can’t help but bounce his leg. He hopes nobody can see it, underneath the table.

After waiting, thankfully not awhile, another employee exits from the kitchen. Kiryu doesn’t notice until he’s at his table. He looks up, meeting the man’s gaze. He’s younger than the man at the counter, but he wears the same hat. He has an apron, and he’s holding a tray of food.

“Hey.” He says. This is Tajima Shinji. He sets the tray down onto Kiryu’s table. “Don’t worry about paying.”

Kiryu first registers the smell. It smells delightful. This is a sirloin, cut into cubes. A garnish is set nicely, and it’s accompanied by three different sauces, along with steak fries. This is the work of a man who knows what he’s doing. He can’t help but accept.

“Thank you.” Kiryu says, and he watches the man sit at the seat across from him. He takes off his hat, revealing long hair kept in a hairnet.

“So, uh,” Shinji stutters. He scratches his temple nervously. “My buddy says you know my mom?”

Kiryu, with the chopsticks provided, takes a piece of the beef. It tastes great. He nods as he chews.

When he swallows, he replies. “I’m one of her tenants.” He answers, “She seemed worried about you.”

“Worried?” Shinji cocks his head. He rests his elbow on the table, his palm against his chin.

“Apparently she’s worried you don’t have any plans for your future,”

Silently, Shinji nods his head, looking off past Kiryu. He sighs.

“She’s always worried about me like that. I wish she didn’t.”

“A mother always worries,” Kiryu guesses, “She even attempted to talk to your father,”

Shinji’s head snaps back to Kiryu, eyes wide. He leans forward in his seat. “My father? What did he say?”

Kiryu contemplates lying, but he knows that will just make matters worse. No matter what, the truth will always come out.

“He said you were no son of his, that he wanted nothing to do with you, and he left.”

Shinji leans back in his seat, defeated. He rubs his forehead, his hand covering his eyes for a moment.

“Yeah, that sounds like him. I know what you’re gonna say. My mom always tells me I should just…talk to him. Make amends, or something.”

“I don’t think so,” Kiryu answers. Shinji gives him a look of absolute disbelief. It melts into relief. “It’s not on you to make things right. If anything, it’s his responsibility as your father, even if he doesn’t see you as his son.”

Shinji lowers his head.

“He divorced my mom when I was around 10. Before that, I thought he loved me. But then it was like I didn’t exist. He never called, visited. I grew up thinking it was my fault he left.”

“Do you still believe that?”

Shinji closes his mouth, his lips pressed tightly together. He averts Kiryu’s gaze for a moment. The answer is yes.

“If he wasn’t man enough to raise you, then it’s on him. He’s a coward, the worst kind. Divorced or not, he should’ve been there if you wanted him. Instead he found a new family, while forgetting his son.”

Shinji looks at him with the same wet eyes his mother wore. He looks more like her than his father. He slouches in his seat.

“You shouldn’t be waiting for a father who isn’t going to show. You’re a good kid, Shinji. If he can’t value that, then he’s not worth it.”

Slowly, Shinji nods. He scratches at his hairnet.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Shinji eventually says.

“It’s Kiryu,” Kiryu replies. He eats more of the sirloin. Hiroshi may have called his son a useless nobody, but Shinji is definitely a fantastic cook.

Then, the entrance opens again, the door jingling. With Kiryu’s back turned, he can only see Shinji’s reaction. The man’s face drops, and he quickly pulls his hat back onto his head, hiding his face in shame. Kiryu turns around and scowls.

“Seat for four?” The man at the counter asks.

“Is that…” Kiryu murmurs.

Hiroshi, Shinji’s father, nods. He is accompanied by three other men in black suits.

“I can’t believe it,” Shinji hisses. “Why is he here?!”

Kiryu watches as the man at the counter seats Hiroshi and the other men. Quietly, they order their food. The other men wear sunglasses. Bodyguards, he assumes. Why would a man like that need bodyguards?

“You want me to get him out of here?” Kiryu asks. He’s still glaring at Hiroshi.

“No, don’t!” Shinji yelps. He fixes stray strands peeking out from his hairnet. “I just have to be in the kitchen. He’ll eat, then leave. I don’t want to cause a scene.”

Kiryu nods, and watches Shinji disappear. He looks down at his meal, and makes a choice to eat as slowly as he can. He wants to watch this bastard. What if he somehow notices Shinji?

The three other men, clearly bodyguards, each wear a different colored tie. Yellow-tie, Red-tie, and Blue-tie, with Hiroshi sitting in the center.

“It’s your daughter’s birthday soon, right, sir?” Yellow-tie asks.

The man at the counter provides drinks. Expensive alcohol, from the looks of it.

Hiroshi lifts a glass, smirking. “That’s right. She’ll be 16. We’re heading to France to celebrate.”

‘One of the kids he had to replace Shinji,’ Kiryu thinks bitterly.

“You’re a fantastic father, sir!” Blue-tie chimes in, astounded. “I wish I could take my kids on trips like that.”

Hiroshi maintains that smirk. He leans back in his seat. “Only the best for my kids,” He says. “My youngest is only 11, and he’s the most accomplished in his class!”

Kiryu huffs, taking an extremely slow time to chew. Angrily, he swallows.

“I’ll second that,” Red-tie says, grinning, “You’re the best father!”

Kiryu is sure he’s going to break a tooth from how hard he’s chewing.

Hiroshi chuckles with the pompous arrogance of a man who doesn’t know a man who hates pompous arrogant pricks sits near him.

Suddenly, the man at the counter runs out from his station, phone up to his ear. He curses, in a rush, and runs out from the restaurant. Everyone watches him with a shocked look. What was that about? In the corner of his eye, Kiryu notices something waving. He turns, and realizes it’s Shinji, poking his head out from the kitchen door. He looks absolutely terrified. Kiryu, trying not to draw attention to himself, gets up.

“Shinji?” Kiryu whispers, allowing himself to get pulled into the kitchen. Shinji is the only one here.

“Masaki-chan just disappeared!” Shinji gasps, naming the man at the counter, now no longer at the counter. “He was the server, I can’t bring food out there!”

“You two are really the only employees?”

“No, we’re not, we don’t get very busy, so some of the others went home, leaving just me and him! Kiryu-san, you have to help me!”

The poor man is shaking. Kiryu can’t sit back and let him do this on his own.

“I’ll help you,” Kiryu says assuredly. “I’ll bring the food to them.”

Shinji looks at him like he’s a saint. He grabs at Kiryu’s shoulders. “You will? Thank you, Kiryu-san!”

Stupidly, Kiryu realizes that he has no idea how to deliver food. It can’t be that hard, can it? This is a small restaurant, and it won't be much of a walk. Kiryu will definitely be able to do this.

“Sure. What do I do?”

Shinji brings him over to a table, handing him a large round platter. On this platter, he stacks multiple plates on top of it with skill, but Kiryu struggles to keep up. It requires balance, he quickly figures out. It can’t be uneven, or he’ll fall.

“So, I just bring this to their table?” He asks.

Shinji nods. “That’s right– Now go! Quickly, before they get angry!”

So, Kiryu struggles to get out of the kitchen. He uses his foot to push open the door, trying his best not to jostle the food too much. He takes small steps towards Hiroshi’s table. He doesn’t know the names of these dishes, and he doesn’t know who ordered what. He didn’t think to ask.

So, he sets the platter on their table, and looks at them dumbly.

“Uh.” He stammers, trying to figure out what to say. Various responses cycle through his head. Accidentally, he goes with the worst one. “You’re welcome?”

“What?” Yellow-tie asks. They all stare at him with a confused look. Kiryu figures out what stage-fright is.

“Pay him no mind,” Hiroshi says, regarding him with disgust, like he’s a lowlife. What is wrong with rich people?

Quickly, he sets the plates of food onto their table, not caring who it goes to, and he escapes before they can say anything. When he returns to the kitchen, he holds the platter close to his chest. What just happened?

“You did it?” Shinji asks, hopeful.

Kiryu nods. “Yeah.” He says.

The restaurant entrance opens, and both of their hearts stop. The kitchen has a window that shows the entrance, which is where the counter rests. It appears to be a family, a woman, and an older man and women.

“Oh, shit!” Shinji yelps. He shakes his head, holding it between his hands. “I can’t do this!”

Kiryu sighs. He shakes his head, too. “I’ll handle this.”

So, Kiryu finds himself at the front of the restaurant. He’s done real estate. He knows how to handle people. He can definitely do this.

“Welcome to…” He forgot the name of the restaurant. What is it? The answer cycles through his head a few times. “Captain Beef. Please, let me seat you.”

“Oh, thank you!” The younger woman says. She seems impressed by his appearance, from the way her face flushes.

He leads them to an empty table, right by the one he was eating at, his plate still sitting there. He watches them seat themselves, then realizes he has to take their orders. Is this really what people do all day for work? He gains a new respect for restaurant workers everywhere.

“What can I get you?” He asks. He’ll have to remember this.

“Could we have menus?” The woman asks. The older woman and man regard him strangely.

“Oh. Please excuse me.” He replies stoically. His brain is screaming.

So, he quickly strides over to the counter. There! He grabs three menus.

“It’s…My first day,” Kiryu tells them, as he sets the menus down. It’s the best excuse he could come up with.

“Oh, it’s alright,” The older man says as he lifts up the menu. They all do so, while Kiryu stands there.

The older man wants the signature steak, medium rare. The older woman wants the signature burger, with barbeque sauce specially made by the restaurant. The younger woman wants a chuck flap with a side of rice. They all want water to drink.

So, Kiryu thanks them, and heads back to the kitchen, his stomach doing all kinds of flips.

He attempts to relay this all to Shinji, who has to ask him for clarification, which he struggles to do so. He won’t go back out there to ask again. So, he puts his trust in his own memory, and Shinji’s skills, and lets him cook. Kiryu wants a smoke more than anything at this moment.

Shinji stacks their meals up on the platter before handing it to Kiryu this time, and this time, Kiryu handles it much better. Perhaps in another life, he could’ve been a server. Quickly, he makes his way over to the family’s table.

“Sorry for the wait,” Kiryu says. Miraculously, he remembers who ordered what, placing their food with a nervous quickness.

“Thank you!” The woman says, smiling up at him. She’s pretty.

Then, Yellow-tie, from the table of jackasses, gestures to Kiryu.

“Hey, you, bring us another bottle of the good stuff!” He shouts rudely.

“Excuse me?” Kiryu glares.

“You heard me,” Yellow-tie snaps, flailing his arm. “You deaf, or something?”

“I can hear you just fine,” Kiryu growls. “Did your mother ever teach you respect?”

“Excuse me?” Yellow-tie hollers, standing up from his seat, his chair screeching against the wooden floor. “You wanna say that to my face?”

“You’re currently disturbing the other guests here.” Kiryu replies coldly. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Suddenly, the kitchen door opens, and Shinji emerges. With his hat hung extremely low, no doubt obscuring his vision, he runs over to the table his father sits at. His hands are shaking.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Shinji quivers, holding a bottle. Hiroshi won’t recognize his voice.

So, Shinji attempts to pour the man’s glass, but due to the hat hiding his entire face, he miscalculates, pushing the glass right onto Hiroshi’s lap, and pouring the bottle’s contents alongside with it, drenching the man. Everyone but Kiryu gasps.

“Shinji…” Kiryu whispers.

“I-I’m so sorry!” Shinji shouts, placing the bottle on the table. Not knowing how to rectify this, he bows his head, grabbing for the napkins on the table. “Please forgive me!”

“You little shit,” Hiroshi snaps, standing up straight. With Shinji hunched over the table, he grabs Shinji’s collar, throwing him back. The family gasps as Shinji hits the floor, his hat getting knocked off in the process. Hiroshi regards his son with disgust, then recognition, then pure hatred. “You.” He hisses. “Always somehow getting in my business, huh?! Just my luck I would run into you. Pathetic.”

Shinji cowers as Hiroshi’s bodyguards surround him.

“Teach this boy a lesson, why don’t you,” Hiroshi tells his men.

“Why don’t I teach you a lesson, instead, old man?” Kiryu shouts. He steps in front of Shinji, unaware that this action has given Shinji a new kind of hope. “How about a parenting lesson?”

Hiroshi’s face scrunches up as he stares at Kiryu.

“Nevermind the boy,” He redirects his rage. “Take care of this cocky asshole!”

“How about we take this outside?” Kiryu asks. He eyes the men.

“How about you go fuck yourself!” Blue-tie shrieks, throwing his fist out.

“I said,” Kiryu hisses, catching the man’s arm. He twists it around and slams the man’s face right onto the table he previously sat at, shoving his face right into his plate of food. “Outside!”

Red-tie attempts to attack Kiryu from behind, but Kiryu’s quicker and meaner than him, turning around and grabbing the man by the collar. With two of Hiroshi’s men subdued, he lifts them both, throwing them towards the door, just like taking out the trash. He offers Yellow-tie a look, and Yellow-tie whimpers, running towards the door as well. He helps Blue-tie and Red-tie up, and they all bolt. Kiryu was expecting a fight. He scoffs.

“Looks like it’s your bad day, Hiroshi.” Kiryu announces. Hiroshi looks bug-eyed towards the entrance, like he can’t believe what he just witnessed.

Shinji struggles to get up to his feet, his knees buckling like a newborn fawn.

“Idiots,” Hiroshi hisses. He turns back to Kiryu. He has a gaunt face, and the way the light hits his face transforms it into something skull-like. “Who are you?”

“Me?” Kiryu asks. He cracks his neck. “I’m just a simple waiter.”

Hiroshi’s hand goes to his chest, to his coat. This man is not a CEO. Before he can produce a pistol from his suit, Kiryu grabs the man by his lapels, dragging him over the table, knocking over plates and glasses. He slams him down onto the ground, a heavy foot upon his chest.

“A man such as yourself shouldn’t need bodyguards or a gun. You’re just a rich scumbag drug-trafficker, aren’t you?”

The man looks up at him in complete disbelief, and terror. Kiryu got the nail on the head.

“Shinji deserves better than you,” Kiryu tells him. “A real father never abandons his son, but now that I’ve seen the man that you are, I know he’s better off without you. Now get the hell out!”

Kiryu lifts his foot and grabs the man’s shoulder, dragging him up to his feet.

“Wait, Kiryu-san!” Shinji suddenly yelps. He steps forward, facing his father. He gives Kiryu a quick look of understanding.

For a moment, Shinji just stares at his father, and Hiroshi stares back.

“I spent years blaming myself for you leaving me and mom. But now I know you’re just a piece of shit. I’m done waiting for you. I’m gonna be a better father than you ever were! And I won’t rely on crime to do it!”

‘Nice, Shinji!’ Kiryu thinks. A smile can’t help but form.

Hiroshi sputters as Kiryu drags him out like a kitten. When he kicks him out of the restaurant, he does it literally, shoving his foot up Hiroshi’s ass hard enough to send the man flying.

First, he looks at the family. The young woman has a hand over her chest, while the older folks have their eyes blown wide. They all seem to agree that Kiryu is a hero. Then, he looks to Shinji. Kiryu picks his hat back up and hands it to him.

“I’m proud of you, Shinji,” Kiryu tells him. “Standing up to your father like that couldn’t have been easy.”

“Nah,” Shinji tells him. “He’s not my father. Not anymore.”

Kiryu nods.

“You’re a good kid. You don’t need a guy like that dragging you down. What will you do now?”

Shinji ponders this for a moment.

“I’ll call my mom. She’ll be happy to hear that I’m done worrying about him. Now, I’ll start focusing on my own life.”

“That’s more like it.” Kiryu says. He claps a hand on Shinji’s shoulder, smiling.

“I can’t thank you enough, Kiryu-san…You’re an inspiring guy.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I just stand up when I see someone in trouble. I better get out of here.”

Shinji takes Kiryu’s hand, giving it a firm, two-handed shake. “I hope to see you soon, Kiryu-san!”

“I hope so, too. And I’m sorry for disturbing your meals,” He turns to the family.

“Why can’t you bring home a man like that?” The older woman hisses to her daughter.

“It’s alright!” The younger woman tells him, her face red.

So, Kiryu leaves. He hopes he was able to set Shinji on the right track. ‘Stay strong, Shinji!’ He thinks, ‘You’ll do great things.’

He checks his watch.

He’s late.

And so, Kiryu sprints. What a failure he is, helping someone elses kid without thinking of his own. What a failure he is! Why does this always happen with him? Hauntingly, he figures that the issue was never with Kamurocho. It was all with him. He begs Haruka to forgive him before he even sees her, begging her to understand. He wants her to be angry with him, but the scarier reality is, she’ll be sadly okay with it. What if she walked herself home? She wouldn’t be able to get inside, she doesn’t have the keys! What if someone grabbed her? It’ll all be his fault. He bumps into crowds of people, but he doesn’t stop to apologize. He has somewhere to be, people! Get out of his way!

When he finally reaches Haruka’s elementary school, he has to keel over, his hands on his knees. He pants, running his hand through his hair. Sweat runs down his forehead. When he finally catches his breath, he runs his arm across his head, and breathes a sigh of relief. The rain is taking a break, too. He scans for Haruka.

She’s sitting with a man on a bench, she’s kicking her feet, as the man points to something in her open binder. This man has an eager, kind, baby-face. He wears a brightly colored shirt.

“And that’s how you find the area,” The man announces gently. He watches her scribble something, and lights up. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “See? You got it!”

Silently, she nods. Is something wrong?

“Haruka!” Kiryu announces. He jogs towards her, stopping just a few feet away. Instantly, Haruka’s face lights up. Her eyes are red, and her brow furrows. She nearly throws the binder off her lap, but the man sitting next to her catches it.

“Ojisan!” She cries out. She jumps off the bench, running for Kiryu. She nearly jumps as she wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing him as tight as she can. He puts a hand on her head, soothingly petting her. “I was so worried!”

“I’m sorry I’m late, Haruka,” Kiryu apologizes, “I should’ve been here sooner.”

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness outloud. He won’t put that on her.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” She says. The truth is, Kiryu was only 15 minutes late. This is the fear of a child who has lost too much.

Kiryu looks up at the man at the bench. He has a pair of thick glasses on, with a shaved head. The man closes her binder for her.

“Who is that?” Kiryu asks Haruka. She pries herself off of him and turns around.

“His name is Yoshida,” She says. “He works here as a janitor, but he saw me alone, so he sat with me.”

“Oh.”

“She just looked like she needed some help with her school work,” Yoshida says, smiling warmly. “She’s a bright young lady! She definitely catches on quick.”

Kiryu keeps a hand on Haruka’s head, giving the man a nod. “Well, thank you for making sure she was safe.”

“Of course,” Yoshida nods. Gently, he places Haruka’s binder into her bookbag for her, zipping it up and holding it to her. “You have a nice day, Haruka-san.”

“Thank you, Yoshida-san.” She replies, managing a smile. She takes her bookbag from him, pulling it on. “I hope I see you again.”

When Yoshida smiles, his eyes crinkle. Is that stress Kiryu sees?

Regardless, Haruka quickly takes Kiryu’s hand, and Kiryu gives it a squeeze. They walk home together.

Kiryu, deciding to be transparent with her, has to break the news.

“Haruka…” He sighs, shaking his head. “I got fired today.”

Haruka, wide-eyed, nearly trips. She gasps. “What?”

“I did something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“Is…Is that why your face is all bruised?”

Kiryu’s eyes squeeze shut. Ashamedly, he nods.

“Oh.” Is all Haruka says. Her face drifts downwards, down to the ground, her eyes on each step she takes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Haruka.” Kiryu assures her.

“But…You always show up to walk me home. Is that why they fired you?” She asks. “You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better.”

She’s only 9, and she worries like this. Kiryu can’t stand to see her like this.

“Haruka, no,” Kiryu stops, and so does she. He crouches down to meet her eye, putting a hand on her small shoulder. “Haruka, none of this is your fault. I wouldn’t lie to you. You shouldn’t be worrying about this, Haruka. I’ll figure this out, okay?”

Haruka doesn’t meet his gaze, but she nods.

“Okay?” Kiryu says again.

“Okay.” She replies, and so he stands back up, taking her small hand in his, and they continue on their way.

After a little bit of walking, Kiryu turns to her.

“Did you have a good day at school?”

“Mhm.” She replies. “I saw a squirrel outside the window in my classroom.”

“Squirrel?” Kiryu asks. “Shouldn’t they all be hibernating?”

“No, I really saw it, on a branch.”

“Isn’t that something?” Kiryu hums. “I remember back in Sunflower Orphanage, we’d see all sorts of animals. Did you see a lot of them growing up?”

“I think so.” She thinks. “But, I liked the bugs a lot more.”

Kiryu raises a brow, “Bugs?” He asks, endearingly.

“I liked to carry them around,” She explains, “There were all kinds of them in the grass. All the kids made fun of me, though. They thought it was gross.”

“They just didn’t understand.” Kiryu tells her, “Kids can lash out when they don’t fully understand other people or their interests.”

“I know a lot of adults like that, too,”

Kiryu laughs. It feels good to laugh, and when he sees her smile, he smiles, too.

“You’re right.”

Kiryu manages to scrounge up enough money to order delivery. It’s from a nearby place that serves fried chicken in a bento box, accompanied by shredded cabbage and rice. It’s cheap, and it’ll keep them fed for another day. Tomorrow, he’ll enter the job market once again. There’s not many jobs that’ll hire you when you’re a mean son of a bitch, but Kiryu’ll try. He never finished high school, and he definitely never attended college, but he’ll find something. He has to. He can’t fathom failure, even as he fails time and time again, he can’t fathom it, so he’ll keep trying, and trying, and trying. He knows what he’s good at, and though it isn’t a lot, it’s something. He doesn’t want to say that he misses his old life. The majority of him doesn’t, but then there’s that small little piece, that little piece of blood-chunks that bounces around his skull. It felt right when he hit Kameyama, and it felt right when he hit Hiroshi and his bodyguards. He doesn’t have anything together, but when his fist slams right into someone, he understands everything. Violence slots nicely in Kiryu’s life like a puzzle piece, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want it to be anymore, for Haruka’s sake. Violence fits in her life, too, and that terrifies him.

Does he like his life?

Does he like himself?

These aren’t questions he can answer. The truth is, none of it matters. It has never mattered. All that matters is, Haruka’s smile, the joy in Ritsuko’s face when he said he’d talk to her son, the hope in Shinji’s eyes as he finally stood up to his father. Life is connections. Life is the ability to touch other people, and leave pieces of yourself in them. Life is about touch. Whether it’s violence, or a gentle caress, life is about touch, and he’ll live this way ‘till he’s in the grave. He doesn’t know any other way. He may not like himself, but he knows himself, and that is enough.

He watches Haruka draw, watches her perception of the world, and he wants to hope.

“Is that me?” He asks. Her small hand zig-zags with a black crayon, forming his hair, his sideburns. She sits on the floor, her sketchbook in her lap, her knees bent.

She nods.

“What am I holding?” He asks. The doodle-him holds something long in his ball-hand.

“A baseball bat,” She answers. “You took me to the baseball place a lot. You were really good at hitting.”

He gently smiles.

“I could take you again. I’m sure there’s somewhere nearby. I could teach you.”

Her hand pauses. He can’t see her face.

“I don’t really like being in the place. It was scary.”

His smile fades.

“Scary?” He asks. Once again, that concerned look on his face returns. “It was scary?”

“It felt…” She struggles to find the word. She holds the crayon tightly as she sways her knees back and forth. Without the word coming to her, she resorts to defining it. “When it’s small, and, and tight. In you, and the place.”

Kiryu’s face drops. His mouth opens, then closes, and his hands close into fists.

“Claustrophobic?” He apprehensively guesses. It’s harrowing to watch her nod.

She was held in a closet tied up for who knows how long. She watched a man get stabbed in the stomach.

“I won’t take you again,” Kiryu assures her, but it doesn’t make her feel better. “There’s a lot of other things we can do. Do you still like crane games?”

Slowly, she returns to drawing. It takes her a moment to register what Kiryu says, but when she does, she looks up at him, nodding.

“Uh-huh. Do you think we could go, Ojisan?”

Kiryu crouches down before seating himself entirely behind her, his legs crossed.

“Of course. Can I watch you draw some more?”

“Mm-hm.” She hums.

And so, she continues drawing. The crayon in her hand is dull, nearly used up entirely. When he gets his next paycheck, he’ll buy her a new set. A nicer set. A better set than he ever had when he was small like her. She draws with such careful consideration, so different from when he was young. He’d hold crayons in his fist until they broke. He’d scribble a violent rainbow into paper until it ripped, but she makes art. It makes him feel proud. He leans down gently, his back popping, just so he can see her face. She has that determined, focused look that’s near identical to his. His mind is brought back to that word. Claustrophobic. His mind is brought back to her fear.

“There’s places where I feel claustrophobic, too,” He tells her.

In disbelief, she pauses, looking up at him once again. “Really?”

He nods.

“Yeah. I don’t like crowds.”

“Crowds? But you lived in Kamurocho.”

“I did, but that doesn’t mean I liked the crowds. I didn’t like that at any moment, somebody could be watching me.”

“I don’t like that, either,” Haruka agrees. After a moment, a thought pops up in her head. “But you didn’t look scared at all, Ojisan. We walked through tons and tons of crowds.”

Kiryu rubs his chin, his eyes sliding shut. He quietly hums. When he talks to her, for a moment, he understands himself. For a moment, he allows himself his own kindness, so she can understand.

“I was scared,” He tells her, “I was in prison for a long time, and then suddenly I was back in Kamurocho, it was loud, and bright, and I would walk through thousands of people a day. But I was more scared of what would happen if I stopped going outside.”

He puts a hand on her head.

“And when you were with me, I didn’t feel scared at all.”

Her eyes widen, like she’s figured out just how important she really is.

“Really?”

Kiryu nods again, a broken record of nodding. He grunts, saying yes.

“I don’t feel scared when you’re there, either, Ojisan. When all those people took me, and that scary man with the eyepatch was there,” His name is Majima Goro, Kiryu thinks, “I was so scared, but when you came to save me, I wasn’t scared at all.”

“I’ll always be there to save you,” Kiryu affirms, but he decides he doesn’t like that answer, so he adds: “Though, I’d prefer it if you didn’t get captured at all.”

“Me neither,” She agrees, nodding, and he nods too. Two people in full agreement, there. Nobody deserves to be kidnapped. He’s glad they could come to this understanding.

A couple hours later, a little bit before Haruka has her enforced-but-not-enforced bedtime, Kiryu finds himself doing the sparse laundry they have. He’s glad they have their own washer and dryer, even if they don’t work that well. First, he folds one of his shirts, large, and then he folds one of hers, tiny. Next to each other, they make a comedic pair. They’re both red, and Kiryu realizes he is not good at folding. As it turns out, he is not good at laundry at all, and miraculously, he’s not good at anything relating to the word ‘Domestic’ .

But, he has a long, long time to learn. He’s only been a parent for a couple months. That word echoes in his head. Parent, parent, parent. It’s a lot different from guardian, isn’t it? It contains a large amount of baggage Kiryu isn’t sure he’s ready to unpack. He thinks the thought again. He’s only been a guardian for a couple months. Sated, he nods to himself. Parent is a term relegated for people that attend long, boring meetings to be talked to death about how much of a failure they are. Parent is a term relegated for people who are dead, and Kiryu is definitely not dead. His fingers are clutching cloth tightly, until his knuckles turn white. Snap out of it, get back to work. Good mourning, good mourning.

A certain terror suddenly rips through Kiryu. A feeling of anticipation, his heart dunked in ice-cold water. Something is going to happen. Something is definitely going to happen. His lungs feel empty no matter how many times he breathes. His fists instinctively form of their own accord, his whole body clenching. He drops the shirt he was holding and he whirls around. He feels it before he hears it.

“Ojisan!” Haruka screams, out of view, and Kiryu bolts.

“Haruka!” He responds.

He finds her at the nearly-opened front door, standing a few feet away from it, frozen. His body acts on its own, as he lifts her up by her armpits, lifting her up so violently her legs swing, and he gently sets her behind him, no doubt giving her whiplash. He puts himself between her and the door, as she clings to his pant leg. All of the locks are undone, most likely done by Haruka, the chain-lock swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He huffs out a strong breath through his nose, a bull seeing red, his shoulders squared. This is when recognition hits him.

“Did he hurt you?” He asks instinctively.

Haruka silently shakes her head, and while he doesn’t see it, he feels it, her head pressed against his thigh as she hides behind him.

The man named Majima Goro lights a cigarette, the light carving out his features in a violent red-yellow before he flicks it shut. As he shoves his lighter, and his hand, into his pocket, he pinches his cigarette between the index and middle finger of his other hand. Smoke leaves him like a factory. This is a new kind of Story, as Majima stands within the doorframe of Kiryu Kazuma’s new life, clearly adamant on bringing it down. Majima Goro is a man Kiryu barely knows, but he somehow understands in a way he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Unpleasant and violent and dangerous in every possible way, he is a friend just as much as he is an enemy. But, right now, he is simply the monster under the bed, an actor walking into the wrong set. He’s giving Kiryu a half-lidded, mean smirk. Immediately, he’s at home, and home is a broken nose and a few shattered ribs. He reaches behind himself, putting a hand on Haruka’s shoulder.

“Get the fuck out of my home.” He warns.

“I got a job for ya.” Majima replies, nearly cutting Kiryu right off.

Without Majima’s own perspective of this Story, Kiryu is left feeling pissed off. A thesaurus couldn’t begin to list off the certain choice words Kiryu wants to spew at him.

Instead, this is what Kiryu comes up with. A blunt, confused, stupid: “What?” And it could be the single worst thing he’s ever said in his life. Worse than any curse. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Because, that was an invite. And Majima takes it without a second thought.

“Get the fuck out of my home.” Kiryu says, hand against Haruka, as she hugs his thigh. He doesn’t relent, give into fear. He holds his gaze on Majima, undeterred and mad as all hell.

Kiryu watches the shift in Majima’s expression, with his cigarette between his lips. The corner of his lip quirks, almost like a smile, but the way his eye squints is more comparable to disgust than anything else, his nose held high and scrunched. He stands like a reaper, the light behind him in the hallway stretching his shadow across Kiryu’s apartment, across the two of them. If Kiryu were younger, he’d punch first, knock his fist into Majima’s jaw hard enough that he would break through the hallway wall behind him, but he doesn’t. Holding back from his urges, he remains still, adamant on remaining the better man. It’ll be a different story if Majima initiates, though. As far as Kiryu knows, Majima is still a part of the past, that large, Tojo Clan shaped hole in Kiryu’s chest. Everything is closing around Kiryu, burning like an infected scab. An infected scab has to be pulled open to heal right, and Majima’s blade-smile looks just the right tool.

Majima folds his arms across his chest, considering Kiryu for a moment. There’s a natural, familiar scrunch in his nose, a familiar look in his eyes. A feeling rests in Majima’s stomach as he looks right at Kiryu, a genuine, fond nostalgia. The girl, Haruka, gives him an honest glare of pure hatred. He doesn’t blame her, and it makes him want to bark out a mean laugh. She’s parroting Kiryu, monkey-see, monkey-do. Well, Majima doesn’t have room to criticize.

Despite the tension, Majima speaks his piece.

“I got a job for ya,” He answers, and it feels like everything falls silent in the world. He can even hear a sink drip from inside Kiryu’s apartment.

Majima watches the faintest twitch of Kiryu’s brow.

“What?” Kiryu asks, taking a small step back. Haruka matches the movement.

Majima, as Kiryu moves back, steps forward, crossing the threshold between hallway and Kiryu’s apartment. Kiryu’s nostrils flare as he lets out a sharp breath.

“Calm the hell down,” Majima hisses, his heels clicking against the wooden genkan. “I’m not here for a fight.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Kiryu replies.

Majima huffs a laugh out, wheezes, and then coughs.

“I swear on my life,” He says, after recollecting himself.

Once again, Kiryu isn’t swayed. His hand on Haruka’s shoulder hasn’t budged. He’s expecting something, anything, whatever it may be. He can’t trust Majima, but he can’t bring himself to violence. Haruka has already seen enough of that to last a lifetime. It feels like his lungs lurch forward as he attempts to remain cordial, remain calm. He feels like an idiot.

Testing Majima’s swear, he gives him a once-over, and replies.

“Take your shoes off.” He demands.

“Hm?” Majima hums, doing nothing of the sort. He is toeing the line between carpet and wood.

“Take your damn shoes off, and then we’ll talk. If you want my help, then you’ll have to show me some respect.”

Haruka squeezes his pant leg, presses herself closer to him, anticipating an outburst. When Majima remains still, Kiryu brings a hand to the back of Haruka’s head. While Majima gives him an unknowing look, Kiryu attempts a small amount of trust. He eases, slouches his shoulders, and in the corner of his eye, he sees Haruka struggle to do the same. If he can show he isn’t scared, then maybe she’ll follow, but he can’t fool her, can’t fool himself. He’s not sure if he’s scared of Majima, or what he represents. He’s not sure he wants to find out.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he watches Majima silently toe his shoes off, tossing them to the side.

Majima figures that if he wants Kiryu on his side, he’ll have to meet him in the middle. He’ll do it begrudgingly. Inch. By. Inch. While Kiryu gives a mile, he’ll give a foot. He’s asking Kiryu for help, but even then, he wants to beat him for daring to trust him, for daring to let his guard down.

So, this is a predicament. Two men who are holding themselves back from beating each other to a bloody pulp.

“So? We gonna talk?” Majima asks, the cigarette between his fingers dying of neglect. He shoves it into his jacket pocket.

Kiryu scrunches his face up for a second. Some part of him wanted Majima to make a stink, just so he could kick him out. He wasn’t expecting compliance. It makes him feel uneasy, like a strange uncanny valley. This isn’t the Majima he knows. He turns to Haruka.

“Don’t worry, Haruka,” He whispers, but it’s not exactly gentle. “I won’t let him pull anything, alright? You should be getting to bed.”

He hears Majima snicker.

“I don’t want to go.” She tells him, keeping her eyes on Majima. “I’m not going to bed.”

“You heard the girl,” Majima laughs, “She’s not goin’ to bed.”

“That’s fine, Haruka,” Kiryu says, clearly displeased, but he refuses to push her, especially in a situation like this.

Kiryu turns back to Majima, the soft look on his face hardening in an instant. “Alright, then. Talk.”

Majima saunters more within Kiryu’s space, taking in the sad emptiness, the yellowed walls. A corner of the wallpaper is peeling. It’s a far cry from Majima’s own apartment, the place he spends his benders inside. His apartment is represented by the blues and greys he finds himself in the night, the blues and greys that dominate the whole room due to all the light sources either being dead or broken. The blues and greys that are so familiar to him, he’s unsure where he begins and the walls end. If he can squint his eye just right, the blues and greys are just the same as bruises. The colors aren’t sobering. Not anymore. This, this is different. This is a sickly pale yellow, the kind that dominates hospitals, the kind that he associates with death, and not the fun kind. This is a slow, sad death of an apartment, of a life. This is sobering. This is the apartment of the former fourth chairman of the Tojo Clan. He’s sure that if he drags his fingers across the walls, they’ll split.

He’s got acid in his blood. If he was in his own apartment, he’d have to watch the glass, watch the needles.

“Cuttin’ right to the chase. I like it.” Majima tells him, continuing to look around. After a moment, he takes a seat at the small round table, putting a foot up right onto it.

Kiryu looks at him, at his colorful, patterned sock, and sighs. He’s not getting to sleep tonight.

“How’d you find me?” Kiryu asks, deciding not to sit down. Haruka remains by his side, but she slowly untenses, her hands falling to her sides.

“It’s not hard,” Majima replies. “Just got someone else to do it. One of my boys tracked you.”

This boy would of course be Nishida. Unbeknownst to Kiryu, Nishida met him three times just a bit earlier.

“I’m not going back to the Tojo Clan,” Kiryu bluntly states. He won’t let the either of them dance around this topic. He wants to speak with a certain kind of finality. He wants Majima to feel it.

“Neither am I,” Majima replies. “I left the clan same time as you,”

“What?”

“You heard me. This ain’t Tojo Clan business. It’s all my own.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Just felt like it.”

Kiryu is sure there’s more to that statement, and he’d be right, but Majima surely isn’t telling him. He lets it slide. He knows Majima isn’t a liar.

“Alright. Fine.” Kiryu huffs.

So, Majima opens his jaw until it audibly pops, and then he closes it back up. He’s preparing for a lot of talking.

“West Park’s gettin’ demolished,” Majima says. “At least, the city’s plannin’ on it.”

“West Park?” Haruka answers for Kiryu, her hand pulling at a stray string on her shirt. “Where will everyone who lives there go?”

“Who knows. That’s just how the world works, kid. People like that just get paved over.” Majima replies, nearly leaning far enough to knock himself over. The chair screeches against the tiled floor.

Haruka’s face scrunches, and so does Kiryu’s. That is the mentality Kiryu has been fighting against his whole life, just thrown out there so blatantly. Last year, West Park was their shelter after Serena. The people were kind and honest.

“What does that have to do with you?” Kiryu asks.

“I’m gettin’ there. After I left the clan, a bunch of my former boys took up shop in West Park, kicked out everyone, and last I heard, was fightin’ over Purgatory. Now, if the city’s lookin’ to build, a bunch of violent morons squattin’ is a major inconvenience.”

“I didn’t see you as the ‘public service’ sort.” Kiryu replies.

Majima laughs.

“Fuck no, I’m not, but somebody oughta teach those boys a lesson in common courtesy, before they end up pickin’ a fight with the clan.”

“It’d be suicide to do that,” Kiryu turns his back to Majima, towards the kitchen sink. He thumbs at a piece of food stuck on a plate, picks at it. “But knowing the type of person you are, it wouldn’t surprise me if they went for it.”

“Like you know shit about me,” Majima replies, grinning angrily, his eye twitching.

“I don’t do charity, Majima,” Kiryu lies, turning back around. “I don’t see a good reason as to why I should help you-”

“How about a million yen?”

“-And I don’t take money from the yakuza.”

“I told ya, I’m not yakuza anymore. This money? It’s clean. Clean as a fuckin’ whistle.”

He doesn’t let it slip that it’s Terada’s money he’s offering. If Kiryu’s going to lie, then so is he.

“Why should I believe you?” Kiryu says, his face pulled taut. “Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.” Majima replies. “I’m a no-good bastard. But you’re the man without a job.”

Majima smirks as Kiryu’s squint narrows.

So, Majima claps his hands together and opens them wide, his arms long and thick.

“And me? I’m the man who’s hirin’.”

After a tense, silent moment, Haruka chimes in.

“I don’t think you should do it, Ojisan.”

They both turn to her.

“He kidnapped me! He tried to kill you! This could just be a trick to hurt you again.”

Kiryu’s expression softens.

Majima turns his chair towards her, and as he leans forward, Kiryu is all but prepared to slam him back into the seat.

“Trick?” He hums, saying it like a genuine question. “I don’t do tricks, girlie. When I do shit, I do it straight-forward and honest. Your papa can agree with me on that one. Swore on my life that I wasn’t lookin’ for a fight, and I’m keepin’ to that.”

“Haruka, you don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.” Kiryu tells her, trying to ignore what Majima said. “I know you don’t like him.”

“I don’t.” She replies.

“Majima, turn around. You’re talking to me, not her.” Kiryu demands.

Majima, despite himself, listens. When he looks back at Kiryu, he slouches in his chair. He’s a sucker.

“Give me your best case.” Kiryu sighs, “As to why I should help you. I want you to make it stick this time. At this point, it sounds like West Park is entirely your fault.”

Majima sneers.

“You want a best case? Fine. The shit I do…”

Majima turns towards the front door, entirely unlocked, and shouts. Both Kiryu and Haruka jump.

“Nishida! Get your ass in here!”

In an instant, before Kiryu can even question it, another intruder imposes on his life, nearly falling over as he pushes the door open. The man hops as he pulls his shoes off, not even having to be asked, and his socks are mis-matched and pastel. He wears a large wrinkled baseball cap, only his mouth visible. Haruka quickly runs around the table, to Kiryu’s side.

“Right here, Oyaji!” Nishida bows, having waited this whole time right outside Kiryu’s door, waiting for Majima’s beck and call.

“Kiryu, Nishida, Nishida, Kiryu,” Majima waves his hand between the two, then to Haruka, “And the brat.”

“Good evening, Kiryu-san.” Nishida bows, and Majima lightly kicks him. “A-And good evening, Haruka-san.”

This man has a very familiar voice, Kiryu notes.

“Why are you wearing a hat? You’re indoors.” Kiryu asks.

“Nishida’s as weird as they come, Kiryu. No need to point it out.”

And Haruka, shorter than the rest of them, looks up at Nishida’s face, completely visible to her. She gasps.

“You’re the man who sat with me outside school!”

Nishida’s face turns red.

“You’re thinking of someone else.”

Majima leans back in his seat, fingers at his mouth, barely concealing an intrigued smile.

“You said you were a janitor!” She says.

“Take your hat off.” Kiryu commands.

“No thank you.” Nishida replies.

“Listen to him, Nishida,” Majima says, not smiling anymore.

So, Kiryu watches as Nishida slowly removes his hat. He is greeted by a round face, with nervous, but determined eyes. This is Yoshida, the janitor outside Haruka’s school, and he is also Murata, the man outside the construction site, and he is also the man he bumped into outside Captain Beef. A master of disguise, and an actor at heart. Betrayed and lied to, Haruka hides in her jacket. A strange feeling bubbles inside Kiryu’s stomach. He’s disappointed.

“So you spied on me.”

“Yep.” Majima replies.

“I was following orders, Kiryu-san,” Nishida says. “The Boss values preparation over anything else. He really is just trying to offer you a job, Kiryu-san.”

“You really think I’ll take your offer now?” Kiryu huffs. He presses his palm against his eye, exasperated.

Majima lifts the two front legs of the chair up as he leans back, the rear legs squeaking against the floor. He looks up at Kiryu’s tired face, his lips pressed tightly against each other. He wants to see fire, but all he sees is smoke. Defiantly, he smiles. It’s utterly hollow.

Nishida places a hand on the table. His fingers are calloused, his nails bitten.

“Kiryu-san,” He bows his head to Kiryu, “It’s only a matter of time before Kamurocho becomes a war zone. The Majima Family are spiteful, and powerful, but without guidance, they’re…” He squeezes his eyes shut just for a moment before continuing. “If they pick a fight with the Tojo Clan, they will be wiped out. If a war breaks out, it won't just be West Park caught in the crossfire.”

“It’s not just the Tojo Clan,” Majima intrudes, staring at nothing. He blinks, like he’s just awaken from a hazy stupor. He looks back at Kiryu, his face splitting in a grin completely separate from his tone. “There’s a lot of players on the board right now, Kiryu.”

Haruka pulls on Kiryu’s shirt, letting out a gasp audible to all. Kiryu turns to her, his brow furrowed.

“Haruka?”

Her eyes are wide, her brow scrunched in concern. “Ojisan, if he’s not lying, then what will happen to Kamurocho?”

“People’ll die,” Majima tells her bluntly. He’s not happy with the answer. His grin fades as quickly as it spreads. “This ain’t about Tokyo’s construction plans getting potentially shafted. It’s about keepin’ Kamurocho alive.”

“Please, Kiryu-san.” Nishida pleads, “I can’t watch my family die like this.”

It feels like Majima knows just the right pressure points to hit, a dead-eye accuracy right to Kiryu’s soul. Kiryu feels like he’s crumbling.

This was supposed to be Kiryu’s happily-ever-after, an end to a horribly long, depressing Story. He watched everything burn around him, and he came out alive, but he can’t help his nature. Kamurocho’s been calling this whole time for him to come home. He is an organ in the body of Kamurocho. Something is clawing up his throat, demanding violence for violence. His real home is only thirty minutes away. His real home is a fist. A fist he wants to throw right into Majima’s jaw. He lives in stubborn servitude to the people around him.

Haruka takes his hand.

“We’ll go,” She answers. She carries his weight as much as him. She looks at Kiryu, then to Majima. “I don’t want anymore people to die.”

Nishida has a pained look on his face as he regards Haruka.

Majima finally stands, the chair sliding backwards. For a moment, he is completely straight, his head angled upwards. For a moment, he towers over everyone. His shadow is cast upon Kiryu’s form. He isn’t going to beg him. He isn’t going to say ‘please’.

“When this is over, I want you out of my life. For good.” Kiryu demands. He isn’t intimidated by Majima’s shadow.

“You got it.” Majima answers.

They stand nose-to-nose. This is a retelling of the Story of the alley behind Serena. This is a Story that will be retold again and again. They both feel that memory calling back to them, a shared nostalgia pumping through their skulls. They regard each other with a shared, disgusted understanding of the other.

“Haruka, do you think you could stay with Ritsuko, the landlord?” Kiryu asks. Out of the corner of his eye, Majima slinks away, retreating near the front door alongside Nishida.

Haruka shakes her head.

“I’m going with you, Ojisan.” She answers. She won’t have her mind changed.

“It’s too dangerous,” He retorts, “You’re safer away from Kamurocho,”

“I’m safer with you!” She grabs his shirt, shaking her fist. “Everytime you leave me, people want to hurt me! If- If you’re going, then so am I.”

It’s not anger that crosses Kiryu’s face, with a set jaw and wide eyes. It’s fear.

“Haruka-san,” Nishida scratches the side of his face nervously. “You’ll be safe with us.”

“Better us than a nobody, Kiryu.” Majima adds.

This is a dilemma that will be revisited time and time again. Kiryu rubs his hand across his eyes, watching the lights dance across his eyelids with the pressure he applies. Kiryu leaves, and she’s alone. Her mother dies, and she’s alone. There is a terror that lives inside her. An abandonment he feeds into again and again unknowingly. He can’t help it. For a moment, he sees Nishida’s point, sees Majima’s point. If she’s going to remain safe, it’ll be with him and him alone. He can protect her.

“Haruka, if you come with me, you’ll be near him.” He gestures towards Majima, and he says it quietly, just for her ears. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

She stares at Majima. Unbeknownst to either Kiryu or Majima, a genuine pity fills her chest.

“I can handle it.” She replies. “If he wants to save Kamurocho, then that’s good.”

“I’ll call the school.” He sighs, a battle lost. Neither of them are happy about it. Nobody wins.

Nishida and Majima stand near the genkan, Majima’s back against the wall. He wants a cigarette. He wants his tantō. He doesn’t see why he isn’t happy, either.

“We have Kiryu-san recruited, Oyaji,” Nishida for some reason tells him, as if Majima hasn’t been present for this interaction. He reminds him like Majima’s been absent all his life.

“Yep.” Is all Majima grunts. “And the brat’s coming, too.”

“They’ll need a place to stay. A hotel?”

“Obviously, ya fuckin’ moron. You think they’re gonna stay with me? Get real.” Majima hisses. Nishida flinches.

“Should I get two rooms? So that we can be close to him. It makes planning easier.”

“You little shit.” Majima wheezes. “Three. Three rooms. I sleep alone.”

“Understood, Oyaji.”

They leave shortly after, discarding their home for an old type of skin. Tomorrow, Haruka will be scheduled for a test she will not be present for, and the teachers will wonder, ‘Where did dear old Haruka-san go?’. She, alongside her guardian, will be in Kamurocho. How tragic a Story this will be.

In the backseat of Nishida’s car, Kiryu and Haruka sit, with Majima in the front passenger seat. A thirty minute drive that feels like an eternity. Majima keeps his legs spread, knees pressed against the glove compartment. Occasionally, Nishida will close the gap between them, leaning to whisper something, but he doesn’t reply. Tokyo’s lights dash across the windows like shooting stars, Majima can’t see the headlights in front of them properly. It’s all a blur, neon saucers growing and shrinking. When he closes his eye, he still sees them. Finally, he reaches between his legs, grabbing the handle for the glove compartment, and then he closes it back up. He pulls down the sun visor, then pushes it back up.

“Nishida, I need to smoke.” He suddenly announces, slamming both hands down on the dashboard. The sound makes Haruka jump.

“I don’t have any in my car, Oyaji-”

And then, Majima shifts his focus.

“The Dragon of Dojima back on the scene,” He turns his head towards the back of the car, smiling. Kiryu doesn’t share his enthusiasm. “Look at you.”

“Don’t make this something this isn’t, Majima.” Kiryu grunts.

Majima laughs, and turns his head back towards the window, slumping in his seat.

“You’ll get sick like that,” Haruka says. She sits behind Majima, watching the top of his head disappear from view. “If you lean like that in a car.”

Majima scoffs, rolling his eye. In an act of teenage-like defiance, he folds his arms across his chest. He remains where he is, folded in on himself, foot against the dashboard. His seatbelt strains to remain on him comfortably. Little does she know, he’s been sick for a long time. He wants to submerge himself in the seat as far as he can go, push himself to break his back right here, right now. He wants her to see the lengths he will go to defy, whether it’s a lesson, or a punishment for daring to question him. He hates himself, the way he’s this upset at a child, a little girl just as scared as he once was. There it is. A connection, a reminder. It’s not her, but that doesn’t make it right. He wants to vomit.

Kiryu leans his forehead against the January-cold window, fingers twitching. The passing lights illuminate his face, and with his eyes closed, he still sees them, eyelids lit up red. Each passing of a light feels like he’s waking up, he jumps at each one.

Nishida looks up at the rear-view mirror, his eyes on Haruka’s reflection. She doesn’t notice.

“Are you hungry, Kiryu-san? Haruka-san?” He asks.

Haruka looks at Kiryu for a moment, like she doesn’t know how to answer. She waits for Kiryu’s version of events. Kiryu’s eyes open up, and he leans back upright in his seat. He blinks, then turns to Haruka, awaiting her answer. They’re both staring at each other for a moment. Suddenly, Haruka turns her head away, hands balling into fists in her lap. They eat morsels of fast food for dinner. They barely have enough to pack her lunches.

“I’m hungry,” She answers. “We don’t have much at home.”

Kiryu squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He feels ashamed. She looks just like him when he was her age, scared of asking for more, because there never is more.

But, neither Nishida nor Majima hold them up to scrutiny.

Majima holds in a sigh as he rubs at his eye, and then under his eyepatch.

“We’ll get anything you want, Haruka-san!” Nishida says, gesturing an arm towards Majima. “I’m sure Oyaji agrees.”

“I’m not gonna be bribed.” She replies, like a parrot mimicking Kiryu. She glares up at Nishida’s reflection in the mirror.

Majima laughs, hyena-cackling as he throws his head back. A violent hee-hee-hee as he slams a hand on the dashboard once again, tempting the airbag to break his teeth in.

“She’s tellin’ it like it is, Nishida-chan.” He turns his head towards her, “Already got a life’s worth of shit to deal with. This ain’t a bribe, girlie. I’m just bein’ courteous.”

His eye flicks towards Kiryu.

“I feel the same way, Haruka.” Kiryu agrees, glaring right back at Majima’s profile. His face is cast in silhouette, the rear-view lights of the car in front of them highlighting the edge of his nose. “But I want you to eat.”

Slowly, Haruka nods. Once again, Majima scoffs.

For a moment, he thinks of his own father, the dear old Shimano, a liar, a cheat, a murderer, and he clutches his stomach. He can’t eat like he used to anymore. You always bite the hand that feeds, no matter what, you have to do it. He wonders when Haruka will have to learn that lesson.

Finally, Nishida stops. With his usual gentle ministrations completely opposite from Majima or Kiryu, he comes to a slow stop. When Kiryu takes the next breath, it feels like Kamurocho. In a parking lot, Nishida turns the key.

“We’ll be staying here,” Nishida gestures out the window, towards a large neon sign. A hotel, across from East Showa, cheap in appearance, but close enough to West Park.

“We?” Haruka asks.

“Well, since I live outside Kamurocho, and Oyaji lives…” He pauses, then continues like he finished that thought, “It’ll be easier if we’re all near each other. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“It’s fine.” Kiryu huffs. He puts a hand on the seat in front of him, Nishida’s seat, as he leans forward. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.

“Nishida, take the kid and get the rooms.” Majima taps Nishida’s shoulder with the back of his hand, before retrieving his wallet. “I’ve gotta have a talk with Kiryu-chan.”

Kiryu meets Majima’s gaze. His stomach flips.

“What?” Haruka yelps, nearly lifting right out of her seat. “I’m not going with him.”

“You’re just going inside the front desk,” Majima tells her, his nose scrunched up.

Haruka turns to Kiryu, wide-eyed.

Kiryu sighs.

“Don’t worry, Haruka. I’ll be right there, but this is important.” He gently rests a hand on her head for a moment, managing a momentary smile. “If he pulls anything,” He sends a glare in Nishida’s direction, “Just yell for me. I’ll be right there. Please.”

He can barely notice the way her lip quivers for a moment.

Nishida steps outside the drivers side, quickly making his way around the car to Haruka’s side. She opens the door before he can, colliding right into him. He makes a high-pitched grunt.

“Right this way, Haruka-san,” He wheezes. Haruka switches between a glare, and concern.

“Sorry,” She huffs, non-committal and quiet, her legs swinging out of the door.

The moment the two of them are out of ear-shot, Majima gestures for Kiryu to join him in the front, so Kiryu gets out of his seat, and quickly situates himself in the driver’s seat. It’s pulled up so close to the wheel that Kiryu barely has room to breathe. Neither of them looks at the other. Cars roll past them, the wheels scratching against the wet asphalt.

“Good kid,” Majima remarks.

“What do you want?” Kiryu replies.

Majima sharply inhales through his nose. The cold air stings his nostrils. The car is blue-grey. The heat is quickly leaving.

“My boys are bein’ led by a kid, Takano. He’s stupid, but apparantly the rest of ‘em listen to him.”

Kiryu gives in. He looks at Majima, stone-cold and dead. He’s staring at nothing. The neon light casts him in magenta. It almost looks like blood.

“Why did you leave the Tojo Clan?” Kiryu asks.

“My boys answer to a well-deserved punch and nothin’ else. I’m not expectin’ to just walk through West Park to give them a stern talkin’ to. We go in fighting.”

“Majima.”

“We’re done here. Next time you don’t wear your seatbelt, I’ll break your arm.”

Squeezing his eye shut, Majima opens the passenger door, and kicks it the rest of the way open. If he sat for any longer, he would’ve grabbed Kiryu’s skull and rammed it into the wheel.

When he’s outside, his breath comes out foggy, his heels clicking loudly. He turns back around, flailing an arm towards Kiryu.

“Fuckin’--Come on!” He shrieks, hands in fists.

Kiryu gives in. He gets out of the car. It feels like a punch to the face, the way the cold air hits him.

Nishida and Haruka stand right outside the front desk door, right on the curb. Nishida has his knees bent, crouched down to her height. With the way the light catches his chain necklace, he almost looks the part of lieutenant. His hands look empty, the way they lay between his legs, elbows on his knees. Haruka keeps her distance away from him, but they’re still looking at each other. By the way Nishida’s head bobs, he’s definitely speaking. Whatever he’s saying, Kiryu doesn’t catch it.

When Nishida hears Majima approaching, he quickly stands back up. His knees pop.

“Oyaji, we have the rooms. They aren’t side-by-side, though.”

Majima rubs his jaw, his mouth opened slightly. He shifts his jaw back and forth in thought.

“A shithole like this, you’d think it was fuckin’ empty. Whatever. The keys.”

He gestures with his hand, grabbing at nothing.

“Two-oh-two and three-one-four,” Nishida replies, fishing the keys out of his pocket. He drops them both into Majima’s gloved palm. “I’m in two-twelve.”

Majima looks up towards the rest of the building, towards the marked doors, towards the railings.

Kiryu joins the group shortly after, a slow walker, and Majima quickly presses his palm to Kiryu’s chest, the key for three-one-four. For a moment, Kiryu almost catches his arm. The feeling of his hand is almost strange. It almost feels familiar. He doesn’t realize there’s something in his palm until Majima retracts, the key sliding down his front. He struggles to catch it.

“You two figured out what you want to eat yet?” Majima grunts, gesturing a hand between Kiryu and Haruka.

Haruka, who clearly had some sort of revelation during her moment away from Kiryu, replies.

“Nishida-san was telling me about the restaurants we never went to, Ojisan. Have you ever been to Ringer Hut?”

“Ringer Hut?” Kiryu touches his chin. “Tch. It doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It’s recently opened, Kiryu-san,” Nishida responds, “It specializes in Nagasaki-type dishes. Champon and saraudon. Oyaji likes their fried rice.”

“Huh.” Kiryu hums. “Sounds good. Is that okay with you, Haruka?”

She nods, making a small noise in approval.

“Oyaji?” Nishida turns to Majima.

Majima rubs his nose, his brow scrunched. “You said it yourself, shithead. I like the fried rice.”

Nishida jumps, ducking his head for a moment.

“Y-You’re right! Absolutely right, Oyaji. Fried rice.”

He backs away, fishing for his car key. He gives it a shake, just to let them all know that yes, in fact, he does have his key, and he is not a forgetful idiot. He’d look proud of himself if he didn’t always look constipated.

“You should rest up, Kiryu-chan.” Majima gives his room key a wiggle. “Nishida’ll be quick with food, if he knows what’s fuckin’ good for ‘em.”

“Hm.” Kiryu grunts. He looks down at his own room key, in his large palm. He closes his fist around it. “Let’s go, Haruka.”

Haruka nods, quickly stepping over a large crack in the pavement below to catch up with Kiryu.

“Oi, Kiryu,” Majima suddenly calls, lifting a hand.

Kiryu freezes. He sighs, and turns his head.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your number?”

“Why do you want it?”

Majima blinks. His mouth opens, then closes.

“The fuck kinda question is that? We’re workin’ together, here, partner. If I wanna get in contact with you, I don’t wanna have to fuckin’-” He balls his fist up, bringing it up to his own forehead, knocking on his skull like it’s a door. He makes a strangled ‘Mmmh’ sound. “Whatever.”

Kiryu stares at him. He doesn’t remember his own phone number. Neither does Majima. Neither wants to check.

“His number is,” Haruka pipes up, pulling on her jacket drawstrings. She reads it all in a practiced cadence. It ends in a five-oh-five-six. “I had to give it to the school, so they’d call him if anything bad happened.”

“Oh.” Majima says.

“We should go,” Kiryu hums. He shakes his head gently, ashamed of his own forgetfulness.

They disappear. Majima stands alone. He gets out his phone, and struggles to remember the digits. Oh-five-no-five-five-no-oh-six. He wants to snap it in half.

“He looked sad,” Haruka says, sitting on the edge of a large bed. They both get their own.

Kiryu sits on the edge of his own bed. He turns to her as he shrugs his coat off.

“What?”

“Nishida-san. Why is Majima mean to him?”

“I don’t know.” He replies. There’s a lot he doesn’t know.

It reminds him of Kazama, standing over him, his fists clenched, the rain beating down on his back. It reminds him of Shimano, his shadow cast over the docks. A patriarch, a father. They do strange things. Kiryu speaks through violence, but not cruelty. He’s not sure how he’d be as a patriarch.

“It could be that’s just how Majima leads his men.” He mumbles.

“If that’s it, I don’t know why anyone would ever want to work for him.”

“I suppose. Are you still scared of him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But…” She kicks her legs. “He looked sick. Like he wasn’t eating enough.”

“I’ve never noticed. He’s looked like that for as long as I’ve known him. I think that’s just how he looks.”

“Or maybe he’s been sick for a really long time, Ojisan.”

Kiryu lets the conversation die after that. He doesn’t feel right theorizing on the life of Majima. He’s known him since the nineties, but the only amount of knowledge he can gather from Majima comes from his fists. He never stops. Even after the batting cages, he wouldn’t stop. In some way, Kiryu respects him. If Majima is sick, then Kiryu doesn’t know what that makes him.

“I’m sorry I took you out of school.” He eventually says.

“It’s okay. I’d rather be with you.” She replies. “I didn’t really like it, anyways.”

“You didn’t?”

“I didn’t really get along with the other kids.” She says. “They thought I was weird.”

He turns completely towards her, standing. He frowns.

“Kids can be cruel,” He says, and he means it. He remembers the orphanage. “Why did they think you were weird?”

When Kiryu sits next to Haruka, his weight settles on the bed, and she slightly lifts up. The bed creaks.

“I was too grown-up for them. I didn’t like playing with them. I liked talking to the teachers more than them.”

“Is that so?” He hums, closing his eyes. He sees himself, at her age, just as detached from the rest of the children as her. He wasn’t like them. He solved this difference with his fists. He doesn’t want the same for her.

“I hurt a lot of kids when I was your age.” Kiryu gently muses. He runs a hand through his hair.

Concerned, she looks up at him, her lips pursed.

“Did they deserve it?”

“I thought they did. Maybe they still do. I didn’t act like the other boys, they didn’t like what I wore.”

He swallows, his throat bobbing.

“I did what I did because I thought justice was in my hands. That I could change them.”

“Did you?”

“They definitely didn’t want to mess with me afterwards, that’s for sure. But I can’t say I changed them. They could’ve set their sights on another kid. I’m proud of you for not starting fights, but I don’t want you to just take it if kids are cruel to you. I don’t know what the right choice is.”

After a moment, she rests her head on his arm. She lets out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know what the right choice is, either.”

In his own world, he would solve his problems on his own. The only person he could depend on was himself. He doesn’t want her to feel that weight. He doesn’t want her to feel that alone. But it’s all he knows. He feels like a child right by her, just as blindsided and scared.

Eventually, Nishida comes by with their food, and they eat together as he slips away silently.

Majima sits in the center of his bed, his legs crossed. His jacket is discarded on the floor, and all cabinets that can be opened are opened. His phone is closed and resting right in front of him, as he holds his head in his hands. His hair is greasy, but he can’t tell. His gloves are still on. His breath smells like death each time he catches a whiff of it.

He sees Inoue underneath him, the boy he almost bludgeoned with a chair. He can almost hear the sound of a baby crying in one of the other rooms. The bathroom sink is dripping. The blanket smells like mold.

He leans forward, then back again, hands still in his hair, and then he does it again, more and more violent, rocking back and forth hard enough to give himself whiplash. He wants something to hurt. He wants to hurt himself.

Nishida comes in.

“There you fuckin’ are!” Majima shrieks, as Nishida winces. “Slackin’ on the job, were you? Useless little shit.”

He wasn’t late. He was exceptionally fast.

“I’m sorry, Oyaji. I won’t make the same mistake.”

“Yeah, you won’t. Cuz I’ll kill ya. Gimme food.”

Nishida quickly reaches into the bag, pulling out a plastic container of the restaurant's home-made fried rice. It’s large. He sets it in front of Majima, down on the bed, alongside a can of beer, a few napkins, and chopsticks.

Majima takes the can, setting it behind him, decidingly not drinking. As he puts his hand on the container, he looks up at Nishida.

“You always get too fuckin’ much. It’s a waste of perfectly good food. You ever think of the farmers that work their asses off to get this shit onto our plates?”

Nishida ducks his head, frowning.

Majima scrunches his face up, eye gazing down to the empty bag.

“Where’s your food?” Majima asks, but it sounds more accusatory than a genuine question. It sounds mean.

“I…I didn’t get any food. It’s okay.” He replies, shuffling awkwardly.

Majima lifts up the plastic top. The rice steams.

“Fuck you. Sit on the bed.”

Majima scoots further up the bed, taking the food with him, placing it where he once sat. Nishida looks at him with a wide-eyed look, like Majima just grew a second head. A second eye.

“What?” He coughs.

“Sit the fuck down!” Majima shrieks.

Nishida quickly joins Majima on the bed, crossing his feet the same as him. His forehead is shiny with a near-constant sweat.

“You take what you’re given,” Majima grumbles, as he unwraps the chopsticks, eating one morsel of rice. Then, he hands the chopsticks to Nishida.

“Oyaji…” Nishida wheezes, regarding the chopsticks like they’ve just been infected with some kind of parasite. He’s a germ-freak when he wants to be. Other times, he can be covered in blood for a whole day without noticing.

Majima re-shoves them into his direction, poking him right in the breastbone. Nishida grunts.

“Thank you, Oyaji,” Nishida finally takes them into his hand.

The room doesn’t smell like mold anymore.

Back-and-forth, they share a single eating utensil, one bite, then pass it.

“Good work on the Kiryu shit, by the way,” Majima eventually murmurs, while his mouth is full. He swallows.

“What? Oh. Thank you, Oyaji.”

“Downright scary with the speed you do shit.”

“Mmh. How is your…” He winces, gesturing to his own cheek.

Majima quickly presses his fingertips to his cheek, and immediately curses.

“Fuck! Don’t fuckin’ remind me of that, you little shit. It’s fine!”

Nishida doesn’t wince, nor does he flinch. The chopsticks are in his hand.

Majima forgets a lot, but he won’t forget meeting Nishida.

“Oyaji, when you confront Takano…” Nishida pauses. His eyes dart back and forth, like he can see all the different options he can take for the next few words out of his mouth. He settles on one. “Stay safe.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Majima hisses. The sentiment is there, but Majima can’t thank him. It’s all he can manage.

When Kiryu finally slips out of the hotel door, he feels fully awake. In Kamurocho’s sights, he feels nocturnal. His hands wrap around the ice-cold metal of the railing outside his room. Cars pass by. He can see Le Marche. The Millenium Tower looms over him like a monster, the skeleton of the building nearly resembling that of a spinal cord, in the blurred darkness, each floor a segment, each floor a nerve. When he stares at it, he can almost hear someone calling out to him. When he blinks, his eyes are stinging wet. He chalks it up to the cold.

He continues gripping the railing until his hands go numb. He leans his head down, down at the ground. Underneath him, he catches Nishida, right outside his own room, leaning against the railing. It’s strange seeing him stand so casually.

Slowly, Kiryu descends down the stairs, quickly catching Nishida’s attention. By the time Kiryu is on the same floor as him, he’s standing up straight.

“Kiryu-san. I wouldn’t recommend bothering the boss right now. He likes his rest.”

“What? No, I’m not here for him. I saw you out here and wanted to talk.”

“Did you?” Nishida asks. Slowly, he turns back around, leaning once again on the railing. “Oh.”

“I need to get my bearings. Can you watch outside my door, keep an eye on Haruka?”

Like he was expecting it, Nishida rubs the back of his neck, sighing.

“Sure, Kiryu-san.” He says.

She’s sleeping. She’ll be okay.

Kiryu descends to the city below. There’s no stars out, but Kamurocho makes up for it with its own lights, as Kiryu skips across the road, nearly getting himself killed by a taxi. The road is wet and icy. Already, he hears people living, walking, talking. A woman laughs, her arm around a man. He’s on Pink Street. Tomorrow, Haruka will be expected at school, in a quaint section of Tokyo, where nothing really happens. Tonight, Kiryu is on the bustling streets of Kamurocho, the noise is intoxicating as much as it is overwhelming. It’s home, and it’s terrifying. He can’t help his habits. He can’t help his nature. He has his hands in his pockets. It feels like 1995. Once again, he finds himself back into the body of Kamurocho, one small part of one whole machine. He wishes he had a pack of smokes.

A group of men suddenly emerge from Pink Alley, flushed out like pests. One lands on his back, while the others struggle to get away. The man on his back, a fresh-faced young boy with a lip ring, quickly hops back onto his feet, bouncing backwards as he rears to run away.

“Y-you’ll regret messin’ with the Takano Family, you old fuck!” He squeaks, his voice cracking. He catches Kiryu’s gaze, his face somehow growing even paler than before, and he bolts, whimpering.

Kiryu slowly approaches the alley entrance.

“Yeah, yeah,” An older man croaks, leaning down to pick up a wallet on the ground. Behind him, a suited man shivers. “That’s what they all say.”

When the older man stands back up, he grunts, stretching enough to pop his back. He has crows feet, as he squints his eyes shut. His long tan coat drifts behind him.

“Next time, think twice before walking down an alley at night,” Date Makoto says, lowering the wallet into the shaking man’s hands.

“T-thank you, sir!”

“Date-san?” Kiryu calls out. His voice echoes against the narrow alley-walls.

Quickly, Date turns around, a specific type of grouchiness quickly melting into shock. The man with the suit quickly scurries away.

“Well, shit. Kiryu Kazuma.” He says, with the same cadence as greeting an old friend. He smiles. “Back here so soon?”

“Believe me, I didn’t expect it, either.”

Date quickly retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and by the look on Kiryu’s face, he can tell Kiryu needs one, too. Once he lights up his own cigarette, he lifts up his pack, flicking a cigarette up. Slowly, Kiryu takes it.

“Thanks,” Kiryu says before Date lights it.

“Don’t mention it. Mind telling me what you’re doing back here? Does it have something to do with this Takano Family shit?”

That’s right, that boy did mention the Takano Family…

“How do you know them?” Kiryu asks. “They make any trouble for the Tokyo PD?”

Date croaks out a laugh.

“No doubt, but I’d have nothing to do with that. I’m retired, same as you. I’m a full fledged parent again.”

Kiryu smirks.

“Is that so. Can’t say it doesn’t suit you, Date-san. How is your daughter?”

“Saya?” Date chuckles, “She’s as good as a teenager can be. You know how they are. But, she’s doing better. I’m doing better. It’s about damn time I got a little peace and quiet. Can’t say I’m getting much of that now, though.”

“She’ll grow out of it,” Kiryu muses. “What do you know about the Takano Family?”

“Other than that they’re a total nuisance? I heard they’re formerly Majima Family.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, too. You’d be shocked at the day I’ve had, Date-san.”

Date claps a friendly hand on Kiryu’s shoulder.

“Tell me about it. How about we get a drink?”

Kiryu agrees, and back across from East Showa, Nishida stands, cold yet determined, outside room three-oh-one.

“Majima Goro?” Date asks, nearly spitting his drink out. In Earth Angel, the two of them sit. He coughs.

“That’s right,” Kiryu replies. “He’s got me back here to deal with the Takano Family.”

“Well, shit,” Date grunts. He scratches at his chin, at the side of his face. “A nutcase like that…”

“He’s got another guy with him, Nishida. I think he was a captain. Maybe a lieutenant.”

Date begins to laugh, and far away, Nishida sneezes. “Working for a guy like that? I’d worry for any bastard that chooses that, but I think you’d have to be just as sick as him.”

“Regardless, Majima wanted my help in dealing with the Takano Family.”

“What, the two of you are gonna wage a full on war with a group of hormone-raging teenagers?”

“If it’ll calm them down, then we have no other choice. That’s just how it goes.”

“To you, maybe. That doesn’t fly in the PD.”

It’s not a snipe. Date is smiling. By the tone of it, it sounds like he’d much rather beat in the faces of his former coworkers.

“Something is bugging me, though, Date-san. It feels like Majima isn’t telling me something.”

“What would that be?”

“I’m not sure. Date-san, what do you know about the Majima Family disbanding?”

Date shrugs, leaning his arms onto the bar they sit at.

“You gotta stop with that, Kiryu. I’m not in the PD anymore. I don’t have the connections I used to.”

“What, like you could stay away from the job forever,” Kiryu replies. Date scrunches up his nose.

“Touché. But don’t go parading it around. You’re back here, too.” For a moment, he’s silent. Then, he laughs before drinking. “Looks like we’re both a bunch of suckers.”

Kiryu doesn’t reply. He swishes his drink around, watches it cyclone.

“What I do know, is that there’s been a whole lotta chatter surrounding the Tojo Clan ever since you left. You may have picked Terada to succeed you, but a lot of the clan couldn’t agree, even if it was the,” He air-quotes, “Fourth chairman.”

“You think Majima left because of Terada?”

“It makes sense, a wildcard like Majima. Terada’s a businessman.”

Slowly, Kiryu starts the puzzle.

“Listen, I still got your number. I’ll snoop around, see what I can find out.” Date says, finishing his glass.

“I appreciate it, Date-san. I knew I could count on you.”

“Yeah, yeah. After you clear out those Takano goons, I’m looking forward to a relaxing, Kiryu-free life.”

And, Kiryu laughs. Really, really laughs.

On cue, the door barges open.

“There he is!” A familiar squeaky voice screams. “Hey, old man!”

Date shakes his head.

Earth Angel accepts a few more guests into it, a few boys with bats, one with brass knuckles. Neither Kiryu, nor Date know who any of them are.

Squeaky, the man who Date knocked on his ass, points at the two of them.

“I knew we’d find you if we looked hard enough.” He says. “We’re gonna teach you a real lesson this time.”

“Kid,” Date groans, standing up from his seat. “You’ve gotta quit it. Have some respect for the rest of the patrons of this place, yeah?”

“Date-san…” Kiryu whispers. You can never talk your way out of something like this.

“Do you mind taking this outside?” The Mama asks.

Kiryu stands up alongside Date. He offers the Mama an apologetic look.

“Sorry, Mama.” He says, “We’ll take care of this trash.”

Date and Kiryu both step forward, and the crowd of goons suddenly seem just a bit smaller.

“Hold on…”

“Is that the…”

“Fourth chairman?”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, but Squeaky remains undeterred.

“Who fuckin’ cares who he is? I’m not lettin’ a couple geezers shit all over my pride!”

“Somehow, Kiryu, the moment you step into town, I’m getting myself into trouble. How do you do it?”

“I’d offer to pay for drinks, but I’ve got no money on me.”

Date barks out a laugh.

Squeaky, who has a large bat between his palms, lifts it up over his head. Before any of the other patrons can gasp, Kiryu catches it.

“Outside!” He demands, pushing the bat, and the man, backwards into the rest of the goon-crowd.

The crowd regain their composure, quickly preparing an ambush, but Kiryu’s badder, and faster than them. With his feet steady on the ground, his shoulders squared, he bares his teeth.

“Date-san!”

“Right!”

Kiryu and Date quickly ram themselves through the crowd, all the way out the front door, bringing a few of them along for the ride. With their shared large sizes, the impact is felt by all, and by the way Date groans, he most likely feels the worst of it. With the two of them outside, the goons still in the bar quickly vacate. The Champion District is narrow and crowded, making it a tight fit, but the two of them can make it work. The man with brass knuckles quickly throws out a punch, but Date evades, parrying around the man to grab his arm, twisting it behind his back. “Kiryu!” Date calls, and Kiryu nods, kicking the man right in the stomach.

Date throws the man forward, just as Squeaky prepares his bat once again, catching Kiryu right in the shoulder. Aside from having a squeaky voice, Squeaky is also not that good of a hitter, as Kiryu absorbs the shock entirely. With a look of pure fire, Kiryu grabs Squeaky by the shoulder, crashing his forehead right into Squeaky’s nose. Squeaky is sent flying backwards, howling wildly. Date’s sent down to his knees as another boy with a bat jabs him right in the gut, but Kiryu retaliates. Running, Kiryu hops right over Date’s slumped form, sending his knee right into the man’s jaw. With the jump, he and the man both tumble to the ground, but he’s the only one who gets back up.

“You alright, Date-san?”

“I’m good!” He reluctantly replies, quickly jumping back into the fight.

Kiryu’s blood is on fire. He feels alive. A sweat breaks out on his forehead.

For a moment, this is all that exists, the fight. Kiryu sends a punch right into the jaw of some bastard, and as he falls to the ground, Kiryu feels absolutely himself, his head and heart pounding in unison. These goons are absolutely nothing to him, but a fight is still a fight. A few of them quickly scurry away as they wisely decide that messing with Kiryu and Date was not a good idea.

“I won’t…Lose!” Squeaky wheezes, having absolutely lost. The men who didn’t run are currently unconscious on the ground.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Date says.

Squeaky stumbles back onto his feet, stirring with the Majima Family stubbornness that drives all of them. He reaches into his jacket, eyes wide-eyed as he withdraws a pistol.

Kiryu looks into the boy’s eyes. It’s not anger he sees. It’s fear. He stands still.

Without his own pistol anymore, Date stands as still as Kiryu, panting.

“I’ll shoot you!” Squeaky says, shaking. “I will!”

“Your patriarch abandoned you, didn’t he?” Kiryu asks.

“W-What?”

Another puzzle piece falls into place.

“You’re fighting without a cause because you’re angry at him. You believed in someone, and he cast you aside.”

Squeaky’s hands shake.

“Shut the hell up, old man. I’m warning you!”

“Put the gun down. You lost. Your patriarch wouldn’t stoop to something like this.”

So, Squeaky listens. He drops the gun, his wet eyes squinting shut.

“You’re fuckin’--crazy.” He wheezes. “Fuck you!”

So, Squeaky scurries away through the tight corridors of Champion District, surely facing some type of new reality as he escapes Kiryu Kazuma.

“Damn, Kiryu,” Date sighs, struggling to stand upright. “You read right into him.”

“I guess you could say I understood where he was coming from.”

“I take it you figured out what drives the Takano Family, huh?”

“Yeah. Just those kids, that’s not a problem, but a whole army of them?”

“With guns,” Date gestures to the gun down on the ground. Slowly, he picks it up. “This is serious business, Kiryu.”

“Tomorrow, Majima and I will wipe out the Takano Family. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to steer them in the right direction. A more productive direction.”

“Good luck, Kiryu.” Date pockets the pistol, and rubs his face, sighing. “I’m heading back home. You stay safe, alright?”

Kiryu nods. “You too, Date-san.”

So, Date begins to leave, but he quickly turns around to add; “And say hi to Haruka for me. She’s a good kid.”

“I will.”

This is where Majima dreams.

Thesis, a man in a suit, has his hand around a white pawn piece. He sets it down on the blurry, undecided nothing-board.

“Your turn.”

Antithesis, a man of charred goo, lifts his piece, a black knight-bishop-pawn. He drops it into the board.

“Your turn.”

Thesis has a face just as jumbled as the board, but Antithesis can vividly see the way he strokes his chin.

“Really?” Thesis asks, “I thought you took chess seriously. What kind of move is that?”

“Move my dick in your face. Fuck you.” Antithesis replies.

Thesis is unimpressed. “Suit yourself. Fuck you, too. Whatever happened to us?”

“You keep calling me in the middle of the night,” Antithesis says. “I can’t get any sleep.”

Thesis slams a knight down. It’s the wrong color.

“You’re funny,” Thesis answers. He is maybe smiling. “You ever get bored of this game?”

“It’s different every time,” Antithesis says. He watches pawns fall to the ground as Thesis drags his arm across the board.

“Damn, and I thought I was fucked up,” Thesis remarks, as if Antithesis was the one who did that. “Clearly you don’t get attached to your–.” Thesis’ voice becomes jumbled, or maybe he just didn’t finish the thought.

Antithesis replies like he was the one to discard all of those pawns. It becomes the truth. “I’m tired of this stupid game.” He says. “Can I go home?”

“You can’t go one more game?” Thesis asks. He twirls a queen between his fingers.

“Am I like you?” Antithesis asks.

“Did I like you?” Thesis responds.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

Sagawa Tsukasa lights another cigarette between his chapped lips, his veiny hands clasped together once he sets the lighter down. In his apartment, he sits across from the couch, a table set between him and it. He considers the board between them. Outside, birds chirp. The sun is shining through the curtains.

“Didn’t expect you to be a chess pro, kid.”

Majima Goro sits slumped on the couch, hands bound in bandages. His eye-hole is itching, and he can’t do anything about it. Regardless, he sits with a captured queen in his shaking hand. One of his legs has a cast, and the other has a shackle around it after he tried to jab a fork into Sagawa’s neck. The year is 1986.

“Where’d you learn this? Pretty sure Shimano wasn’t teaching you chess in the Hole.”

Sagawa laughs at himself. Majima doesn’t reply.

“C’mon, let’s go again.”

Synthesis, a man named Majima Goro, wakes up to the door knocking. He wants to throw up.

“The fuck do you want, Nishida?” He hisses.

“It’s not Nishida.” Kiryu answers.

“What do you want?”

“Haruka is asleep and I want to take a shower. It would wake her up.”

Majima squints at the door, and grumbles. He slaps a hand over onto his eyepatch, having left it on the bedside table where he left the empty rice container. Pulling it on, he hops out of bed, struggling to pull his boxers back on. All the way to the door, he’s cursing.

He throws the door open, lazily leaning on it as he stares at Kiryu.

His forehead shines with sweat. His knuckles are bloody, whether it’s his own, or someone else’s, Majima doesn’t care. His eyes are wide. What a fucking display. Kiryu’s just returned from a fight. Deep down, Majima lives with the satisfaction of knowing he was right. No matter what, you can’t beat your nature. He wants to continue whatever Kiryu started back in Kamurocho. He wants to push him back into that railing and keep pushing until he finally tumbles over it.

Instead, he just stares at him.

“Use it and get out.” Majima tells him. “Don’t bother me again.”

Majima retreats back to his bed as Kiryu steps inside. He falls onto it, painfully groaning.

Kiryu looks at him. He has to look away. Majima breathes through his stomach.

“Thank you.” He says, quickly disappearing into the bathroom.

Majima tries not to listen to the shower’s hissing.

Kiryu washes the blood from his knuckles first, watching it disappear into the drain. The adrenaline of the fight before hasn’t washed completely away. He thinks about Majima’s navel. He thinks about Majima’s disregard. He braces his hand on the wall of the shower, hanging his head low. The water beats down on the back of his neck, through his hair. He wonders what’s happening to him. With the low-grade, small bottle of shampoo, he scrubs his scalp hard enough to pull hair from his head, he scrubs his chest, his arms, his thighs, until red scratches start defining themselves into his skin. The fight didn’t hurt enough.

He’s out of the shower shortly thereafter, and he stares at himself in the mirror. It’s larger than the one in his own apartment. He looks at the red lines he scratched into himself and he feels shame. With a hastily grabbed towel, he quickly dries himself off before pulling his pants back on. They may not be clean, but there’s nothing he can do. He walks back out with his shirt and jacket resting on his arm.

He sets them on the bed Majima isn’t using, considering Majima for a moment. His stomach rises and falls. He’s not lean, but his torso is short. His arms and legs are exceptionally long and thick. He’s broader than Kiryu in the stomach region. His eye is closed, but he knows Kiryu is looking at him.

“Quit staring at me.” Majima demands, finally opening his eye back up.

“Why did you leave the Tojo Clan?” Kiryu asks.

Majima slowly arises from his lying position. His feet touch the ground. Kiryu watches the way his arms flex. He’s never seen the sleeves of Majima’s tattoo. He’s never seen Majima’s bare hands.

“You askin’ me this shit again?”

“I want an answer!” Kiryu demands.

“Why did you?” Majima retorts.

Kiryu walks around the free bed. When he’s past it, Majima can see his fists. Majima scowls.

“You know why I did. I had an obligation to Haruka. I wouldn’t put her life into jeopardy to stay in the clan.”

“Then why are you here?” Majima bites back. He stands up.

“This isn’t about me,” Kiryu snaps back. “This is about your obligation as a patriarch.”

Majima’s breath trembles. It extends down his arms to his hands. His eye twitches.

“Oh, fuck you,” He snarls, grabbing Kiryu’s shoulders, pushing forward until Kiryu’s back hits the wall. He can hear various things rustle from the impact.

Kiryu reaches out, wrapping his hands around Majima’s bare ribcage. He digs his thumbs in and brings his knee up into Majima’s stomach. Majima’s hands slip away as he keels over. Kiryu grabs a fistful of his hair and Majima screams, punching Kiryu in the side until he lets go, thrashing his own head back and forth. When Kiryu finally lets go, Majima’s hair is in his face, in his eye. He sees hell. The room is dark, the room is blue-grey, and Majima screams again. The both of them grab at each other, both settling on grasping at their shoulders, their arms, legs intertwining and struggling to knee each other. They headbutt each other, they keep doing it until there’s blood coming down the both of their noses, they do it so much that neither of them notice the stumbling they’re doing, back and forth, like a tug-of-war battle.

“You had thousands counting on you,” Kiryu rasps, holding Majima back like a bull, swinging him back and forth, but he doesn’t relent, Majima doesn’t quit. “And you abandoned them, why did you do it?”

“I don’t have to answer to you,” Majima replies, digging his nails into Kiryu’s flesh. “You’re not some fuckin’ saint. You’re not some stupid–fuckin’–”

Kiryu gets him near the bed, his bed, and he flings Majima over it, watching his body roll over it, and onto the ground on the other side. The thud is loud.

“I never said I was a saint. But I met some of your men tonight. They were lost. Did they even matter to you?”

Kiryu watches as Majima re-emerges from behind the bed, his shoulders squared. His teeth are bared, his jaw shaking with tension. Kiryu prepares himself as Majima jumps onto the bed, attempting to propel himself right at Kiryu with a violent ferocity, but Kiryu anticipates it. Like a baseball bat to the shoulder, he absorbs the shock, immediately sending Majima back down onto the bed, his own body weight on top of him. Blood seeps down Majima’s gaunt face, down onto the blanket below. Their chests are nearly touching.

“Get off me,” Majima demands, “Get off me,” He then shrieks. Haphazardly, he punches Kiryu right in the temple, and Kiryu’s vision goes hazy for a moment. By the time Kiryu’s vision regains, Majima is on top of him, having spun them around in Kiryu’s confusion. Blood drenches his teeth, but he still grins, enraged. He gives Kiryu’s skull a shake, with no shirt to grab. “I fuckin’ hate you, I hate you, you stupid piece of shit,” He rants, nearly incomprehensible. His eye darts across Kiryu’s face. “I don’t believe in shit anymore, I never believed in the clan.”

At the same time, they punch each other, but Kiryu’s impact prevails. Majima gives in. Majima loses. Suddenly, his body goes weak, his face right by Kiryu’s ear. Hoarsely, he wheezes. It sounds painful. Kiryu can feel the way Majima’s stomach twitches and convulses involuntarily, adrenaline and shock and pain surging through the both of them.

“I hate you, I hate you,” Majima struggles to wheeze.

Kiryu brings his hands up to Majima’s sides, throwing him to the side. His body rolls next to his, still on the bed. The both of them breathe. Kiryu, on his back, gurgles with the blood in his mouth. His heart is pounding. He feels like he’s dying.

Majima clutches his stomach, curling in on himself, laying on his side. He almost rocks himself, with how he’s shaking, but he doesn’t. Instead, he laughs. He laughs, and with his back turned to Kiryu, he kicks him. It hits Kiryu’s hip, and it doesn’t even register to either of them that it happened.

“You’re fucking selfish,” Majima struggles to whisper, his throat is raw. “You just keep…You just keep taking and taking. Shimano died. I don’t have any other reason to stay with the clan.”

“Why…” Kiryu wheezes, “Why did it all rely on him? Why couldn’t you believe in growing the clan? The idea?”

“The clan doesn’t mean shit if it doesn’t have good people. You, you can dream all you fucking want, but that’s not for me. The reality is; the only motherfuckers left in the clan are weak posers.” Slowly, he croaks out a laugh. “You can tell yourself you left for the kid, but I know the type of guy you are. You’re selfish, Kiryu. You’re just like me.”

Kiryu feels like he understands Majima. He feels like he knows him. He can still feel his coarse skin. Majima is just one damaged liver. Struggling, Kiryu turns over onto his stomach, lifting himself up with his arms. They want to cave. He wants to lay back down.

“I’m not going to be caged up by a clan who doesn’t know how to handle me. I bite, motherfucker.” Majima says, hiding his face in the blanket below.

“We both have obligations to the people we call family. I can’t make you believe in the clan, but don’t leave your family in the dark.”

He, a small child, shakes in his father’s nonexistent shadow. Kazama died side-by-side with Shimano. Now, Kiryu and Majima lay the same way.

He’s not asking Majima. He’s begging.

Kiryu looks down at Majima’s crumpled form. He almost resembles that of his unconscious form in the batting cages. Something twists in Kiryu’s head, in his stomach. He doesn’t like it.

“What, are you gonna gloat, or just fuckin’ kill me.” Majima eventually says.

“I don’t gloat.”

“I know you don’t.”

“And I don’t want you dead.”

Kiryu finally stands up. His legs shake like a newborn fawn, his head spins, but he stands. This is a Story climax. This is a reawakening. Something shifts in the way Kiryu sees Majima. He doesn’t know if it’s for the worse, or better.

“We’re going to dissolve the Takano Family.” Kiryu tells him. “It’s your plan, Majima-san. I’ll fight alongside you. It’s your choice on what you’ll do next.”

Majima lies there. His eye slides shut. Something shifts in the way he sees Kiryu, too. When he opens his eye again, he watches Kiryu’s back to him, watches the way the dragon on his back stretches with his skin.

Somehow, a connection is made.

Majima watches Kiryu pull his shirt on, buttoning it up. It feels entirely intimate. It feels like they’ve known each other for a long time. He doesn’t want to bash his head in anymore. He doesn’t know what he wants to do. This is all he knows. When their gaze meets again, he knows the feeling is mutual.

Kiryu disappears, back to his own room number.

Somewhere, a woman sits at a desk, a pen at her lips. She gets a phone call.

Consider an intermission. The year is 2003, right on the cusp of 2004, but It still feels like 1999.

Majima, captain of the Shimano Family, sits restlessly. God help anyone who catches his eye.

Here he sits, the contours of his sour face highlighted by the flame of his cigarette. He stands slouched, legs spread to each side of the seat. He nearly looks injured, with the way he carries himself, anything that can bend is bent, giving him a near branch-like appearance, a deciduous tree by nature. It’s winter. His fingers are numb, but it isn’t the cold.

Shimano, alive and proud, stands behind his oversized desk, appropriate to his own large size. The desk surface is clean, organized. On one of the corners, there’s a chip in the wood, a faint stain of blood. Shimano has had this office for a long, long time. He’s burning a candle, a sort of pumpkin, old-book scent, and it’s nearly all burnt up. The flame sits surrounded by the melted wax of its own creation. Majima doesn’t like pumpkin, and it stings his nostrils, makes him sneer. The office is basked in orange-browns, shelves and tables with the noticeable grooves of wood in them. He has a mini-bar in his office, and none of the bottles have been opened.

In the chair Majima sits in, cream-colored and soft, he’s nearly swallowed by the size of it. He doesn’t fit. He doesn’t know if it’s too small or too big. He’s been sitting in these seats since he was a boy.

Majima doesn’t try to get Shimano’s attention. Instead, he sits and waits, like he’s supposed to do. He knows that, eventually, Shimano’ll speak, and he’ll either pay attention or he won't. He looks at Shimano’s large back, hunched over a small table right behind his desk, facing a window. When Shimano’s looking away, when Majima can see him, but he can’t see Majima, that’s when Majima feels like his son again. It’s when he turns around, when Majima can see the age on his face, that the vitriol bubbles back up his throat. To Majima, to Shimano, that’s love.

Shimano turns around.

His large hand produces a small lighter from his suit pocket, dwarfing in comparison to his bear-ish palm. With his other hand, he produces a cigar, flicking open a small cigar case with his thumb. He holds it between his teeth, making sure it leaves a mark, and he flicks the lighter, flicks it until it flares to life. Majima stubs out his own cigarette, right in the chipped ashtray in the center of the coffee table at the centerpiece of the office. He prowls around his own desk, resting a large hand against it as he leans to his side. His footsteps don’t make a sound.

“Did you hear me?” Shimano asks himself. He isn’t looking at Majima. It doesn’t matter if he did or didn’t, not really.

Majima lays his neck against the back of the seat, completely limp. His Adam's apple juts out. He makes his eye twitch as he grins. Nothing else on his face moves.

“Loud and clear, Oyaji,” He answers, slightly nodding his head. “Not a word leaves this room. Not even to my boys.”

Shimano hums, though it’s more akin to a rock tumbler, the way it rumbles. “Good,” He then says.

After a moment, Shimano considers Majima. He’s always towered over him. Majima nearly heaves, and Shimano can see the way his fists ball up, the leather gloves squeaking softly.

“Humor your old man for a second, will ya?” Shimano says. He doesn’t wait for a response, and he doesn’t waste time mimicking a wistful look. His look is cold. “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t sworn up?”

Majima snorts, his face going neutral. He looks away from Shimano for a moment, and then he laughs again, eye back on Shimano. “Probably in a ditch somewhere, gettin’ picked at by rats.”

“That suicidal, woe-is-me shit still ain’t gettin’ to me, boy. I asked you a question.”

Majima raises both eyebrows, but he shrugs only one shoulder, once again looking away. “And I answered. Get off my back.”

Shimano’s silent for a moment, gently holding his cigar between his fingers, holding it right where his teeth left imprints. “Sometimes, you worry me, boy.” He says hollowly. When he finishes the thought, he smirks. “You ever thought about gettin’ into construction?”

“Why, you lookin’ to build?” Majima replies. “I don’t do that cover-business shit.”

Shimano roams his office, never straying far from his desk. He considers his shelves, the various trinkets and objects he has placed on them. There’s a ceramic plate on a stand, lovingly crafted and painted. It’s not his plate.

“Nah.” Shimano replies. “If I was, you wouldn’t be hearin’ about it.”

Majima fake-laughs.

“City of Tokyo’s gonna bulldoze West Park,” Shimano then says. It’s clear he’s been thinking about this for a while. “By the time that shithole opened, it wasn’t even profitable. It’s just been collectin’ dust and vermin since the eighties.”

“Ain’t that just a shame,” Majima thinks. “City opens up a park, and gets pissed that people are usin’ it the ‘wrong way’. That’s a load of shit, I say.”

Shimano approaches Majima, his shadow enveloping Majima in its weight. For a moment, he’s scowling, and Majima avoids his glare, squeezing his eye shut. Finally, Shimano smiles. He places a large hand onto Majima’s head. His palm is warm, and he squeezes Majima’s skull. For a moment, Majima thinks he’s about to stick his thumb right in the top of his head, pop it in like a watermelon, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shakes Majima’s head around, rattles his brain in a near-comical and familial way. It terrifies Majima, so he reaches up and grips at Shimano’s tree-trunk arms with both hands, gives it a squeeze as he whimpers. Shimano finally pushes his skull back, hard enough to send his whole body back into the chair he’s seated in. Majima’s eye snaps open, and he looks up at Old Shimano. A sweat has broken out on his forehead. Shimano laughs.

“That’s capitalism, my boy. You gotta place your pieces right if you wanna win.”

Majima feels Shimano bring his hand down onto his head again, he pats, pats, pats, and when Shimano leans back, Majima keels over in his seat, clutching his skull with both hands.

Majima wakes up with his face sticking to the sheet below.

He thinks he’s back in his own apartment, face smashed against his stained couch, but as he lifts his head, the sheet pulling with him before finally giving, he’s greeted by the inklings of daytime through the shaded window, a deep blue creeping through. He’s still in his motel room. His eye is crusty at one corner, gooey on the other, so he tries to bring up his arm to wipe at it. It refuses to rise. Slowly, his fingers curl into the sheets, and he pushes. His eye slides open, meets the imprint of his own face on the bed, a perfect recreation in disappearing ink. He crawls out of bed like a small child, on his hands and knees, the tips of his toes meeting the floor below. It’s cold. It sends a shiver up his leg and through his spine. With both feet on the floor now, he stands bent over the bed, fists still clinging to the blankets. He rubs his face, fingers peeling off the dried blood down his mouth as he drags them across his lips. The taste is still in his mouth. He wipes his hand on the blanket, and watches the residue he leaves behind.

He stumbles as he walks, rocking back and forth like he’s on a ship that’s destined to sink, and he’s sick like it, too. He steps on his jacket, kicks it as he walks. He feels blinded once he brings himself into the bathroom, the asylum-white walls stinging at his eye. His feet are heavy against the tiles. He looks at himself in the mirror, glances behind him towards the shower, and then once again returns to the mirror.

This is what he sees.

A man, far past his prime, staring at him. Dried blood coats his face, starting from his nose and ending at his chin. There’s cuts on his cheek from where someone crushed a glass into it. He’s looking at Majima with an ugly scowl, a squinted eye, his face scrunched up in a way that just makes his already visible wrinkles even worse. His neck is craned, his shoulders hunched, and with the light over him, the shadows carved into his face rest heavy and black. There’s bruises on his shoulders, bruises that run down his body. The worst of it is in his side, from where he was kneed, and kneed, and kneed. He wonders if he has a broken rib. The man looking at Majima is not skinny, instead settling on something more box-like. For some reason, the man has his stomach puffed out, and while he’s not particularly hairy on his arms, his legs make up for it. He is bow-legged and bony, his thin wrists and ankles jutting out like knives.

So, the man looking at Majima grins like a maniac, all anger and no joy, stretching his lips until every gum is visible. His beard is thick and unkempt, blood clotting up inside of it like an infestation. Majima looks at this man looking back at him, and he’s thinking; ‘What an ugly motherfucker’.

Without a toothbrush, he drags his finger against his teeth, and all it does is smear the blood-stains around.

He is going to take a shower.

Majima pulls his boxers off, shimmying them down his legs. As he’s leaned down, he shakes his head around, scrambling his brain.

And when he looks back at himself once again, he sneers.

Long ago, two men stood side by side, thinking of trying out something that’d make the both of them laugh like hyenas.

Now, Majima stands, uninterested and annoyed. He is impotent, and outside of slight annoyance, has stayed uncaring and detached from it.

His eye naturally drifts away from himself as he steps backwards. He twists around, pulling the shower curtain open. The shower smells like cheap shampoo. It’s what Kiryu smelled like once he stepped outside the shower. That smell.

Like a freight train hitting him, a wave of awakening hits him. He takes in a fresh new breath. He touches his side, thumbs his ribs, and pushes in. This is what his life is all about. This is what it all means. This is why Majima ever set his sights on him. Like a side-kick in a hero's Story, Majima has a newfound inspiration. This is a belief. He twists the shower to the hottest setting he can stand and lets it wash over him, painting him red. Perhaps this will always be Majima’s fate. He doesn’t know if he can bring himself to be angry over it. Belief, devotion, it runs deep in him, runs like the blood down his mouth, down his chest, swirling down the drain. Devotion used to mean family to him. He doesn’t know what Kiryu is, but he knows it isn’t family. Kiryu is something wholly himself. He knows what Kiryu meant when he said ‘We both have obligations to the people we call family’.

The burning water sets him aflame, drives him into a mad fervor as he scrubs his hair, scrubs his scalp. This water will burn his skin away, and he will step out a completely different kind of animal. He feels like he’s molting. The pain in his face, his ribs, the burning water, none of it is phasing him. For a moment, for a solid, absolute moment, he is wholly ecstatic. Eventually, it’ll be dragged down the drain, too.

The moment it does, he twists the water down to the coldest it can go, and the shock nearly sends him to his knees.

He thinks about the look on Kiryu’s face as he sat on top of him, that resolute anger in his eyes. Nobody else has gotten Majima so explosive, so genuinely angry, and something about that is entirely intoxicating. When they laid chest-to-chest, Majima felt connected to him in an indescribable way. In Kiryu’s genuine honesty, Majima wanted to fight him again and again, feel those ideals clash, feel his skin on him again, feel it until he screams. He imagines two masses of undulating, pulsing flesh, red and pink and visceral, not anywhere close to human, and that’s what he wants. He imagines touching Kiryu’s hair, and then he imagines breaking his nose when he tries the same thing.

He is not a dog. Majima is someone who is entirely human. He is a broken, sad human. He doesn’t need to be tamed. He knows what he needs. Until the day he dies, Majima needs pain. He needs his blood boiling through his flesh. If there’s a hell, he’s already there.

There is a truth deep down in him, something he’s long forgotten. It’s not going to surface.

With the swagger of a man who just boiled himself alive, and then jumped into a winter-pool, Majima steps out of the shower, dripping wet. He doesn’t grab a towel. He steps back into his room red and naked. His feet sting with each step he takes. He stretches his arms over his head, twists his body around, listens to his bones pop, and he finally sighs. Each impact in his skin is telling all kinds of different stories, all told by different men. The bruises on his ribs are inching dangerously close to a hopeful conclusion. To Majima, men are dangerous, treacherous motherfuckers. Kiryu, and those who share his honest convictions, are an all new breed.

He pulls his socks over his hairy feet, pulls them as high as they’ll go, and snaps them against his calves. Thousands of men have gone for his head, and he came out again and again without a god damn care in the world. Without anything else, he pulls on the same clothes as yesterday, and the day before that. He lets his hair air-dry, and he pushes the door open to the outside world, once again ready to take it on again.

Once again, it’s a shitty, cold morning. Cars are passing the street in front of the motel, and people are just starting to cluster up as they walk. With his hands in his pockets, Majima quickly skips down the steps, a loud, metal clack-clack-clack echoing. Right by the front desk door, hidden in a dark corner, sits some vending machines humming, and standing in front of one is Haruka, gently rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. He wonders why she doesn’t have leggings as he notices her knees quivering in the cold.

He remembers when he met her first, how hateful she looked. And Majima used to like kids.

So, Majima parks himself right next to one of the machines and squats down, fishing out a crumpled cigarette packet from his jacket. Haruka quickly takes notice of him, but decides not to engage. Smart. She is currently shoving a one-hundred yen bill into the slot of a snack machine. It takes it, waits a moment, and spits it back out. She frowns, her baby-face scrunching up. Majima finishes lighting a cigarette, leaving it resting between his lips.

Quickly, before Haruka can, Majima reaches over and snatches the bill between his index and middle finger. She gasps, her eyes following his arm back to him. Silently, and with both hands, he stretches the bill out, giving two firm pulls, then drags it against one of the corners of the machine, watching the wrinkles get pulled away. He considers the bill, gently humming. He looks towards her.

“This yours, or did you get it from your papa?” He asks.

She lifts up her hand, contemplating whether or not she should try snatching the bill back. After a moment, she shakes her head.

Majima smiles for a moment.

“You stole it from him, didn’t ya? Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

He returns the bill to Haruka, who turns away from him the first moment she gets. She looks down at the bill, guilt apparent on her face. This is a girl who clearly hasn’t taken much in her life, or at least she is a very, very guilty thief. Majima nearly feels bad for her, but on the other side, he feels a swell of pride knowing kids like him are still around.

“Oi,” Majima snaps his finger. She blinks up at him. “If you’re hungry, you get food. It doesn’t matter how ya get it.”

“I don’t like stealing.” She replies, refusing to glance his way.

He exhales a cloud of smoke as he taps the ashes off his cigarette.

“Don’t think anybody does. Not really.” He says.

He thinks about himself, his child self, gangly and alone, pickpocketing so he could eat. Surviving is not to be ashamed of. Regardless, Haruka is, and he doubts that he of all people can convince her not to be.

He rubs his eye, scowling, then huffs.

“Fuck it.”

He reaches behind himself, tugging his wallet from his back pocket. He flicks his wrist so the wallet flops open.

“It ain’t stealin’ if you give it back, right?” He says, thumbing through several business cards.

“I don’t want money from you.” She answers.

“And you’re not gettin’ it.” He snaps back. “I’m gonna buy some snacks, and in a moment of forgetfulness, I’ll leave them right where someone could steal ‘em.”

Majima stands back up, gesturing for Haruka to scoot, which she quickly does, stepping backwards away from him.

He rolls his head back, deep in mock-thought, and he makes sure she can see that he’s looking at her.

“What do I want to eat?” He seemingly asks himself, but it’s really for Haruka.

Haruka looks down at the machine, then back to Majima. Her eyebrows are scrunched together, her lips pressed tightly together.

“I don’t know.” She eventually says, her voice croaking. She kicks at the ground.

Majima shoves a bill into the machine, and it only takes trying it once for the machine to accept it. He brings his fist up to the keypad display.

“You eat chips, or are your baby-gums too sensitive for ‘em?” Majima huffs.

“Huh?” Haruka blinks, registering the snipe. She keeps her mouth closed.

Majima looks down at the various snacks, then to the keypad. It hits him that he can barely see the numbers. Either the machine’s older than the either of them, or Majima’s eye is failing him.

After a moment of staring at his back, Haruka speaks. “I like chips. Do they have barbeque ones?”

“Barbeque?” Majima parrots, twisting his head to the side. “Strange taste.”

She points at a particular row, the second row, at a particular orange-tinted bag in the center. “I think it’s those ones.”

That would be B-oh-five. Majima blinks. He takes another glance at it, to absolutely make sure that’s what he’s putting in, and then he looks again. Finally, he punches it in. B-oh-five.

The spiral named B-oh-five slowly twists, the machine makes a strange kind of churning noise, and the chips begin their journey out from the machine. For good measure, Majima gives the machine a kick. It plops down into the slot below, and he crouches down to grab at them, the bag cold like the rest of the outside. The light of the machine flickers for a moment as he stands back up. Nonchalantly, he holds the bag in his palm, sticking it out behind him. He doesn’t look behind himself. With his hand at his side, he gives his wrist a wriggle, and slowly, like a skittish fish to bait, Haruka takes the bag. After the transaction, Majima does it all again, this time at the drink machine. He gets a clear drink by the name of Peach Step, and he has an easier time seeing the numbers. He sits back down at his spot next to the machines, and Haruka, still standing, just looks at him.

As he cracks open the bottle, and it hisses loudly, he gives her a look right back.

Like some sort of silent agreement between the two of them, Haruka slowly toes her way to Majima’s side, crouching down like him.

Majima brings his head back as he holds the bottle over his mouth, without making contact with it at all. Like he expected, it’s a carbonated mess, stinging at his tongue. The peach flavor is fake as the ‘One-hundred percent spring water!’ label it wears. After a moment, he holds the drink towards Haruka.

She gives him a funny look as she puts a single chip in her mouth. After chewing and swallowing, she responds. “You share drinks?”

“I share everything,” He replies. “C’mon, I didn’t put my nasty mouth on it.”

After a moment of contemplation, Haruka takes the bottle from him, parroting what he did, holding her head back. Not anticipating the bite of the carbonation, she swings her head forward, coughing, though she thankfully swallows first. Instinctively, Majima’s hand goes to her back, giving it a pat-pat. The shock of it is more surprising than the drink itself, and Haruka coughs louder. With a tear in her eye, she returns the bottle back to Majima.

“Not used to carbonated shit, are ya?” He asks.

She scrubs her sleeve over her face, shaking her head as her nose is in her elbow.

To deter her embarrassment, Majima waterfalls the drink once again and says; “Yeah, neither am I.”

“Why do you share everything?” She asks, her throat raw. She’s going to wait before eating more of her chips.

“Huh?” Majima answers. After a moment, he rubs his chin, his elbow on his knee. “It’s the shit you just do. Call it an orphan code, or somethin’.”

Her eyes bulge out of her head, like something she has never considered was just opened up to her.

“You’re an orphan?” She asks.

Majima laughs meanly. He rests the bottle near his foot.

“Of my own damn making. Got sick of home-life, so I packed my bags and hit the bricks! I wasn’t any older than you.” After a moment, he adds; “Maybe ten.”

“I ran away from my orphanage so I could come to Kamurocho.”

“Isn’t that something? Like two peas in a pod.”

“I don’t think I’m like you.” She replies.

Smiling, Majima prods. “Is that so?”

“You’re mean, and you don’t look nice. I try to be nice to everyone, but you’re just…Loud.”

“And what’s it mean to be nice?” He gestures with his hand, “Because from where I’m lookin’, it looks like bein’ nice just means shuttin’ up and never livin’ your own life. You barely say a damn peep.”

This is an encouraged behavior, Majima hears in his own head. Sagawa Tsukasa minored in psychology.

This is an encouraged behavior, it repeats. Majima sees himself, small and silent, looking up at his adoptive father with astonishment.

For a moment, Majima considers the possibility that he may be an absolute hypocrite.

Haruka looks away from Majima, frowning. She eats a chip.

“You’re a kid. Ya wanna know what you should be doin’? Playin’ in mud, crashin’ your bike into a tree, gettin’ hurt and learnin’ from it. If you’re not learnin’ shit from that pain, then it’s not useful to you.”

Majima slaps a hand on his forehead, groaning. “The fuck am I doing?” He asks himself.

“Is that why you hurt people? Like Nishida-san. You hurt people because you want them to learn from the pain? Because pain isn’t a very good teacher.”

“Pain is the best kind of teacher,” Majima abruptly replies. “You’re gonna learn that someday.”

“People aren’t like you, Majima-san.” Haruka says. “I don’t think it’s stupid to be kind.” She closes her eyes for a moment, her jaw flexing. “Sometimes, it’s harder to be nice than to be mean.”

“So you’re sayin’ being mean is the easy way out?” Majima hums.

“Have you ever been nice?” Haruka asks.

Majima stares at her.

A shiver rips through the both of them as a particularly strong wind moves across Kamurocho.

“You gave me chips. You patted my back when I was coughing.” She says. “Was that hard?”

Harder than she could possibly know, and easier than he’d want to admit.

“You’re just all kinds of Kiryu, aren’t you?” He snips, rubbing the back of his head. He looks down at the concrete floor below them. There’s a small bug scuttling through the cracks. “Is he sleepin’?”

“Yeah.” She nods.

Sleeping for good reason, Majima thinks. He stamps out his cigarette against the brick wall behind him and shoves it into his jacket pocket. A pocketed cigarette, a pocketed revelation.

“Oyaji!”

From a higher floor, Nishida cries. The two of them both look up.

“Nishida, what’s wrong with you?” Majima calls back.

Nishida runs down the stairs with a fervor Majima has not seen in a long time from him. With Nishida’s car right by Haruka and Majima, he approaches them. He’s muttering to himself, as he frantically opens his trunk. When he hunches over inside, his head disappears, and he returns with a bat.

Majima and Haruka both stand.

With a new vantage point, Majima sees what the terror is centered around.

Across the road, down Pink Street, marches an army, rowdy and home-cooked. With the distance, Majima can’t recognize any of them, just the vague shapes of their forms, their shirts, the weapons in their hands. These are Takano’s boys, closing in on the small motel. Faintly, Majima can hear their marching-band footsteps, stomp, stomp, stomping, his heart pounding just the same. In an instant, he is burning.

“The fuck? How did they know we were here?”

Nishida thinks for a moment, and then pounds his fist against his forehead, letting out a nervous yelp.

“They must’ve stalked Kiryu-san! He went out last night!”

Majima screams, grabbing his hair. Haruka’s breathing heavily, looking between the two of them.

“I have to wake up Ojisan!”

“Oh, no you don’t. You have to get the hell out of here!” Majima demands, leaning down to her.

“Oyaji, it’s you they want. I don’t think they’re going to listen to reason, right now.”

“Inclined to agree, Nishida-chan.”

The army move across the street, cars screeching to a halt to avoid hitting the mass of men. The boys closest to the cars move their anger to them, smashing their lights out with their bats.

“A motel’s a deathtrap. Kiryu’s on the top floor. We go there, and we’ll be swarmed with nowhere to go.” Majima says. “Nishida,”

“Oyaji, you take Haruka-san and go.”

In an instant, up in the sky, thunder crashes just as the front of the army, a man who Majima quickly recognizes as Adachi, the boy in the bar, screams.

“You’re fuckin’ dead, Majima!” He says. “You, Nishida, Kiryu, I’ll fuckin’ kill all of you!”

Nishida, the closest to the army, stands with the bat in his palm, tapping it against the concrete.

“Where’s Takano?” Nishida says, “Shouldn’t he be at the front of this ambush?”

“He’s the boss, Aniki. The boss doesn’t lead the frontlines. He commands from the back.”

Majima grabs the fabric of Haruka’s shoulder, pulling her back. She yelps.

“Kiryu’s got the obligation of keepin’ you safe. Keepin’ you in this shithole ain’t gonna see that through.” Majima says sternly.

Fearfully, this is not Majima’s fight. This is not his Story.

Nishida is standing between Majima and the army, steadfast and terrified. He is muttering prayers, begging that he’ll see his mother once again. He turns his body, keeping his face towards the army, wrapping both hands around the bat. At once, the muttering stops, and he’s silent. Like a player, he twirls the bat. In this moment, he’s one cold motherfucker.

After a moment, Haruka turns her face towards Majima.

“We’ll find Ojisan again, won’t we?”

“First chance we’re safe, I’ll get you back to him.” He whispers. After a moment, he turns to Nishida. “You get Kiryu-chan awake, and you keep yourself alive. You die, and I’ll fuckin’ kill ya again! You hear me!”

“Thank you, Oyaji!” Nishida screams, squeezing his eyes shut.

When Majima turns back to Haruka, Haruka gives him a nod, furrowing her brow. Fear turns to an absolute certainness. She is putting her trust in Majima, just for this moment.

The moment Adachi cracks his bat down upon Nishida, Majima hauls Haruka up into his arms, turning to run. Against his better judgment, he turns his head back towards Nishida, watching as Nishida blocked the hit with his own bat.

As Nishida smashes his bat against Adachi’s skull, Majima runs.

“Follow him!” Somebody that isn’t Adachi screams, footsteps stomping against the ground in unison.

Majima pushes himself to run faster, as Haruka clings to his shirt collar.

Making a break for it, Majima passes right by the army, stepping through the maze of cars currently halted. The boys going after him struggle to move through the cars, instead opting for jumping over the cars like a platformer. Wind hisses through Majima’s ears as he sprints down Senryo Avenue, knocking down one of the signs as he does so. There’s more goons on the end of the street, and Majima realizes that his boys are most likely swarming the city, all waiting for him. Clutching tightly to Haruka, Majima quickly makes a detour through Pink Alley, pulling down trash cans to slow any pursuers down. He glances behind himself, taking note of the first two, leading the charge against him. Miyauchi and Chiba.

Right at the end of the alley, a man by the name of Yasui suddenly jumps out from the corner, lifting his bat up over his head, twisting his shoulder around. He lets out a shriek and swings, right when Majima’s in hitting distance, but Majima ducks, and like he’s running for home, slides right underneath the bat’s arch, his jacket bunching up as his bare back drags against the glass-covered, nasty pavement below. Haruka lets out a fearful yelp, and it drives Majima back up to his feet, quickly forgetting about the pain. Goons pour in from Showa Street and East Taihei, so Majima beelines into Nakamichi Alley, smashing shoulders with several civilians in the process. The alley has several different exit points, so he takes the one that dispenses him right into Taihei. He glances up at the Millennium tower, now closer than ever from him, and he keeps running, making a turn towards Theater Avenue.

Right as Majima passes a car, he’s met with several men hiding right behind it. A man with a bat named Yoneda and a man with just his fists named Kuwahara. Kuwahara attempts to smash his fist right into Majima’s face like an iceberg, but Majima quickly steps backwards. These two are large men, two best friends since their childhoods. Majima isn’t going to push past them.

Majima slides across the trunk of the car, landing on the opposite side. Thankfully, the car is unlocked, as he throws the backseat door open, dropping Haruka into it. She looks up at him with wide-eyes.

“Stay here,” He tells her.

“Okay.” She nods.

Just as Kuwahara grabs Majima by the back of his hair, Majima throws the door shut again. The car sits right by one of the two roofed shelters outside the tower, and Kuwahara drags Majima right by one of the benches underneath, slamming his face right into it.

“Get the kid, Kyodai!” Kuwahara demands.

Majima screams, bucking his head hard enough to escape Kuwahara’s grasp. Yoneda grabs the door handle, which Haruka keeps shut with her own force, the two pulling back and forth until Haruka finally throws it forward just as Yoneda pulls, sending him to the ground. Pulling the door shut once again, Haruka quickly crawls up into the passenger seat up front.

Majima twirls around, sending his knee right into Kuwahara’s side, who keels and stumbles backwards. When Majima attempts to follow it up with another kick, Kuwahara catches his leg, baring his teeth in a near-snarl. Majima punches him in the temple, pulling his leg from Kuwahara’s grasp, until changing his mind. With his leg still trapped, he jumps, wrapping both arms around Kuwahara’s neck, his other leg twisting around Kuwahara’s side, like a tick. Kuwahara stumbles backwards once again, letting out all kinds of confused cries, letting go of Majima’s leg to attempt to pry him off. Majima twists Kuwahara’s head around, like he’s trying to unscrew his head, and finally headbutts him, Kuwahara’s skull being very, very hard.

Majima jumps off of the man, turning his attention to Yoneda, who is currently getting back onto his feet. Gaining a running start, Majima catches him off guard, smashing his skull right against the car door with the heel of his boot. As Kuwahara runs behind Majima, Majima wrestles the bat out of Yoneda’s grasp, and with a climactic, shrill laugh, smashes the bat right into Kuwahara’s stomach. The bat is familiar, wearing the brand of the Yoshida Batting Center. Still grinning, Majima brings it down into Yoneda’s shoulder.

“You don’t fuck with kids!” He shrieks, bringing his foot down for good measure.

Majima runs around the car, prying the passenger door open. Haruka is right there.

“Are you okay?” She asks, as Majima leans one arm down to scoop her into his grasp.

“Fine enough. Let's bounce.” He replies, as she wraps an arm around his neck.

As Kuwahara and Yoneda both give barely-conscious groans, Majima returns to his route, sprinting down Theater Avenue.

With a bat, he is a fly swatter. Men all approach him, all want his head, but he doesn’t care. As Haruka tightly clutches to him, Majima twirls, sending the bat right into man after man, bastard into bastard, making them all regret ever crossing his path. Even with a one-handed swing, Majima is nasty, and he coats Theater Avenue with blood.

For a moment, he considers Kiryu. ‘We both have obligations to the people we call family’. He said, the rest of that statement beginning to echo as well ‘I can’t make you believe in the clan, but don’t leave your family in the dark’.

He can’t reason with men who are him. An army of Majima. They aren’t going to stop until Majima reaches the top of the food chain. They’re boys who are just as angry as he once was, and there is no fixing that. All he can do is swing, batter, swing, swing until the cows come home.

With Haruka in his arm, he is reminded of Makimura Makoto, his hand around hers, and he swings that much harder. Despite it all, his boys aren’t his enemy, but he’ll burn them all to the ground if they touch a single motherfucking hair on Sawamura Haruka’s head.

There’s ten unconscious bodies on the Theater Square.

Majima keeps running through Shichifuku Street, the stress finally beginning to reach him. He’s struggling to breathe, his legs aching. He’s toeing dangerously close to West Park with each step, but he doesn’t care. By how he’s running, he’s sure to circle right back around to Showa Street. He needs somewhere, anywhere, to stop.

“What about Champion District?” Haruka yelps, and Majima realizes he was speaking.

“Too closed off,” He pants, “Too narrow.”

“Bad guys never check there.” She replies. “They didn’t go there because Ojisan liked being there.”

“Fine!” Majima snaps. He doesn’t hear anything behind him, so he dips east, right into Champion District. Immediately, he feels claustrophobic, the tight, closed-off walls echoing the smell of alcohol and vomit. He ventures as far as he can go within, and, with his back pressed against a wall, lets Haruka drop down to her feet. His back is stinging, but he doesn’t know if he’s bleeding. His chest is heaving, and he’s staring at nothing in particular. Like a long-forgotten memory, his left knee begins to ache, moving between sharp and dull. It begins to shake subtly. The bat remains in his palm.

He’s run across the whole of Kamurocho. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Are you okay, Majima-san?” Haruka asks gently.

“I’m fine,” He grunts. “Gimme a moment.”

He feels like he’s dying. He’s never felt more alive.

A gun cocks.

Majima moves without thinking, pulling Haruka’s shoulder until she moves behind him. His eye twitches, his face scrunching up in a pure snarl, his chest still heaving. He’s leaned forward, fists clenched, breathing through his teeth, and his legs are set far apart. He isn’t seeing anything. It’s all dust.

“Get away from the kid!” Date Makoto demands, gun held high. His trenchcoat is drifting in the wind behind him, and his glare is set right on Majima. “I knew you’d be up to your old tricks, Majima Goro.”

“Date-san!” Haruka yells. She runs underneath Majima’s long legs, standing right in front of him now. “Date-san, don’t!”

“Haruka-chan,” Date replies. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m not your enemy, you fuckin’ idiot!” Majima screams, “Put the gun down!”

Date doesn’t put the gun down.

Haruka’s eyes follow the corner Date emerged from, and she gasps.

“Date-san, look out!”

When Date turns, four men emerge out from the turn, one of them cracking a bat right against Date’s skull. The man crumbles to the floor with a sickening thud.

“Date-san!” Haruka shrieks, as Majima pulls her back towards him. Her voice echoes through the whole district, shrill and terrified, tears clear in her voice. She looks up at him for a moment, and makes a choice to move behind him.

“Fuckin’ moron. Told ya it was smart to track the cop.” Miyauchi remarks, twirling his bat around with flourish. He steps over Date’s body. “Hey, Oyaji.”

Alongside Miyauchi stands Chiba, Yoneda and Kuwahara.

“You’re the idiots. You got a death wish?” Majima pants, sweat dripping down his brow.

Miyauchi drags his bat across the brick wall he’s closest to, making a scraping sound as he approaches.

“You’re nothin’ when you’re tired,” Chiba says, grinning. “Look at you. Why was I ever scared of you?”

“I’m not your enemy, you morons! You think the Tojo Clan’s gonna look the other way as you fuckin’ march through Kamurocho!”

“We aren’t worrying about them,” Yoneda says, sniffling. He rubs his thumb across his nostrils. “Just a bunch of pussies nowadays. We’ve got real bite, and they’re all bark.”

“I’ve beaten you bitches again and again,” Majima growls, “You babies ain’t like me, not one bit. You lose, and I win.”

“Motherfucker!” Kuwahara howls, beating his fists together. “You used to be fun, Oyaji!”

Majima tilts his head to the side unnaturally.

“Fun?” He asks. “You wanna have fun?”

The four of the assailants, Majima’s former boys, all grin as he does. A strange sense of hatred and pride swells through Majima’s chest, through his pounding heart.

“I never did shit because it was fun. If you were any good at your jobs, you’d know that.”

Majima takes a step forward, and for a moment, the four take a step back. Haruka steps back until she can hide behind a trash can.

“I don’t regret leavin’ the clan, but I’m seein’ now what that’s caused. Boys like you, you need a strong motherfucker to guide you. Without that, you’re all just a bunch of brats throwin’ a tantrum.”

Majima lifts his bat up towards the group, grinning until his cracked lips split.

“You want one more lesson from Oyaji? Take your best shot!”

Swing, batter, batter, swing.

Chiba catches the first strike Majima swings, between a tight palm. Majima kicks the man in the dick, sending him tumbling backwards. Majima swings downwards, cracking it against Yoneda’s shoulder, while Miyauchi juts the end of his own bat right into the base of Majima’s spine. It sends a sudden freeze through Majima’s body, his torso convulsing as Chiba regains his composure, kicking Majima’s ankle hard enough to twist it.

Majima lets out a nasty howl, but he doesn’t fall.

He swings his bat like a knife, catching Miyauchi right in the side of his skull, and as Miyauchi’s cast aside, so is Yoneda, and Kuwahara, as Majima doesn’t stop his trajectory, making a complete spin. They all fall to the ground, but they’re not down for the count. Chiba’s up on his knees, and he sends a nasty punch right into Majima’s stomach. Backing up, Majima turns his bat around, slamming the butt of it right into Chiba’s teeth.

Up once again, Kuwahara twists himself around Majima’s body, wrapping his arms around his waist. Before Majima can react, he’s hoisted up off his feet, and though he kicks, it doesn’t stop Kuwahara as he brings Majima right back down, forcing his legs down onto the ground with a force that’d shatter anyone elses knees. Kuwahara follows it up with his elbow against the back of Majima’s skull, while Yoneda sends the tip of his foot into Majima’s ribs.

Majima doesn’t fall.

Majima propels himself upwards, breaking Yoneda’s nose with his skull. He swings behind himself, and cracks Kuwahara against the skull. With enough distance between him and the other two, Majima gets a running start before tumbling down gracefully, somersaulting against the pavement until he has enough velocity. The bat moves fast enough to make a sound as he smashes the face of Chiba, who screams, and then gurgles blood. The bat, who has lived a long, long history, decides to split then and there, not made for human skulls. Before Miyauchi can attack from behind, Majima twirls around, cracking Miyauchi right in the arm, and splintering the bat into pieces. Like an actor, Majima dances into another role. He bounces up and down, spitting blood out from his mouth.

Yoneda is the first to try something. He screams, jumping over Chiba’s body, and Majima grins.

Majima spins, the tip of his toe scraping against the pavement, as he sends his other foot out, dropping Yoneda back down to the ground with a kick to the chest. He keeps twirling, jumping to bring his fist down into Miyauchi’s jaw. When he lands, he crouches down, gloved hand meeting the ground. With grace, he lifts himself with one arm, legs sticking straight in the air. Kuwahara is the next lucky winner, as he approaches. Majima wraps his legs around Kuwahara’s neck, and with an unnatural strength, pulls. Kuwahara screams as Majima launches him right into the air, all by the strength of his legs, pulling him over Majima, and onto the ground, his back slamming against it with a thud, as Majima lifts himself back up unphased. Two down, a new character.

Majima bounces right back up to his feet, fists up. Yoneda and Miyauchi are left.

Yoneda punches, but Majima blocks, shifting his body to the side, and he catches Yoneda’s arm, punching Yoneda right back. Miyauchi retaliates by grabbing Majima by the back of his jacket collar, hauling him back, and Yoneda knees Majima in the stomach. With an unrelenting grip on his jacket, Majima is forced to slide right out of it, dropping down to a crouch as he pulls his arms free. Before Miyauchi can realize it, Majima, still crouched, kicks as high as he can go, and as Yoneda swings his head back, blood launching right out of his nose, Majima brings his foot right back down like a boomerang. Yoneda lets out an unruly shriek, before falling silent. The jacket falls behind Majima as Miyauchi grabs Majima by the back of his skull, his hand large and meaty, and while Majima brings his hands up to grip at his arm, it’s futile. Miyauchi drags Majima across the floor and crushes his skull against the brick wall of a random bar, coating it in Majima’s blood.

Majima’s vision goes white for a moment, his ears reacting as if he’d just been shot, ringing and nothingness.

“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” Miyauchi hisses, and slams Majima down once again. “Traitor, leaver, fuckin’--Hate you!”

Majima can’t reply. Blood gushes out from his mouth.

“But we got a new leader, motherfucker. We got a new thing goin’, and there’s no fuckin’ room for you anymore. I’m puttin’ you in the fucking kennel!”

A gunshot truly rings out.

Miyauchi freezes, and Majima’s eye drifts to the side, dazed and ditzy. Haruka stands with Date’s gun between her hands, smoke flowing out of the nozzle.

It didn’t hit anyone. There’s a mark left in a wall right behind Miyauchi.

“You little bitch,” Miyauchi snarls, dropping Majima’s skull like it’s a toy. He lifts himself up to his feet, moving right towards her. Her face is expressionless, but her brow is furrowed. Her hands are shaking. She is going to die if she doesn’t shoot him. Blood will be on her hands either way.

Majima doesn’t let her make the choice. Like something else possesses his body, he stands, blood drenching his face. He stumbles forward, stumbles forward again, and silently, he jumps onto Miyauchi’s back.

“Shh,” Majima coos, whispering as he wraps his arms around Miyauchi’s neck, tightening as much as he can. “Oyaji’s here, papa’s here, shh,”

Miyauchi smashes his elbow against Majima’s side. He does it again and again. His eyes water, redden to a bloodshot, and his face changes colors.

Haruka backs away, her eyes widened and tearful, her lip quivering.

Despite everything, Majima hears her. Like she’s the only voice in the world.

“Don’t kill him.” She begs. He listens.

Majima’s arms drop. Miyauchi falls to his knees, clutching his throat, dragging in breath after breath, tears streaming down his face.

Majima struggles to keep himself upright. He walks towards Haruka, dripping with each step, and then he falls.

“Majima-san!” She yells, letting the gun drop to the ground. She crouches down onto her knees, putting a small hand onto Majima’s shoulder, struggling to turn him over.

Date finally regains consciousness. His eyes drift open, his hand going to his skull, and he groans. Haruka, fearfully, twists her head around, but once she realizes it’s Date, she smiles for a moment before letting it fall.

“Date-san, please help him!”

“Oh, shit,” Date gasps, struggling to get back onto his feet. Instead, he crawls, dragging his knees against the pavement until he’s right there with her. He grabs Majima’s shoulder, pulling him onto his back.

Majima’s eye remains open as he slowly breathes. Once again, with blood in his mouth, Majima feels a violent fervor in his heart. This is a revelation. For a moment, everything makes sense, but he doesn’t know what everything means. Everything could be anything could be nothing, as he lets his head fall to the side.

“I protected you, Haruka-chan,” He wheezes, high-pitched and breathy. “I’m good.”

Haruka, shaking, gives him a nod. He is not nice, but he is not unkind. Deep down, down far enough to where Majima’s forgotten it, Majima feels genuinely, honestly proud of himself. He giggles. He wants Kiryu to see this. He feels in charge of himself. He feels like this is his own story, not written by anybody else but him.

A man steps out from the corner, lighting a cigarette. He flicks his lighter shut. Date and Haruka both turn their attention, with Date reaching an arm out to shield her.

“So that’s you, Majima Goro.” The man says. His voice is smooth and cool, grey hair slicked back. His suit is black, and his tie is white. He gives the three of them a nod.

Miyauchi turns his head slowly, still holding his throat. Barely, he replies.

“Shimura-san.”

“Calm down, Miyauchi,” The man named Shimura answers, lifting a hand to placate him.

Majima’s head struggles to remain upright.

“Don’t bother with him anymore. I doubt he’ll survive after this.” Shimura hisses. “As for the others…” His voice drifts off into silence.

“Shimura?” Date asks, raising a brow. “Who the hell are you?”

“Does it matter? You’ll find out soon enough.” Shimura hums. “As for him,” He gestures to Majima. “He’ll bleed out before you’ll get him anywhere near a hospital.”

“No!” Haruka gasps. She scowls right at Shimura. “He won’t. I know he won’t.”

“Cute.” Shimura groans. “Do you have a reason for that?”

“He’s like Ojisan.” She replies. “I know he won’t die.”

Anyone who disagrees with her is a fool with how certain she says it. No matter what, it will be true to her. Maybe that’s enough to will it into reality.

“Sure.” Shimura sighs, flicking his cigarette down to the ground. “I only came to make sure the job was done. It’s not on the agenda to kill the either of you. But if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

Shimura leaves, and Miyauchi stumbles onto his feet, eager to follow, shuffling like a zombie.

Haruka and Date both return their attention to Majima. Date gives him a shake.

“Oi, Majima,” He wheezes, shaking once again. “Majima!”

“Majima-san!” Haruka shakes him, too.

Majima’s eye is shut. Stories always end this way.

Majima dances.

Flesh writhes against him, back and forth, but he dances like it’s not there. Undulating and writhing, he dances. Each time the flesh touches him, it feels like something new. A warm hand against his shoulder, a mouth against the corner of his lip, a firm pat on his head, a fist in his shoulder. It all feels different, and it all feels familiar. With the feeling of a chest against his, he breathes again. A hand begins to stroke the hair out from his face. There’s no one there. Monsters, fathers, murderers, they’re all the same. No matter what, Majima knows what he is. He is a human. No matter what skin he wears, he’s a human. He is not the hand holding his neck down, and he is not the punch in his chest. He is a spiteful, pitiful, kind human, and Monsters hide when he roars.

“Up and at ‘em,” He says to himself, looking at his own reflection through the fleshpile he dances in. “Get the fuck up, motherfucker. It’s time to blow the house down.”

All of this is forgotten when Majima wakes.

His eye snaps open, his body jolting. He looks upwards, meeting Date and Haruka’s wide-eyed gazes. He is awake, and he is alive. He lets out a breath. He was unconscious for a few moments.

“I need up,” He croaks. Adrenaline rushing through his veins. He shakes his hands, shakes his legs, and grabs at Date’s sleeve. “Baby needs up, papa,”

“Shit,” Date puts a hand on Majima, right at his armpit, and Haruka leans forward, mouth dropping open.

“Majima-san!” She shouts, watching as Date pulls Majima’s arm up over his shoulder, pulling him upright and onto his feet.

“Baby needs his jacket,” Majima hums, leaning a head against Date. With his free hand, he makes a grabbing motion. “It’s cold like a son of a bitch.”

Haruka reaches down, fingers clutching against Majima’s snakeskin, and as Date begins to walk forwards, Haruka is close behind, outside of Champion district, leaving the unconscious bodies of former Majima men behind.

Doctor Emoto watches as Majima flexes his arm.

“How you’re alive, I honestly have no damn clue.” Emoto muses, looking over a white clipboard between his hands. He sits on a stool, right by the table Majima is seated at. He gestures towards Majima’s skull with a pen. “No man should be able to take that much head trauma. You said you ran across Kamurocho?”

“Carryin’ a nine year old.” Majima adds, definitely pumped with painkillers. “Before that, I got glass in my face. Headbutted, kneed, you name it, doc.”

After a moment, Emoto shakes his head.

“After you leave here, Majima Goro, I hope to never see you again in my office.” Emoto says. He spins his stool around towards Haruka and Date. “If he were normal, I’d suggest bed-rest. Considering he’s not,” Emoto turns back towards Majima. “Try not to get your ass kicked again.”

“Can do, doc.”

“Thanks for seeing him,” Date says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Haruka quickly approaches Majima, hands on the table he’s seated at.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” She says earnestly.

Majima grins, eye crinkling. “You think I’ll let my own boys do me in?”

With blood coating his front, Emoto runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t make yourselves comfortable. I’m heading towards the back. When I open the door again, you lot better be gone.”

And with that, Doctor Emoto disappears into the back room of his clinic, the room used for surgery. Just before, he was picking glass out of Majima’s back.

After a moment of silence, Date shuffles his feet.

“I’m sorry for pointing a gun at you,” He says.

“You’re lucky we got a common enemy, detective, I would’a popped your head open.” Majima replies, huffing out a wheeze.

“I’m sure.” Date replies, deciding not to reveal that he is definitely not a detective anymore.

“What about that man?” Haruka asks, “Shimura?”

“Never heard of him.” Majima replies.

“Neither have I,” Date adds. “Judging by the style, I’d suggest yakuza. One of the more business-types. If Majima doesn’t recognize him, then he’s probably not Tojo.”

“What if he was the boss?” Haruka ponders, “That man– He talked to Shimura like that was his boss.”

“Takano’s the boss,” Majima holds his jaw between his fingers, and then he clenches his teeth together. “But if he’s answerin’ to someone else now…”

“Then they’re not a small problem anymore, with a business-type like that.”

“Fuck me running!” Majima winces, holding a hand against his bare chest. A piercing pain surges through him, and then fades. “Where the fuck is Kiryu.”

Majima lifts himself off the table, struggling for a moment or two, and he sighs. Reaching for his jacket, which is resting on the back of a chair, Majima cracks his neck. As he shrugs his jacket on, he walks back towards the table he laid on, pulling the blinds of the window behind the table. People, civilians, are just beginning to resurface, along with a swarm of cops.

Blood is still smeared across Majima’s face, after he threatened to break Emoto’s arm when he brought a cloth to his face.

“Shit’s going to be on high-alert,” Majima huffs. “Oi, Detective. Can you get us through Kamurocho without eyes?”

Date shakes his head. “Not a part of the force anymore, Majima. I’m just as powerless as you.”

Majima’s hand trembles.

“Son of a bitch.” He growls. “I need to get to Nishida.”

Majima shoves his hand into his pocket and retrieves a broken flip-phone, crushed in the fight. He crushes it further in his palm, pieces falling to the floor before he slams it down.

“Fuck! We’re going!” Majima turns to leave.

“Try the sewers,” Emoto suddenly shouts from his surgery-room. “You don’t wanna be found? Go there.”

Nobody pays him any mind, as Date and Haruka follow behind Majima.

The moment Majima steps outside, he walks until he reaches the beginning of Senryo Avenue. Across the street, across the road, there is police tape, a blockade. Cops are swarming everywhere.

“If Kiryu and Nishida were there, they’re long gone.” Majima notes.

Date flips his own phone open as they continue walking, with his other hand around Haruka’s. Majima leads them through alleyways, nowhere near the main streets, while he clutches his own side. Slowly, the bustling returns, music and laughing echoing. Cops may be filling the streets, but the party never stops in Kamurocho. Haruka is mumbling Kiryu’s new phone number to Date, while Majima watches a few cops pass by. He stands shadowed, leaning against a wall.

Date’s phone beeps, beeps, beeps.

“Nothing.” Date says, clicking his phone shut. “It’s not dead, or it would’ve gone straight to voicemail. What’s your lackey’s name? -Shida?”

“Nishida. I don’t fuckin’ know his number. It was on speed dial. I didn’t have to remember it.”

“Great.” Date replies, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

“What are we going to do?” Haruka asks.

After the cops pass, Majima moves. They’re approaching Tenkaichi Street. Thunder roars as rain begins to drip. Once again, it’s a rainy day.

Majima’s clenching and unclenching his fists as he keeps walking, periodically checking behind himself to make sure Date and Haruka are still trailing behind. Civilians feel the rain, pull newspapers and umbrellas out to cover their heads, but Majima remains unphased. Some part of him is beginning to fear the worst, a younger, paranoid version of himself. He sees Nishida with a cracked skull, dead and dying, and he sees himself in the same position. Fathers always leave their sons to deal with the worst of it. His stomach begins to churn. He needs to find Nishida. He needs to find him. If Kiryu’s with him, he knows Nishida’ll be okay. If Nishida is with Kiryu, then he knows Kiryu’ll be okay. He’s never worried about Kiryu. It’s scaring him that he's starting to. He feels awake, entirely, utterly awake. Before, before he saw Kiryu again, before they fought in Majima’s motel room, he felt foggy, gummed up. Now, he feels raw, hurting for all the right reasons. Pain with a reason, pain with a lesson. He feels like he’s remembered something he’s forgotten, what it means to fight for a cause, a belief.

Nothing’s mattered until now. He’s starting to understand Kiryu.

Passing Serena Alley, a group sit on the curb. A woman, bouncing a ball, accidentally bounces the ball right at Haruka, who clumsily catches it, grunting in surprise. Date and Majima quickly turn around.

“Shit, sorry, little girl,” The woman says. She has a gruff voice, a coarse face. She sits with two other men. “Didn’t see you there.”

Haruka holds the ball back out.

“It’s okay. Why are you out here in the rain?” She asks. “Aren’t you cold?”

The woman gently takes the ball back, laughing. “Why are you out in the rain?” She repeats, emphasis on the ‘you’. “We got kicked out of West Park, and out of the sewer. All that’s left is the streets until the cops come to flush us out.”

“You were one of the homeless pushed out of West Park?” Date asks, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Yep,” One of the men, a pale smoker, replies. He’s struggling to light a cigarette in the rain, holding his hand over the lighter.

“And that’s Majima Goro.” The woman looks over towards Majima, raising a brow. “The man himself.”

Majima walks over towards the man struggling to use his lighter. He passes him his own, and when the man tries it, it works with a single flick.

“Why don’t you keep that.” Majima tells the man.

The man gives him a nod, gesturing with the gifted lighter. “Thanks, man.”

“Now, what was that about the sewer?” Majima asks the group.

The other man, a kind-looking portly figure with a beard, points towards a manhole, one right in the middle of the street. Majima recognizes this as the Kazama Family Office’s location. He wonders if Kashiwagi’s up there, looking down at him through a window. He’s right at Serena, the place where this all kicked into gear. He sniffles, sneering for a moment.

The other man speaks.

“Once those morons figured out Purgatory was attached to the sewer system, they moved through it, pushing the rest of the homeless population out. You’d think they’d stop once they had Purgatory, but no. Bastards must be planning something big. The cops never go down to the sewer system. It’s completely off the radar. Why do you think we stayed down there?”

“Fukunaga took a pair of men down there not too long ago,” The woman says. “God help them if they run into those maniacs.”

“A pair of men?” Date asks. “Wait, you don’t mean…”

“That could’ve been Ojisan and Nishida-san!” Haruka concludes, grabbing onto Date’s jacket. She turns back to the woman, nodding. “Were they fighting a lot of bad guys?” She asks.

The woman rubs the back of her neck. “Shit, they were all over just a couple hours ago. You should’ve seen it. Most of the freaks dispersed once the cops started rolling in, but yeah, those two guys were just over there.” She points towards Showa Street. “Never seen anything like it.”

Date, exasperated, looks up at the sky, rain falling right into his eyes. He sighs.

“You’re always getting me into shit, aren’t you, Kiryu.” He mumbles. “Sewer-diving…”

“Thanks a lot, girlie,” Majima smiles. “Lucky for you, we’re the best kind of exterminators. We get down there, and we’ll take care of the pest problem.”

“I doubt you’re gonna be exterminating anything,” The woman raises a brow. “No offense, buddy, but you look like shit.”

Majima grins.

“That’s how I roll,” He replies, wheezing. He flings an arm out, gesturing towards Haruka and Date as he bounces backwards. “Let’s fuckin’ move it!”

The trio sitting on the curb watch as Date and Majima both crouch by the manhole.

“What a freak.” One notes.

“Nah, that’s normal for Kamurocho.” Another adds.

Majima’s the first to try to lift the manhole, both hands on each side. He sticks his fingers in the small holes, pulls until Date can grab a side.

“You sure you wanna do this, Detective?” Majima says, laughing. His smile won’t leave.

“And leave you with Haruka-chan? You must be insane.”

Haruka gasps.

“You, right there!” A loud voice booms. Majima glances for a moment. Two cops, one adjusting his hat, quickly run down the street towards them. It’s time to pick up the pace.

“Fuckin’ move!” Majima grabs the manhole cover, pushing Date off as he lifts it off entirely himself, flinging it aside. Date, astonished, attempts to brush it off as he grabs Haruka’s shoulder, urging her to head down first.

“Stop!” One of the cops demands.

Date’s next, quickling shimmying down the ladder after Haruka. Majima keeps his eye on the cops.

Suddenly, the trio on the curb move.

The woman and the smoker grab onto each other like a fighting couple, quickly moving to the center of the street, intercepting the cops and blocking Majima, while the portly man quickly runs over to Majima, grabbing the manhole cover and lifting it with ease.

“Wait– Move!” One of the cops says, grabbing the shoulder of the smoker.

“This stupid piece of shit!” The woman screeches, smacking the smoker over the head.

“You bitch! I should kill you!” The smoker howls, pushing her right into the cops.

The woman turns to the cops, wild in her eyes. “You two, arrest this stupid fuckin’ man! Right now! Execute him!”

“I haven’t done a damn thing!” The smoker replies, jabbing one of the cops in the chest. “You! Do something about this crazy woman!”

Majima laughs, and quickly gets his feet into the manhole, and once his whole body is in, he looks up at the portly man.

“Try not to get arrested,” Majima says.

“Don’t worry about it. We jump at opportunities to get in the pig’s way.” The man says, and as Majima begins to descend, quickly places the manhole back into place.

Once Majima lands, the smell hits his nostrils. It doesn’t phase him.

Date and Haruka both pinch their noses, faces scrunched up in disgust.

“Move it, you big babies.” Majima huffs, adjusting his gloves. He gives his jacket a shake, wiggling off the rain forcefully as he starts walking down the catwalk. This is the Southern Sewer System.

“You realize how big this system is?” Date asks, grabbing onto Majima’s shoulder.

“You wanna know what else is big? Fuck right off.” Majima shrugs his hand off. “Life ain’t about takin’ the easy way out. If it was all easy, who’d wanna live?”

Water rushes underneath their feets as they walk, rats squeaking faintly. Pipes whine with stress, and the ceiling drips.

It almost smells familiar to Majima. Shit, piss, and rust.

“It’s so gross down here.” Haruka wheezes, holding the sleeves of her jacket up to her nose, muffling her voice.

“Only as gross as you make it.” Majima replies, twirling around to walk backwards. He lifts up his arms. “You ever think about how complicated this shit is? You gotta have a whole lot of gears turning to be able to process all of the shit that comes outta Kamurocho. That’s magic, baby.”

“How’d the Tojo Clan ever put up with you?” Date asks, scowling.

Majima makes a rude gesture with his arm, the kind that just screams ‘Shove it!’ . He quickly turns back around afterwards, right before he tumbles right down a small set of stairs. A rat scurries past his feet.

After a moment of silence, Haruka skips past Date, catching up with Majima to walk side-by-side with him.

“Does it hurt, Majima-san?” She asks.

“Does what hurt?” He replies.

She looks at him silently.

He blinks at her.

“I’m hopped up on some black-market painkiller shit, kid, I’m right as rain.” He says, his leg begging to give up after each step he takes. Even now, he’s in pain. He lies to her with a straight face, and he doesn’t feel bad about it. “Don’t worry your little head about it.”

She looks away from him, concern remaining on her face. Her lips pout.

“I’m sorry for not trusting you, Majima-san.” She mumbles.

“You were right not to, girlie. I’m a mean bastard.”

“But you wanted to protect me.”

“What, you like me now?”

“I don’t know. You’re still scary, but I’m not afraid like I was.” She replies. “I think that’s how Ojisan feels, too.”

“Haw?” Majima crows, a hand in his pocket. “What’s that mean?”

“Bad guys always do bad things because they’re bad.” Haruka says. “But you have different reasons. You still do bad things, but it’s different. I don’t know why, though. You’re what the bad guys are scared of, like Ojisan.”

“A bad guy is still a bad guy,” Majima says, staring at the water below his feet. “It don’t matter the reasons.”

“You don’t have to be a bad guy.” She replies.

“I’ve been a bad guy since the day I was born, kiddo. It’s in my blood.” He beats a fist on his chest. “Right down to my bones.”

Haruka begins to doubt that she’ll ever be able to get through to him. Majima does it on purpose. A little girl isn’t meant to fix a man like him.

“But, ya wanna know something? Stories always need a bad guy in ‘em, otherwise they ain’t fun.”

Haruka looks at him, and then back to the path above. She hums in consideration, letting the conversation rest.

“You always so self-defeatist?” Date asks. “I swear, it’s all the same with you yakuza boys.”

Majima breathes out a high-pitched noise.

Majima stops.

He lifts a hand.

“What are you…” Date tries to say.

“Sh.” Majima hushes. “You hear that?”

Haruka and Date both look at him like he’s crazy.

“There’s a fight goin’ down. I feel it.” He says.

“I think that’s mental illness.” Date retorts.

“You’re probably right,” Majima hee-hee-hees, running his fist under his nose. “But the kind that leads me right where I want to be!”

He starts running, limping as he does so.

“That’s not how that works you fucking moron!” Date hisses, looks towards Haruka, and then curses. “Shit! Come on, Haruka!”

“Right!”

Date wraps his hand around Haruka, and Haruka grips his tight as he runs after Majima, loud footsteps stomping in unison.

The rushing water grows more violent as the system deepens, widens, with each step Majima takes. The catwalk transitions to concrete, transitions to make-shift shelters. By the looks of it, they’re running right into the Central System. The sounds of a fight grow increasingly real as Majima follows his instinct, faint, bare-ly there blood stains on the ground. Majima jumps right over an unconscious body, and Date huffs in resignation of being wrong. Another one, leaning against a wall. One over the railing. Punch, punch, punch, Majima hears it all.

A man is thrown over the railing, screaming as he topples over and into the water below.

Kiryu stands over a mass of groaning bodies, elbowing a skinny man right in the nose before grabbing his skull and throwing him over his shoulder. Blood coats his grey jacket, smeared across his face. His hair is tousled, and his eyes are wide, nostrils flared. He pulls his arm back and punches a man hard enough to send him flying.

Nishida stands alongside an unknown man, possibly the Fukunaga the trio outside Serena mentioned. They both hold weapons, Nishida with his metal bat, and the man with a crowbar. Takano’s boys grab for the weapons, launching themselves at the pair, but it’s all for nothing. Nishida slams his bat down onto a man’s skull, while Possibly-Fukunaga pushes back several of the men with an unnatural strength. Nishida has a bandage wrapped around his shaved head, and a black eye. Possibly-Fukunaga is a tan man with a bushy black beard, a burn scar on his hand, and a hat that covers his eyes.

A man who was previously knocked down manages to get back up onto his feet, his hand wrapping around a knife. He stumbles back onto his feet, watching Kiryu’s back turned to him, and he starts charging.

“Die, Kiryu!”

Majima runs, jumping high enough to balance right on top of the railing with one foot. He pushes right off of it, propelling himself high in the air. He cackles, laughs until it echoes, and the man turns, along with everyone else.

“Special delivery, motherfucker!” He shrieks, twirling in the air before bringing his leg down on the man.

When he lands, Majima looks up at Kiryu, and Kiryu looks down at him, smiling.

Kiryu wakes up rolling off the bed.

His body reacts first to the sound of his door getting kicked in, duck and hide until he can react fully. He lands on his front, keeping his body flat on the ground, hidden from view as he becomes quickly aware of the intruders in his room. They stomp their feet against his carpet, shuffle around in what sounds to be thick jackets. Go figure. Deep down, Kiryu somehow expected this. Once again, Kiryu remains justified. He blinks, blinks again, rubs at the crust on his eyes, and listens.

“Get the fuck out here, Kiryu!” One of the assailants yips, cracking his bat against the wall.

“We just wanna have a chat with ya,” Another says.

More than one. Kiryu can handle that.

The steps approach where he’s hiding, closer and closer, and Kiryu crawls over to the bedside table right in front of him, unplugging a lamp from a power socket. The plug in his hand, he twists the cord around his fingers, while his other hand searches for the base of the lamp, hand tapping the dusty table.

“Found ya!” One of the men announces, quickly heaving his bat over his thick head.

Kiryu readies himself into a crouch, turns around, and spins the cord like a whip, bringing the lamp right into the man’s side. The moment it impacts, the man lets out a nasty howl, slamming into a wall. With that opening, Kiryu stands, and whips the man once again, swinging the lamp like an arch over his head, breaking it over the man’s skull before roundhousing the man in the chest. He falls backwards, smashing a table, and Kiryu jumps over his bed, rolling until he’s on the other side.

The other man, Blue-jacket, quickly retaliates by swinging his own bat, one with nails driven into it. Kiryu ducks underneath the bat’s trajectory, grabbing the handle, his own hand wrapping around Blue-jacket’s. Blue-jacket lets out a surprised yelp, attempting to retract his bat from Kiryu’s grip, but Kiryu is scarier and badder than him. Kiryu twists around, gains a new angle on his grip, and lifts the bat’s handle, bringing Blue-jacket with it. Kiryu flips Blue-jacket backwards, sending him onto his back. Kiryu turns his head, realizing he is without Haruka. Instantly, he kneels, bringing a hand around the man’s throat, not tight enough to strangle, but enough to keep him in place.

“Where’s Haruka!” He demands, raising a fist.

Blue-jacket’s eyes widen, his lip quivering. He’s a younger man, barely above a teen. The hand around his neck loosens.

“I-I don’t fuckin’ know!” Blue-jacket shakes out. “I don’t know who that is!”

Kiryu lets out a constrained growl, and turns his head around.

The other man, Lamp-head, is back on his feet, and before Kiryu can react, Lamp-head places his bat around Kiryu’s throat, pulling him onto his feet and off of Blue-jacket. Lamp-head flails Kiryu around, possibly to give him whiplash, but Kiryu flares his nostrils, lets out a sharp breath, and like a reverse-bull, backs up. Lamp-head lets out a gasp, trying to remain still, but Kiryu doesn’t give up, keeps walking backwards until Lamp-head suddenly slams against the door to the bathroom. The bat on Kiryu’s throat slips, falls to the ground with a clatter, and Kiryu whips around, grabbing Lamp-head by the head and slamming it against the door. After disorientating him, Kiryu reaches over to open the door to the bathroom, throwing Lamp-head inside before shutting it. For good measure, he throws the dresser right in front of the door, keeping Lamp-head trapped inside.

Kiryu turns around to Blue-jacket, who, smartly, cowers from him.

Kiryu then finally notices the commotion coming from the wide-open door, and when he glances towards the railing, towards the situation below, his heart sinks.

“You’d be smart not to try anything else.” Kiryu tells Blue-jacket. “Get the hell out of my sight, and consider a different career choice.”

Blue-jacket nods his head.

Kiryu adjusts his jacket, running through the broken front door, hands wrapping around the railing outside. The air is crisp, and traffic is utterly halted. With Kiryu being on the third floor, he gains a full vantage point of the fight below him. A lunatic with a bloodied pastel shirt stands in the center of a complete stampede, bat in hand, swinging with wild abandon. This is Nishida, who lets out wail after wail as he brings his bat down on his brethren like a hammer. Already, unconscious bodies litter the parking lot of the motel, with a few attackers abandoning ship to run back towards Pink Street and Senryo Avenue. There’s definitely still an army knocking at Kiryu’s door, though, one man like Nishida isn’t enough to take down the possibly-hundred men all gunning for one swing at Nishida. There’s no sign of Haruka or Majima.

Kiryu turns back around, towards his door that’s nearly broken off of its hinges. He grabs the sides of the door, grunting as he pulls, and the door creaks in stress, in agony as Kiryu pulls the door off entirely, wood-chips spraying around the now-doorless-front-door. Blue-jacket looks on in absolute horror. Carrying it underneath his arm, Kiryu runs outside, thankfully undetected.

In an act of utter madness and pure impulsiveness, Kiryu jumps right over the railing, kicking his feet onto it to gain a few extra feet in height. He places the door underneath his feet, holds onto it like a boogie-board, and rides the three-story drop down into the battle below. The men attacking have no idea until a group of them are caught underneath the door’s shadow, and at that point, there’s no point trying to avoid it. Kiryu crashes right onto the army, the door shattering to little wooden pieces. The sound is deafening as a symphony of men scream alongside the door’s destruction.

“Fuck me!” One man shrieks, backing away, “Kiryu’s here!”

“Don’t run away, you pussies!” Another calls to his fellow attackers, “Just fuckin’ kill him!”

Men groan underneath Kiryu’s feet. Nishida now stands behind Kiryu, staring at Kiryu with wide-eyes, along with the men that are supposed to be attacking him. For a moment, everyone is in a total moment of reprieve, all completely, utterly, batshit terrified of Kiryu Kazuma. Kiryu cracks his neck, left, right, and then cracks his fists. He’s fully awake now.

“You call this an alarm clock? I’m still yawning.” Kiryu mocks, bringing his fists up as he squares his shoulders. “Now, bring it!”

Thunder crashes above. The moment of reprieve is over.

An army grows difficult to individually name, the blurred, mush of man hard to discern as they move in one after another. Names come to Kiryu quickly, though they start to lose their meaning quickly.

Suit-one tries it first, giving Kiryu a solid thwack to the jaw, and Kiryu responds with a blow to his gut. Suit-two follows as Suit-one remains keeled over Kiryu’s fist, attempting to grab onto Kiryu from behind, but Kiryu elbows the man in the chest, sending both him and Suit-one to the ground, onto the body-pile. Kiryu whips around, arching a kick across one, two, three men like a dagger, and like an axe, brings his foot down on the middle man’s skull, crushing him down into the pavement. Kiryu grabs a piece of wood-chunk from the door, spinning to gain a rapid velocity before jabbing the piece right into another man’s shoulder, blood gushing from the wound. He picks Woody up by his hips, listening to his cries, and he throws him back down like a log, sending a group of men to the ground.

For a moment, as Kiryu turns around to take a look at Nishida, Kiryu makes a few quick assessments. These are Takano Family men, as he dashes across the body-pile, and Majima and Haruka are missing. This is all he needs to know as he sends himself flying into Nishida’s general direction, drop-kicking the men threatening Nishida, who twists his body around to avoid Kiryu’s trajectory. The reaction from the group is violent, men flying backwards as they meet Kiryu’s relentless weight. Kiryu lands on the ground with an oof, and he bounces back to his feet in a heartbeat.

“Good to see you’re up, Kiryu-san!” Nishida announces, readying his bat once again.

Kiryu brushes his shoulder off, watching another wave of enemies gather around the two of them.

“We win, and then we’ll talk.” Kiryu tells him.

“Fine by me!”

Kiryu runs first, head hung low like a battering ram, and he wraps his arm around the largest man in the wave, a man in all purple, and he twirls the man violently, like a spinning top, bashing right into the rest of the men before Kiryu crashes Purple-top down into them, crushing his foot down onto his head.

Nishida runs next, hurdling over the previous wave and into the next, twirling his bat like nun-chucks. Before Kiryu can look on in confusion, a man cracks a bat right into his back. Kiryu steps forward, letting out a painful grunt, and he stumbles right into a man in front of him. Kiryu grabs the man’s arms, thumbs digging into his shoulders, and he crashes the man right into the bat-wielder behind him.

The more bodies accumulate, the more Kiryu’s panting, sweat dripping down his brow. Nishida’s definitely worse for wear, heaving like he’s about to have an asthma attack. As Kiryu’s attention is drawn behind him, there’s a violent crashing sound, glass shattering. Kiryu crunches his shoe into the nose of a poor bastard, and he quickly whips back around. Nishida lays slumped over the hood of his own car, a larger man holding a broken bottle handle in his hand.

“Nishida!” Kiryu hollers, sprinting through the parking lot, pushing over several men to the ground.

The large man grabs Nishida’s head, pulls him up, and he threatens to cut Nishida’s throat with the jagged glass.

Kiryu’s hand wraps itself around the collar of the man, and in surprise, the man drops Nishida back down onto the hood of the car with a loud thud. Kiryu’s other hand going to the man’s back, Kiryu slams the man down into the car window, breaking it on the man’s thick head.

“Oh, god, oh, god,” Nishida cries, blood dripping from his head. He struggles to get back up onto his feet.

Acting as a shield, Kiryu throws any man that comes anywhere close to Nishida.

“Get it together, Nishida!” Kiryu demands, knocking two men’s heads together.

“Oh, god, oh, god,” Nishida keeps whimpering, before finally stumbling onto his feet. His eyes widen. “Oh, god!”

Kiryu turns, noticing the waves of police officers marching down Showa Street, pouring in through Nakamichi Street. The Takano Boys, whipping around to see the commotion, all react in their own ways. Some bail, others attempt to move their attention to the cops.

Kiryu grabs Nishida, dragging the man down to the ground, using the car as cover.

“Shit!” Kiryu hisses, peeking his head over towards the frontal assault, pigs fighting back against Takano’s men.

Through their legs, over on Tenkaichi, a man stands.

Holding a crowbar, and distant through the shoulders of the cops, he beckons for Kiryu, mouthing his name, waving his arm around. There’s nobody else in the street now, only him.

“Nishida, come on!” Kiryu pulls Nishida’s arm over his shoulder, hauling him back onto his feet.

So, Kiryu runs.

Takano’s boys take notice, urge each other to follow, but the cops keep them where they are. Once the cops take notice of Kiryu, however, then it’s both parties on his tail.

“Stop right there!” One cop screams.

“Stop, motherfucker!” One of Takano’s boys shrieks.

Kiryu rams through a blockade of cops, sending them tumbling to the ground, but he keeps running, Nishida struggling to keep himself upright. The man, dressed in black, points towards a half-open manhole right in the middle of the street, bouncing backwards until running right towards it. He reaches it, uses his crowbar to open the rest of it.

“Nishida, go!” Kiryu settles Nishida back onto his feet, and the man stares at Kiryu with shock on his face, the bat still clutched between his hand.

“Kiryu-san, it’s up to me to-”

“I said go!” Kiryu roars, punching a cop right in the face.

So, Nishida goes, quickly running towards the manhole and climbing down, with the unknown man escorting him with a hand-gesture.

“Kiryu-san!” The man beckons, once again waving his arm. “This way!”

Kiryu backs away, turns on his heel, and runs, wind rushing through his ears as two sides of a war clamor for him. He ducks, sliding across the pavement, and he dives right into the manhole, while the unknown man wards off the armies with his crowbar.

Kiryu lands with a loud thud, crashing down on the sewer-floor, narrowly avoiding landing on Nishida. Luckily, he finds his footing before he falls flat on his ass, planting a solid hand on the pavement, feeling it scratch his skin raw. He winces, lifting himself back up onto his feet.

Kiryu lets out a long breath.

And then he grabs Nishida.

“Where is Haruka.” He demands, pressing his forehead against Nishida’s.

Wincing, Nishida shakily exhales. “Oyaji escaped with her. I told him to protect her, since you were unavailable.”

His grip tightens on Nishida’s arm.

“She’s with Majima?”

“Yes!” Nishida yelps, struggling to pull his arm free from Kiryu’s grip. “If anyone’s going to keep her safe, it’s him!”

It’s supposed to be Kiryu, he wants to reply, shake Nishida around to drive the point home. It’s his responsibility to protect Haruka, and not anyone else’s. After a moment, rage dissolves into resignation. He sighs, letting his hand drop from Nishida’s arm, unaware he’s left a nasty bruise on the man’s skin.

Kiryu realizes he believes Nishida. He believes him entirely. Bizarrely, he finds it in himself to entrust Majima, and he can’t figure out why. Another side of him, tired of stupid decision after stupid decision, screams at him, telling him Majima’s kidnapped Haruka before, just to lure Kiryu out. It doesn’t make logical sense, then, to trust Majima Goro. The mental corkboard in Kiryu’s mind is in pieces.

He has to think logically, not emotionally. He is struggling to do so.

Logically, if Takano’s men are after him, then it makes sense to also protect Haruka.

Kiryu backs up, resting his fist on his forehead. He squints his eyes shut and shakes his head, knocking on his skull. Knock, knock, idiot. Knock, knock.

Until the fighting dies down, there’s no chance of finding Haruka. For now, Kiryu has to wait.

Shuffling comes from above.

He looks up towards the manhole, watching the unknown man descend, struggling to keep a hold on his crowbar. After he’s a few feet off the ground, he drops down the rest of the way.

“They’ll be too busy fighting amongst themselves to get the cover off to come after us.” The man grunts, his voice raspy. “By the time they do, we’ll be long gone.”

Nishida rubs his arm.

“Who are you?”

“Fukunaga.” He replies, waving his crowbar. “Move it, kids.”

So, Kiryu, always agreeable to the old and grizzled, obliges. Walking towards the path Fukunaga gestures to, Nishida follows close behind.

Pipes are dripping, water is churning. As they walk, the squeaking of metal becomes more frequent, old and creaky like the bones of an old friend. The city is shuddering. It’s beginning to rain outside.

“Fukunaga?” Kiryu eventually says, looking over the railing of the catwalk to the water below. “How do you know who I am?”

Fukunaga attempts to laugh, but it comes out like a croak. He scratches his beard. “Real dense, aren’t you? Everyone knows who you are in Kamurocho. You’re a legend.”

“Hm.” Kiryu hums. Sometimes, answers are obvious.

“Why did you help us?” Nishida asks, holding a hand against his head.

“You were sandwiched between the cops and the bastards that kicked me outta West Park. it was a no-brainer. Anyone’d jump at the chance to shit on their parade.”

Once again, obvious.

Fukunaga is a large man with a large beard, face shadowed by a hat and plastic rain-poncho. Kiryu takes a look at the man, glances at his hand. There’s a visible burn scar that appears to trail up his arm.

“If it isn’t already clear, I was one of the Florist’s informants, and one of the last to leave West Park. No way would I be shoved around by a bunch of fuckin’ kids…” His voice trails off, shaking his head. “Then the new ones moved in.”

Kiryu raises a brow.

“New ones?” Nishida tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Fukunaga pauses, gesturing towards a diverging path. Kiryu and Nishida follow.

“I’ll explain once we reach my spot. You two look worse for wear.”

So, Nishida and Kiryu let it be for the time being. Thankfully, it’s not long before Fukunaga leads them into a small shelter, in one of the nooks of the sewer system. There’s other people here, dismantling their own shelters. They’re tired, weary.

Fukunaga gestures for the two to sit, so they do. Kiryu rests cross-legged, while Fukunaga quickly opens up a first-aid kit, fussing over Nishida’s head, who sits on a small crate.

“Y-You should clean it first.” Nishida stutters.

“With what?” Fukunaga huffs. “We’re in a sewer. Try to be thankful. Next time you’re out of there you can clean it.”

“Oh. Sorry. Thank you.” Nishida bows his head, but Fukunaga pushes it back up, upset that Nishida messed up his momentum.

After a moment, Nishida is bandaged up, wrapped over his skull to cover the part where that man cracked a bottle over it. Somehow, in a strange way, it suits him.

Then, Fukunaga sits down as well, across from Nishida and Kiryu. They both get a good look at his face now, lit by a lantern.

Nishida peeks out of Fukunaga’s shelter, gestures to the people outside.

“Why are they packing up?” He asks.

Fukunaga shakes his head.

“It’s only a matter of time before the Takano Family,” He air-quotes. “Flush us out again. We’ve been pushed out in every other spot. They’re planning on using the sewer system for an underground travel network, like we used to. Taking what we do and claiming it for their own. What for, I have no idea. If I could guess, probably weapons, maybe drug distribution. Something neither the Tojo Clan or cops pay attention to.”

Kiryu strokes his chin.

“Underground distribution…” He says. “You know a lot about this.”

“Like I said, I was an informant. Listening in is what I do.”

“Hold on,” Nishida waves his hand. “You said you would explain what you meant by the new ones. Who are the new ones?”

“Bigger guns, something more big time. And they aren’t Tojo, that’s for sure.”

Kiryu’s face scrunches up. He hadn’t made any notice of bigger guns, but those suits he came across certainly stood out in the warzone. The Majima Family tend to show off with flashier outfits reminiscent of their father. Suits aren’t a part of that equation.

“Who do you think they are?” Kiryu asks.

“I already know the answer to that.”

“And you’re not going to tell us?” Nishida replies.

“I got you guys out of the worst of it.” Fukunaga rubs a hand across his face, eyes shutting for a moment. With his hand over his mouth, he sighs. “And that’s as far as my assistance goes. I have to look after my own.”

After a moment, Kiryu understands.

He nods his head.

“I understand,” He says, “Thank you for your help. We’re sorry to cause you trouble.”

Fukunaga shifts his position, scooting away from the entrance.

“Besides, I got a guy who can explain it way better.” He begins clicking his crowbar against the ground. “Alright, you shifty weirdo, come on out.”

Kiryu and Nishida both snap their heads up towards the entrance, watching as a suited man slides inside. The man wears a hat along with a mask and sunglasses, face completely obscured. Regardless, Kiryu can see the man’s well-kempt black hair. The suit is blue, with a patterned tie. He’s lean, thick in the arms, and he slowly takes a seat, the shelter now feeling more than cramped. He gives Nishida and Kiryu a subtle bow.

“Who the hell are you?” Kiryu asks, squinting his eyes.

“Yamada.” The man says. His voice is nearly monotone, very constrained and cool.

“Is that your real name?” Nishida immediately retorts.

“No.” The man-not-named-Yamada replies. “But it’s what I’m using. Please, respect that.”

After a moment, Kiryu and Nishida both relent.

“Fukunaga said you could explain things.” Kiryu grunts.

Yamada nods.

“The Takano Family are colluding with the Omi Alliance.”

Kiryu stops. Nishida gasps.

Go figure.

Some part of Kiryu expected this. He’s starting to curse himself.

“The Omi Alliance wish to gain access to West Park in hopes of getting their foot in Kamurocho. You’ve heard they’re planning on tearing West Park down, yes?”

“So the Omi Alliance are looking to build over West Park?” Kiryu asks.

Somehow, the Story retells itself over and over again. Kiryu doesn’t know why he should be surprised.

“It’s only a small part of the Omi. A single subsidiary has been behind the scenes, adding fuel to the fire. The Tsuruha Clan.”

“The Tsuruha Clan…” Kiryu hums. The name doesn’t ring any bells.

“The patriarch was once my Aniki.” Yamada says calmly. “Now, he’s manipulating Takano, using him for his own gain.”

“Your Aniki?” Nishida leans forward, clasping his hands together. “That would mean…”

Yamada nods.

“That I am a part of the Omi Alliance. You would be right.”

Kiryu considers the man, shadowed in mystery. His shoulders are squared, his hands still.

“The Tsuruha Clan patriarch and I once belonged to the same family, by the name of the Sagawa Family, a relatively obscure family in the eighties.”

Another name Kiryu does not recognize. Nishida’s brow scrunches up, like he’s heard it before. If he does recognize it, he doesn’t say anything.

“So why are you telling us this. Wouldn’t the Omi Alliance gaining a footing in Kamurocho be beneficial to you?”

Slowly, Yamada shakes his head. “It’ll be a bloodbath. The Tsuruha Clan can’t keep Takano and his men controlled for long. The moment Takano realizes he’s been manipulated, he’ll retaliate. The Tsuruha Clan are acting irrationally, without the guidance of the chairman. That is why I am here.”

“I see.” Kiryu slowly puts the pieces together, “To avoid an unnecessary conflict with the Tojo Clan, you’re trying to stop the Tsuruha Clan.”

Yamada nods.

“It wouldn’t be just beneficiary to me. The Tojo Clan has been weakened due to the events in December, and I’m sure you’re aware of them. To avoid this conflict will be beneficial to both the Tojo Clan and the Omi Alliance.”

“And how do we know you’re not lying to us right now?” Nishida suddenly blurts out. Everyone turns to him.

“Nishida…” Kiryu mutters.

“How did you know they’re tearing down West Park?” He asks, “How do we know that you’re not just trying to overthrow the Tsuruha Clan so you can take the plan for yourself?”

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Nishida’s face is a strange shade of red.

“I can’t disprove that theory,” Yamada says. “As for how I knew. I was contacted. Simple as that. Afterwards, I looked into things.”

“And how did you run into him?” Nishida gestures to Fukunaga.

“I was connected to him by the Florist of Sai. Fukunaga has been hospitable to me.”

“Anyone that wants to get this all taken care of is an ally in my book.” Fukunaga says, looking over his crowbar.

Nishida remains unconvinced. He’s breathing heavily, and through his nose. His chest is falling and rising unrhythmically.

Kiryu looks towards Yamada once again, and Yamada stares back, although the sunglasses make it impossible to see.

“I believe you.” Kiryu tells the man. Nishida turns his head to Kiryu, glaring. “I don’t believe you have any reason to lie. After everything in December, this’ll just warrant unneeded violence. I’ve met with some of the Takano Family, spoken to them. I don’t believe they’re bad people, only misguided and hurting.”

“And that’s how the Tsuruha Clan were able to prey on them.” Yamada adds.

“Today, we were attacked by the Takano Family.” Kiryu continues. “Was that due to the Tsuruha Clan?”

“They wanted Oyaji dead.” Nishida mumbles. When Kiryu turns to him, he clears his throat. “They wanted all of us dead. You, me, Haruka, and Oyaji.”

Kiryu’s fists tighten on his lap.

“The Tsuruha Clan have been feeding into Takano’s anger, which spreads to the rest of them. Majima-san being dead only works in their favor of taking out any unnecessary leads. With him dead, the Takano Family will defer only to the Tsuruha Clan.”

Kiryu nods.

“Those boys may be misguided, but it doesn’t fix the damage they’ve done.” Fukunaga says. “The lives they’ve uprooted.”

“If Oyaji regains control of Takano and the rest of his family,” Nishida says, turning to the man. “Then he’ll make sure you all are safe. He’s not the type of man to leave someone suffering.”

Kiryu watches a vein bulging out from Nishida’s face, his jaw tightly set.

“You better not be lying to me,” Fukunaga says, gesturing his crowbar to Nishida. “I wanna trust you.”

Nishida shuts his eyes for a moment. When he opens them back up, the vein is gone. “I never lie about my Oyaji.”

He says it like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. Somehow, it’s inspiring, and saddening all at the same time. Kiryu can’t settle on one. He doesn’t even realize it’s sadness.

After a moment, Fukunaga smiles.

“Atta boy.” He says, resting his crowbar back down.

Kiryu looks back to Yamada, who looks just about ready to leave. Suddenly, he lets out a shaking breath.

“Kiryu-san,” He gently says. He gives Kiryu a bow. “I entrust the life of Majima Goro to you.”

“What?” Kiryu’s mouth drops.

“What?!” Nishida yelps.

After a moment, Kiryu realizes Yamada is still bowing.

“Everything rests on him. You must keep him alive. I ask this of you!”

For a second, Kiryu almost laughs. He doesn’t know why. Then, he remembers the night before. He remembers how Majima’s chest felt against his. He remembers how crumpled Majima appeared, laying on his bed like he didn’t fit in his own body. He remembers all the times he’s seen Majima unconscious. He remembers what Majima smells like. For some reason, Majima trusts him, and for an even stranger reason, Kiryu trusts him.

There’s no question about it.

“I’ll protect him.” Kiryu tells Yamada, who slouches forward in relief. “No matter what. I made the promise to fight alongside him, and I intend to keep it. He won’t die on my watch.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nishida, mouth slightly parted. He nearly looks thankful.

“Thank you, Kiryu-san.” Yamada says. He sits up, adjusting his sunglasses. “That’s all I had to say.”

He gets up.

“Am I ever going to find out who you are?” Kiryu asks.

Yamada looks down at him. Without an expression to read, Kiryu feels lost. “I don’t know. But…I hope so, Kiryu-san.”

When he disappears, Fukunaga takes his seat. The sewer is unnaturally quiet.

“So you wanted us to meet that man.” Kiryu says.

Fukunaga nods. “He’s a real quiet guy. He seemed like he wanted to do right by us.”

“I still don’t know if we should trust him,” Nishida rubs the back of his neck. “But I suppose there’s nothing else to do, is there?”

“Nishida, did you get the feeling he knew Majima?” Kiryu asks. He’s not looking at Nishida.

“Of course I did,” Nishida replies bluntly, saying it like Kiryu’s an idiot. “Everyone knows Oyaji.”

He’s keeping something to himself. Kiryu would pry, demand he spit it out, but Kiryu knows Nishida is a closed book, open to Majima only. Kiryu lets it go, grunting.

So, Kiryu rests.

There’s no real way to know if it’s safe to go outside yet. Kiryu assumes the police have fanned out to the rest of the city, scaring the Takano Family back into West Park, maybe back into Purgatory. Kiryu continues to feel as though his life is just one big game of tug of war, with thousands of players. Sometimes, he feels like the rope. His head is starting to hurt, and so is his back.

He’s imagining Majima, wherever he is, and he’s imagining Haruka. He has to believe that she’s safe. Anything else will paralyze him. He wants to be pointed at, blamed, thrown around and screamed at. He presses the back of his hand to his head, cursing through his breath.

Suddenly, Nishida stands up. His head hits the top of the shelter, and it makes a loud clanging noise.

“Shit!” Nishida barks, his face twisting into a tight wince. “I have to find Oyaji.”

Fukunaga and Kiryu watch as Nishida quickly departs from Fukunaga’s shelter, bat in hand.

“Nishida!” Kiryu yells after him, stumbling to get after him. He runs right out of the shelter, right towards him. He grabs Nishida’s arm.

Nishida whips around, raising his bat against Kiryu. Kiryu stands still, glaring at him. After a tense moment, Nishida sighs and lowers his bat.

“Oyaji put me in charge of you, but I can’t do that.” Nishida says. “I know him. I don’t know you.”

Kiryu’s face tenses.

“You want to go out there and get spotted by cops? Get thrown in prison?” Kiryu clenches his fists. “I can’t stop you. But would Majima want that?”

“You don’t know him either!” Nishida exasperatingly says, slapping a hand against his own forehead, running it against his shaved head. He squeezes his eyes shut. “You think I like being hit and berated? No! But I’m all there is.” He gestures to himself violently. “I’ve dragged him through the worst of it, and I’d do it again! Because I know him.”

Nishida hides his face.

In his rage, Kiryu understands that Majima is the only father he has. Sons will do anything for their fathers. Kiryu’s loyalty to one’s family is clashing with the fear he’s seen on Nishida’s face in some instances, imagines if it was Haruka, and if he was Majima. A shiver runs through his spine. Two warring sides in Kiryu’s mind.

“I know what a son and a father look like.” Kiryu states. He’s sure of it.

“Hit me.” Nishida demands.

Kiryu’s taken off-guard, blinking.

“What?”

“Hit me.” Nishida repeats. “I need to know what Oyaji sees in you.”

So, Kiryu hits him.

People, including Fukunaga, gasp as Nishida hits the ground with a violent thud, his bat clattering. Immediately, a nasty bruise begins forming on his cheek. His eyes are shut for a moment, and then they open. Almost like he wasn’t hit at all, Nishida sits up.

“Alright.” Nishida grunts, holding his cheek. He stumbles back onto his feet, then leans back down to grab his bat.

The Majima Family are a strange collection of people, Kiryu notes, as Nishida gently brushes his pantlegs off.

“Can you guys can it with that?” Fukunaga huffs from inside his shelter. After a moment, he climbs out of it himself, crowbar in hand. “I swear.”

Nishida bows his head towards Kiryu and no-one else.

“I’ve been the one to protect Majima for years.” Nishida says. “But I trust you now, Kiryu-san.”

“You trust me because I hit you?”

“Oyaji’s rubbed off on me.” Nishida says. He doesn’t say it endearingly.

Kiryu takes a step away from Nishida. He takes another one. And then he’s walking away towards the railing of the catwalk, a small distance away from the shelter. He puts his hands on the rusty metal, clings to it. It hurts on the hand he skinned. Both sets of his knuckles ache.

“I’m moving through this sewer.” Kiryu suddenly announces.

“The fuck?” Some of the other civilians murmur. Fukunaga remains silent.

Kiryu turns back around.

“You said the Takano Family are pushing you out. I’m pushing back.”

“Isn’t that something?” An elderly man hums.

“It’s suicide.” A gruff woman retorts. She has a hand on the old man’s back, while he has a ball in his hand.

“Everything is suicide in this place.” Nishida suddenly replies, lifting his bat awkwardly. He winces. “You’re not living in Kamurocho if you’re not on the edge.”

“Good luck finding your way through the sewer,” Fukunaga says, using his crowbar like a cane. “The further you go towards central, the more maze-like it becomes. You’ll be lost within the hour.”

“You’re coming with us.” Kiryu replies.

Fukunaga raises a brow.

“Am I, now?”

“You seem like the type of man that likes to get his hands dirty.” Kiryu notes. He gestures to the man’s crowbar. “You were right there to save Nishida and I. Almost like you were waiting.”

Fukunaga shuts his eyes for a moment, softly chuckling. After a moment of silence, he lets out a heavy sigh.

“You see right through people, don’t you, Kiryu-san? I suppose I’ve been itching for an opportunity to stick this where the sun don’t shine.” He lifts his crowbar violently, jabbing it in the air. Nishida shudders.

So, Kiryu starts walking. Fukunaga quickly joins him by his side, while Nishida keeps behind the two. The pipes above them continue creaking, and the water continues churning. Smells fluctuate through the sewer, ranging from barely tolerable to horrendously disgusting. Regardless, Kiryu keeps walking, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. Nishida sometimes holds a hand up to his nose, but refuses to throw up. Fukunaga is an old, grizzled man, and is unphased by the smells. They’re moving towards the central system, with Fukunaga gesturing towards which turns to take. In some strange way, Kiryu is amazed by the entire system. The pipes, straining, remain strong, the water’s always churning. It’s a machine, a body, like the rest of Kamurocho. He can’t believe he never thought about what was underneath his feet before. The truth, what he’s seeing right now, is strangely intriguing. Thousands of people keep this thing going, reusing and reusing. It’s disgusting, and admirable. After working in construction for a few weeks, Kiryu has a growing appreciation for what goes into building.

Voices murmur through the tight corridor they’re shuffling through.

“That’s…” Kiryu whispers.

“I would recognize Oyaji’s boys anywhere,” Nishida hisses. “Even with just their voices.”

“Then stop whispering and get out there,” Fukunaga taps the both of them.

So, Kiryu walks.

“You ever think we’d end up in the sewer?” One in a tight turtleneck says. He’s lazily twirling around a broken pipe turned into a weapon.

“Always said you lived in a shithole, dude. Didn’t think it’d become a reality.” The other replies, a man with pants that are tight enough to cut circulation.

Two of them.

So, Kiryu approaches them. They’re both short, and as he approaches, he takes note of their young faces. The moment they get a glance at Kiryu, they turn white as a ghost. Turtleneck holds up his pipe to his chest like a shield, while Tights just stares like an idiot.

“Oh, shit!” Tights yelps, backing up. He trips over nothing, tumbling down to the ground flat on his ass. “Kiryu Kazuma?!”

Turtleneck, looking at Tights and Kiryu, panics. While Kiryu stares at him with a deadpan look, he swings his pipe right at his head. Kiryu remains motionless.

Nishida catches the pipe right in his hand. Once again, Kiryu is motionless.

“Bad form!” Nishida barks, face red. He pushes the pipe back, sending Turtleneck stumbling. “And a weak swing!”

“Aniki?!” Tights’s voice cracks.

Nishida pushes past Kiryu, grabbing Tights’s face between his hand, fingers squishing his cheeks. “Moron! Who’s going to look after your mother when you’re too busy dicking around in a sewer!”

Tights’s face twists around, his eyes squinting shut. After a moment, he sniffs, scrunching his nose up. He’s obviously trying not to cry.

Nishida lets go of the boy’s face, turning to Turtleneck. He stomps, and slaps a hand across his face.

“Apologize to Kiryu-san for trying to knock him out!” He huffs.

Immediately, Turtleneck drops his pipe, slamming his hands down on his knees to violently bow.

“I’m sorry, Kiryu-san!” He screams, voice bouncing off the walls.

Kiryu looks at Nishida, who wears a serious look on his face. He looks like a parent scolding his children. For a moment, Kiryu smirks.

He turns back to Turtleneck.

“It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.” He says.

Turtleneck remains bowed down. Nishida claps a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back straight.

“Aniki, get us out of here,” Tights cries, shaking Nishida’s arm. “The big guys just told us to stand here while they did all the fuckin’ work! How unfair is that?!”

“Are you guys working for the Omi Alliance?” Kiryu asks bluntly.

Tights and Turtleneck stare at Kiryu with terror on their faces. They glance at each other, then both bow in unison.

“We’re sorry!” They both screech.

“Cut it out!” Nishida uses his bat to push on the chests of both men, forcing them upright once again.

“We weren’t the ones making the call! If it was us, we would’a never agreed to working with those assholes! Promise!” Turtleneck yaps.

“Calm down!” Kiryu demands. Both of them shut up immediately.

After a moment of silence, Kiryu sighs. Fukunaga, who’s stayed behind the two of them, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Are there any more of you?” Kiryu asks.

“I mean, yeah. But not the cool ones, like us.” Tights gestures to the both of them. “It’s a lot of the new guys, who weren’t even with the family back when it was Majima’s.”

“Good.” Kiryu claps a hand on Tights’s shoulder, and Tights yelps. “You two should get out of here.”

“F-Fine by me!” Turtleneck stutters. He is absolutely terrified of Kiryu.

“And stay away from the Takano Family.” Kiryu continues. “Starting today, you’re both officially resigned.”

“Sure! Okay!” Tights replies.

“Get out of here.” Nishida points his bat towards the way they came.

“And don’t let me see you two again!” Kiryu threatens, although it’s mostly harmless.

Tights and Turtleneck topple over each other to escape, running right past the three of them. Kiryu finds that he’s smiling. Even now, there’s boys like him filling the ranks. It’s endearing. It’s nostalgic.

Fukunaga looks over towards the two boys running for their lives, and back to Kiryu and Nishida.

“You always in the habit of hiring kids?” He asks.

“They’re both eighteen.” Nishida shrugs. ”The Majima Family just tends to pick up people like that. Apparently Oyaji’s all the rage with the kids.”

“Seems wildly irresponsible to me.” Fukunaga replies.

“They listen to him.” Nishida answers, nearly sounding offended. “And it’s not all kids. But the ones that are, they usually…” He pauses, shaking his head. “Nevermind.”

Kiryu glares at Nishida.

Fukunaga shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. He begins walking once again. “Whatever you say. I’m not judging. Come on, let’s keep moving.”

So, Nishida and Kiryu follow.

Kiryu keeps an eye on Nishida, watching the man’s restrained gaze. The faintest twitch of his brow switches his expression back and forth between concern and determination. Kiryu once thought he had a hard time reading Majima. He’s starting to realize it was nothing compared to Nishida’s own resolve.

“If we walk far enough,” Fukunaga hums, “We’ll reach Purgatory. There’s a manhole inside, connected to the northern sewer system.

“So that’s how the Takano Family figured out about the sewer system.” Kiryu muses.

“That’s right.”

“You and that man, Yamada, you mentioned West Park getting demolished. Majima also said something about that.”

“The Tsuruha Clan are looking for the owner of the deed to West Park. If they get their hands on it, West Park is theirs. From there, it’d be easy to take over construction plans. Whatever they’re building, it’ll be big and bad with people like them. Absolutely reckless.”

Kiryu nods. Nishida grinds his teeth.

“Do they know who the owner is?” Kiryu asks.

“Not sure. Right now, the Takano Family are up in arms over Majima Goro. It’s a good distraction to keep the cops off their backs while they find them.”

Nishida grinds his teeth louder.

“Finding him is important.” Kiryu replies. “Finding Haruka is my number one priority. But nothing is getting done while cops are all over the streets.”

“He your buddy, or something?” Fukunaga asks, scratching his chin.

“Something like that.” Kiryu answers.

Fukunaga shrugs.

Once again, voices begin to echo further up the road. Judging by Nishida’s squinted eyes, they’re unrecognizable. Not Majima’s boys. Kiryu brings himself down to a slow prowl against the wall. The sewer, thankfully, is dark, cascading them in shadows. If they’re quiet, they can get the jump on whoever is in front of them.

“I just really wanna…” A man says before grunting, most likely swinging something around. “To a lady. You know?”

“No, I don't.” Another voice replies. “Leave me alone.”

“Fuck you, man.” The first man huffs.

“Fuck you!” The second man snaps.

“Shut the fuck up, both of you!” A third man snarls. There’s two impact sounds and immediate groaning. “I swear, neither of you can shut the fuck up for two fucking seconds.”

Kiryu stands at the corner, now watching the trio. It turns out, there’s a lot more than just them. Kiryu lets out a gentle sigh.

One of the men slowly makes his way towards where Kiryu and the rest are currently hiding. Kiryu decides to take this as a good thing.

“I don’t get why we have to be quiet. Nobody can hear us, it’s a sewer. I’m bored.”

“I’ll fix that.” Kiryu suddenly announces, grabbing the man by the arm and twisting it out of its socket. Before the other men in the room can react, Kiryu slams the man down on the ground, pinning him as Nishida and Fukunaga bash their weapons against the two closest morons.

“What the fuck?!” The man Kiryu’s keeping pinned wheezes. “Kill this guy!”

Kiryu slams the man’s head down on the concrete below, knocking him out. The rest of the men, around ten or so, quickly fan out to surround the three of them.

So, Kiryu stands. Fukunaga and Nishida are both back to back, hands wrapped tight against their weapons.

“So,” Kiryu stretches. “Who’s next?”

The men, the Tsuruha Clan, all look amongst themselves. For a moment, it looks like they might all bail. The stupid choice wins over.

“Come on!” Kiryu roars, as one of the men sprint across the room right towards Kiryu, holding up a fist.

In an instant, Nishida holds out his bat, tripping the man’s foot. The man flies, right towards Kiryu, and Kiryu decides to be a dear and catch the man. He balls up his fist, sending it flying right in the man’s chest, sending him down onto the ground, gasping for air.

All bets are off.

Fukunaga and Nishida both act as a spinning top, rotating themselves in unison as they remain back to back, swinging with wild abandon. When someone grabs for Nishida’s bat, he sends a nasty kick into their crotches. Fukunaga twirls his crowbar like a baton, painting it in red as he crushes it against head after head.

Meanwhile, Kiryu fights like he always does. An absolute motherfucker.

A man punches, and Kiryu blocks with his arm, throwing his other fist right into the man’s gut. He grabs him, sends him tumbling into another one. Surrounded by suits, Kiryu looks at their ties.

Blue wraps his arms around Kiryu’s waist, attempting to bring him down onto the ground, pushing and pulling, but Kiryu remains still. He reaches down, grabs Blue, and spins him until his head’s at the ground, and then he brings him down, cracking his neck. Purple twirls a butterfly knife, and with Kiryu’s head turned away from him, he doesn’t have enough time to react to Purple swinging his arm out, slashing his shirt and grazing his skin. Kiryu lets out a grunt in surprise, twirling around and crescent-kicking Purple right in the head. Stripes is equipped with a golf club, a funny choice for a weapon, but Kiryu can’t think too much about it as Stripes rams the clubhead right into Kiryu’s nose, sending blood flying. Kiryu’s eyes squeeze shut, and he sees white. He shakes his head, reaching out and prying the golf club from Stripes’s hands. To bring a reprieve to himself, he swings the club out like a swatter, sending the men crowding him back.

Kiryu takes in a deep breath. His lungs ache.

He lifts the golf club, snapping the neck of it right over Stripes’s head, bending it violently over him. He punches once, twice, three times, and then Stripes is on the ground.

Dots lands one blow into Kiryu’s gut, while White grabs Kiryu’s arm, attempting to twist it behind his back. Kiryu lets out a strained gasp, and with his available hand, grabs Dots’s head, slamming it right into White’s. White’s grip slips on his arm, so he pulls it free, and pulls White onto his shoulders, bending his knees down before crashing White back down to the ground violently, and as Kiryu stands back up straight, he swings his fist into an uppercut into Dots’s jaw, sending the man flying.

With an opening to move, Kiryu takes it. He hurdles over the unconscious bodies, rushing through like a bullet. He swings himself underneath Nishida’s bat trajectory, gracefully sliding against the ground, ramming himself right into a poor unsuspecting bastard. Kiryu bounces back onto his feet, sending a right, left, right, left hook into Red, disorientating the man and sending him stumbling. Kiryu grabs his arm, twists him around, and throws him into a full spin, sending his skull crashing into the nearest wall. He lets out a nasty wail, spitting blood out against the concrete, and as he slips to the ground, Kiryu lands his foot onto his head, sending him to a much needed nap.

Purple gets up. Abandoning his butterfly knife, he instead reaches into his suit, retrieving a stun gun. It sparks to life, a faint buzzing noise. Without anyone having noticed him, he darts right for Kiryu.

As Kiryu turns around, Purple jams himself right into Kiryu’s front, sending the stun gun into his stomach. Electricity shoots through him, sharp, agonizing pain nearly sending him to the ground. He lets out a constrained scream, gritting his teeth together. His limbs spasm, his stomach convulsing, but he reaches his arms out, as best he can, and he grips onto Purple’s arms, refusing to let go. Purple’s eyes widen, trying to pull free, but Kiryu refuses. Like a serpent’s grasp, he begins to crush Purple’s thin arms with his grasp. Purple shrieks like a banshee, the stun gun dropping from his grasp, and Kiryu roars, lifting the man like he weighs nothing. He sends Purple flying, and as Fukunaga notices, he whips his crowbar right into the projectile-man, swing, batter, batter, swing.

Kiryu falls to his knees, holding his stomach, still convulsing. He pants, eyes squeezing shut.

“Kiryu-san!” Nishida cries out, hitting a particularly nasty blow on a man wearing a yellow suit.

“I’m fine.” Kiryu struggles to say, and it comes out as more of a hissed whisper. Nishida can’t hear him.

Fukunaga abandons Nishida’s side, pushing aside the assailants as he reaches Kiryu’s side. He grabs his arm, hauls him up to his feet, which Kiryu struggles to hold.

“Come on, son,” Fukunaga commands.

Kiryu can’t help but obey. He sucks in a desperate breath and steels himself.

He keeps his shoulders hunched, his fingers twitching, and he moves. Fukunaga gets back to Nishida, though it appears Nishida doesn’t exactly need the help.

Kiryu headbutts through a collection of suits like a ram, when Orange wavers, Kiryu grabs his foot, pulling it up and sending the man tumbling. He screams, throwing Orange over his shoulder, and into the mass of bodies.

Lime threatens Kiryu with a gun. Kiryu breaks his arm. He backs the man up, step, step, step, towards the catwalk and the water below, and he throws him overboard, letting out a roar.

And that’s when White regains himself. He glances towards the knife Purple left behind, and he acts, grasping at it with desperation. He struggles, eyes squinting shut, but he manages it. His fingers wrap around the knife, and he stands.

Kiryu elbows Yellow in the nose, grabbing his skull and grabbing his head within his elbow and flipping him forwards over Kiryu violently. He spins around, while No-tie attempts to throw a fist into his head. Kiryu punches him hard enough to send him flying.

This is when White finally screams, sprinting across the mass of bodies, the knife tight between his hands.

“Die, Kiryu!” He screeches.

Kiryu’s eyes widen, his body twisting around to react. For a moment, everything is in slow motion. He’s going to get stabbed. His body can’t move fast enough to dodge, to catch his arm. A feeling of sick, strange nostalgia washes over him. In some way, he feels at peace and terrified all at the same time.

“Special Delivery, motherfucker!” A crow caws.

Like he came from above, Majima twirls as he brings his foot down on the man. They both tumble to the ground together, White and Majima, but only one remains conscious. On his knees, Majima looks up at Kiryu with a wild grin.

Kiryu, exasperated, laughs through his nose and smiles, too.

“Ojisan!” Haruka screams through the chaos, genuine joy on her face. Alongside her, Date stands, keeping a hand on her.

“Haruka!” Kiryu replies, nearly about to sprint over to her to scoop her into his arms. Majima ducks underneath Kiryu’s arm, jabbing someone in the stomach.

“Reunions later, morons. We’ve got shit to do!” Majima declares, grabbing Kiryu’s arm to turn him around. For some reason, Kiryu doesn’t tense up.

“It’s about time you showed up, Majima-san,” Kiryu replies, rushing on his speech. His tongue almost catches. He’s not feeling too great.

“Kiryu-san!” Fukunaga announces, gesturing towards a new wave of motherfuckers pushing through.

“Got it.” Kiryu huffs.

“I’ll keep Haruka safe!” Date tells Kiryu, and Kiryu gives him a nod.

“It’s about time I got to fight with you, not against you, Kiryu-chan,” Majima coos, his voice high-pitched and breathy. He’s covered in blood, bruises, and bandages. Regardless, he bounces up and down, wiggling his shoulders like a wave.

“You said it.” Kiryu replies, bringing up his fists. “Let’s go!”

Two mean sons of bitches stand side-by-side, ready to take on the world.

Majima laughs, and goes.

He grabs the butterfly knife he had kicked out of that freak’s arms, twirling it as he runs, running it through his fingers like sand. These are motherfuckers he doesn’t recognize. To him, that means it’s free real estate. Kiryu’s by him, though he lags behind.

Majima catches Nishida’s eye. Silently, they nod at each other.

Beige and Tan, the most boring of ties, stand like mirrors, Beige is large and towering, while Tan is wiry and lean.

“Two Tojo legends.” Beige roars, punching his fists together. “I’m gonna enjoy messin’ you up!”

“Good fuckin’ luck!” Majima replies, running through the searing pain in his leg. He throws the knife up in the air, sending it spinning, and he leans down, pressing his palm flat on the ground. Majima somersaults, wind hissing in his ears as he spins, and the moment the knife falls, he kicks it, sending it launching right into Beige’s shoulder. As Beige stumbles backwards violently, Kiryu brawls with Tan, grabbing the man’s shoulders. He headbutts Tan, and Tan headbutts back. Kiryu, weighing more, pulls and pulls, and like a child with a toy, discards Tan, throwing him down onto the ground. Before Tan can realize what’s happening, Kiryu brings his foot down onto the man’s head.

While Kiryu remains leaning down, Majima strikes. Beige rises back to his feet, meaty hand wrapping around the knife. He pulls it out of his shoulder, leaving a bloody hole in its wake. He discards the knife and roars.

Before Kiryu can ready himself, Majima jumps right onto Kiryu’s back, spinning over him like he’s sliding over a car. Kiryu, startled, watches as Majima axe-kicks Beige in the nose, first kicking up, then kicking down. As Majima lands, he leans down, and Kiryu takes this chance. He stands up straight, kicking right over Majima, landing a blow right in Beige’s gut, topping the giant down onto the ground. For good measure, Majima cracks his foot right into the man’s rib, surely breaking something.

Date remains by Haruka’s side, protecting her with all he’s got. Thankfully, Majima and Kiryu, along with Fukunaga and Nishida, are able to keep most of the attention, but that doesn’t stop the occasional straggler. Like a boxer, Date strikes, one, two, one, two, discarding the stragglers like tissues.

Each punch thrown thins down the assault, more and more, men either fall unconscious, or escape with their dignity intact.

Nishida and Majima begin juggling Nishida’s bat between the two, as Majima’s the much nastier of batters, a tooth collection begins to materialize on the floor. Kiryu, despite the pain in his stomach, refuses to be put down, and with a triumphant roar, throws one last goon over the side of the railing, down to the water below. For a moment, it’s silent, save for the groaning of the goons left on the ground.

Kiryu stumbles, once, twice, and then Haruka’s at his side, hugging his thigh. He stops stumbling, looks down at her, and rests a hand on her head. After a moment, Date’s by his side too, making sure he doesn’t topple over. He rests a hand on Kiryu’s arm.

“Haruka, are you okay?” Kiryu asks. Haruka looks up at him and nods.

“Mmhm,” She hums, “I’m not hurt. Majima-san and Date-san kept me safe.”

Date laughs, his eyes crinkling up as they shut. He rubs his neck.

“I wouldn’t say that. I got knocked out on my ass the moment I found them. Now, that Majima guy, he’s batshit insane, but he ran the entirety of Kamurocho keeping her safe. I don’t know if I trust him, but I have to respect him.”

Kiryu looks over at Majima, approaching Nishida, and he feels his chest tighten. He looks over at Haruka.

“I’m just glad you’re safe.” Kiryu coos, his voice soft.

Haruka hugs his leg tighter.

“I’m glad you’re safe, too.” She answers.

And then Majima. Majima takes one look at Nishida, bruised and beaten, and laughs. Nishida frowns, then smiles awkwardly, huffing out a laugh that somehow sounds like a stutter. Majima grabs his skull with both hands, violently pressing a kiss to Nishida’s forehead.

“There you are, ya little shit,” He growls, giving Nishida a firm shake before pressing his own forehead against Nishida’s, giving him a knock.

“O-Oyaji! I’m glad you’re okay,” Nishida replies, wincing. Despite it, he’s still smiling.

Majima throws him back, and Nishida blinks, experiencing a small amount of whiplash.

“So you’re Majima,” Fukunaga remarks. “Fukunaga. I’m one of the Florist’s informants.”

“Of course ya are. You got that look on ya that says you think you know more than the rest of us.”

Fukunaga smirks. He swings his crowbar over onto his shoulder to rest it there, like it’s a bat.

“Majima-san,” Kiryu beckons. As he walks, he steps over several goons on the ground, making them wheeze in pain. Haruka quickly follows after him, though she tries her best to avoid trampling over already-unconscious men. After a moment of staring, Kiryu bows.

Majima stares at him. His smile drops.

“Thank you for protecting Haruka, Majima-san.” Kiryu declares. His hands are in fists, his eyes are squeezed shut. “Thank you.”

“Get up, Kiryu.” Majima tells him. His voice is cold, quiet. “Don’t do that shit.”

Kiryu freezes for a moment in near-confusion. And then, he understands. He stands back up, and then nods his head to Majima.

“You think we oughta get out of here?” Date asks, picking up the butterfly knife up off the ground. He twirls it for a moment, nicks himself, and quietly curses as he drops it back down to the ground with a clatter.

“Nice one, detective.” Fukunaga sneers. He adjusts his hat, and pulls his hood back on. “I’ve got the feeling most of the cops have eased up on their patrols. It’s most likely safe to get back out.”

“We’re definitely not getting back out of the Tenkaichi manhole. Cops spotted us before we headed down.” Majima notes. He puts a hand on his chin. “There’s a manhole on almost every street.”

“Taking down the Takano Family from the inside might not be a bad idea, Majima-san.” Kiryu suggests. “There’s an access point from the sewer to Purgatory. If we use that route, we can avoid hitting from the front. It’ll definitely surprise them.”

After a moment of silence, Majima claps a hand on Kiryu’s head. He jostles his head gently.

“Smart.” Majima growls. He ruffles Kiryu’s hair. Kiryu scowls.

“Strange friends.” Fukunaga murmurs.

“It ain’t too smart to hit ‘em now. My suggestion, we move to the Hotel District.” Majima says.

“You’re right. We’re going to have to rest eventually.” Kiryu replies, resting a hand on his own stomach. Even now, it still hurts. “Besides, I’m not going to let Haruka get anywhere near those idiots. I want her safe.”

He glances her way. She gives him a nod.

“Fine, then.” Fukunaga answers. He swings his crowbar. “Let’s head to the northern sewer system.”

So, they walk. Haruka wraps a hand around Kiryu’s, and Kiryu takes it, giving her hand a firm squeeze. For a moment, Kiryu leans on Date, and Date keeps him on his feet.

Majima wraps an arm around Nishida, squeezing him tight.

For a moment, Majima looks back at Kiryu, and Kiryu looks at him. Again, they smile at each other. Kiryu doesn’t know why he was ever scared of him.

“Judging off the amount of people we knocked out,” Fukunaga remarks, “I doubt we’ll run into any opposition on the way to the Hotel District.”

In the Hotel District, between ADAM and Hotel Volescia, a manhole shifts around. The night’s beginning, and nobody notices the manhole cover move, and nobody definitely notices the five people shuffle out of it, none of them looking the part of sewer maintenance.

Fukunaga is the last out, though he remains on the ladder, keeping his head poked out.

“I’ll stay down here. When you boys need directions to Purgatory, you know where to find me.” He says.

Kiryu nods respectfully.

“Thank you for your help. Fukunaga-san.”

“Stay out of trouble, kid.” He says, giving Kiryu a nod right back, and then he’s ducking right back underneath, pulling the cover up over his head. Like that, he’s gone.

With night arriving, crowds have populated the streets once again, lights flashing and people walking. Strangely, Kiryu feels like he’s seeing the whole of Kamurocho for the first time again, its neon drowning him in its glory.

“The cops are keepin’ them holed up in West Park. I doubt we’re gonna have any unnecessary stalkers.” Majima says. “Besides that, the cops aren’t doin’ shit. Fuckin’ useless, I swear.”

“You’re right about that one.” Date says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s almost like they’re too scared to even step foot on West Park.”

“Where are we going to stay?” Haruka asks. “We don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I doubt Saya’s hoping for guests. Besides, I’m a drive away, and judging by the two of you,” Date gestures between Kiryu and Majima. “You wanna be right here.”

“You’re damn right about that one, detective,” Majima barks. Nishida nods.

“You think we can get a hotel here?” Kiryu asks. “It’s the Hotel District. It’s what it’s for.”

“Y-you think they’ll be open? Especially after the mess the Takano Family caused outside that hotel across from Showa.” Nishida replies awkwardly.

“Of course they’ll be open, Nishida.” Majima claps his hands together. “Capitalism’s a beast. Kamurocho’ll close when the world catches fire.”

“Whatever it is, I want to get out of the street.” Kiryu huffs. “I hate being out in the open.”

“You heard the man, Nishida.” Majima says. He retrieves his wallet, a man made of money. He frowns. “I am just bleedin’ money, aren’t I?”

After a moment, he just shoves the whole wallet into Nishida’s arms.

“There’s enough in there. There always is. Go find a hotel.”

“Yes, Oyaji!” Nishida yelps, immediately turning on his heel and scurrying away. He stops, turns around, runs back, and shoves his bat into Majima’s arms, and then runs.

He acts so differently when he’s around Majima, Kiryu notes.

So, the rest of the party find themselves crouched on the curb, faces hidden by a roof overcasting a shadow on them. They sit far from the crowd. Majima lights a cigarette.

“You should head home, Date-san.” Kiryu says. “I’ve definitely taken up enough of your time.”

Date laughs.

“You definitely have, Kiryu. Don’t feel too bad about it. I’ve missed this.”

Kiryu gives him a faint smile.

“I knew it.” He prods.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll give you a call in the morning, alright? Just to make sure you’re not dead.”

Kiryu nods.

“I’ll see you later, Date-san.”

“Bye, Date-san!” Haruka says, waving. “Stay safe.”

“I will, Haruka. Once I’m outta this guy’s hair.” He smiles, chuckling. He puts a hand on her head, a gentle pat, and then departs, his coat trailing behind him in the breeze.

And then there were three. Kiryu’s smile fades.

Haruka sits sandwiched between the two of them. She clicks her boots together, rocking her feet back and forth.

“How’d you manage?” Kiryu eventually asks. He’s looking at a man walking his small puppy. Haruka’s watching him, too.

Majima puffs out smoke, and then hands the cigarette to Kiryu. He regards it for a moment.

“I don’t smoke Hi-Lites.” Kiryu says.

“Shut the fuck up.” Majima replies, jabbing the cigarette in Kiryu’s direction once again.

And then, Kiryu takes it. Its aroma is strong and worsens his headache.

“Took on a whole fuckin’ army getting through Kamurocho. After a while, ended up in Champion. Your boy showed up, tried to shoot me, and got knocked out. I love my boys, but I had to teach them a lesson.”

For a moment, Majima doesn’t even realize he said that. It came out so nonchalantly. It wasn’t hard. Kiryu’s looking at him now.

“A man showed up after that.” Haruka says. “Majima got hurt real bad, and he said he thought Majima was going to die.”

“Definitely looks that way. You still have blood on your face.”

Majima sniffs, his nose scrunching up.

“Real high and mighty fucker. Probably Yakuza.”

“Did he mention what family? Clan?” Kiryu asks.

“Nope. Just said his name was Shimura.”

“Hm. That was the name of my boss.” Kiryu notes.

“Yeah? Bastard said he’d kill your boy and Haruka if it came to it. He left after that.”

Kiryu shuts his eyes, shaking his head.

“Fuck.” He sighs.

“How about you?” Majima asks.

“Me?” Kiryu thinks for a moment. He hands the cigarette back to Majima. “Nishida and I fought off your men as best we could. After that, the cops showed up, and we had to get out of there. Fukunaga, that older man, was there. Got us into the sewer.”

“Hm.” Majima hums.

“After that, we got visited by a man of our own. He was hiding his identity. Said he was Omi.”

“Omi?”

“And that the Takano Family’s colluding with them, now.”

Majima’s face scrunches up.

“Nah, no. Not my boys.”

“I didn’t have any reason to not believe him. He said they’re called the Tsuruha Clan. Him and the patriarch were Anikis for a time.”

“Tsuruha Clan? Never heard of them.”

“Neither have I. The man went by Yamada, but I knew that wasn’t his real name. He said the patriarch’s feeding into your boys’ anger, making them lash out. Yamada said he wanted the Tsuruha Clan out of Kamurocho.”

There’s a lot he’s leaving out. He’s not sure how he’d feel if Majima knew that his life was put into Kiryu’s hands.

“It’d be a blow to both the Tojo and Omi, if things got out of hand.” Majima notes, resting his elbow on his knee.

“Whatever the case, the Tsuruha Clan are trying to get their hands on West Park. Seems like you were telling the truth about them demolishing it. They think it’d be a boost for the Omi, getting a foothold in Kamurocho, but it won’t go their way.”

“It never does.” Majima hums, his voice distant and gentle.

“These things always get so damn complicated.” Kiryu replies, just as soft.

Majima thinks he wants to apologize for bringing Kiryu out here, dragging him into this, but he can’t form the words.

“Well,” Majima chooses to shield himself. He reaches across Haruka to clap a hand on Kiryu’s shoulder. “That’s why we’re gonna take care of this shit. You and me.”

Kiryu doesn’t smile.

“Oyaji!” Nishida waves his arm around, skipping right back to the three of them. He stops, leaning down. “I’ve got us rooms. All next to each other, too.”

“Really, now?” Majima says.

“The person at the front desk recognized me. He was terrified, so I asked for rooms, and he immediately gave them. We’re staying at Hotel White. It’s right by the Batting Cages.”

“I can always count on you,” Majima crows. He grins for a moment, and then holds his hand out. After a moment, Nishida takes it, pulling him back onto his feet. Nishida quickly recollects his bat.

“Is this a hotel like Shangri-la?” Haruka asks.

Kiryu coughs.

“Nah. Sure, you got hotels like that here, but some of them are standard. Tourism, and shit.” Majima replies.

“Oh.” Haruka hums. “Okay.”

“Besides. Shangri-la’s a soapland. The term you’re lookin’ for is love hotel.”

“I knew that.” Haruka replies. As she and Kiryu get up, she takes his hand.

“I think we should stop talking.” Kiryu says. He really directs it towards Majima.

Majima flicks his cigarette down to the ground. He grinds it, then picks it back up, placing it into his pocket. He’s starting to amass a collection.

“Why do you do that?” Haruka suddenly asks as Kiryu pulls her towards Nishida.

“Haw?”

“You put your cigarettes in your pocket.” She says.

“It’s for the environment.” He replies, half-matter-of-factly, half-offended.

“Oyaji believes in clean living.” Nishida suddenly says. “We reduce, reuse, and recycle!”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Majima gestures to Nishida, pointing at him. “Civic duty. Or some shit. Carbon footprints.”

“I don’t do that.” Kiryu replies bluntly. His voice is almost monotone.

“What, no love for the city?”

“No. I’m poor.”

Haruka looks down at the ground silently.

Kiryu looks at the back of Majima’s head, glaring. He almost wants Majima to say something snarky. He doesn’t know why. He can’t help himself, assuming the worst.

“Me havin’ the means to do what I do doesn’t mean I don’t respect you if you can’t. We’ve all got our own shit.”

Kiryu feels even more humiliated than if Majima had said something cruel.

The hotel is much better than the motel across from Showa Street. The sign is headache-inducingly bright, right across from the Yoshida Batting Center and a hotel called Beauty. As the name suggests, Hotel White’s drenched in it. Everything feels like it should be glowing, with how bright it stings. Majima hates it. Kiryu hates it, too. Haruka, however, she can’t contain her intrigue. They’re all situated on the third floor, three-oh-one, three-oh-two, and three-oh-three. They have to use an elevator.

“I miss my car.” Nishida blurts out, as the elevator scales up the building.

Nobody responds. Haruka pats his hand.

The moment Majima’s in his room, he almost forgets to slip off his shoes. He toes them off, tossing them uncaringly. He runs his hands through his hair, stretching, and then hunching. Pain continues to surge through him, and now it’s finally catching up to him. He throws his wallet, his keys, onto a table, and then face-plants right onto the bed. He violently shudders, and then shakes off his jacket. Nishida stands at the door, thinks for a moment, and then enters the room, shutting the door behind him. Majima immediately knows he’s not alone when the door clicks.

Silence.

“Oyaji?”

Majima struggles to move. After a moment, he turns over onto his back, holding himself up by his elbows.

“The…” Nishida squeezes his eyes shut. “The Tsuruha Clan. Its patriarch…”

“Yeah?”

“Its patriarch was a part of the Sagawa Family.”

Majima pauses.

Really freezes.

And then he reacts.

Suddenly, he snaps forward, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. He clings to his skull, to his hair, banging his hands against his head. He breathes through his teeth violently. Drool trails down the corner of his mouth from how hard he breathes, how hard he jostles his head. He stomps his feet, one, two, one, two.

And then he freezes again.

He looks up. There’s hair in his hands from where he pulled. He’s looking through Nishida. Nishida doesn’t say anything. He lets him sit in silence.

For a moment, Majima imagines Sagawa there, fitting right in with the ghostly-white furniture, a cigar between his fingers. In his mind, the figure’s barely human, blurred and moving, but it’s recognizable. He knows who it is. He always knows who it is. The white’s searing into him. He’s a pawn, a pawn, a pawn. This is his square. Move up, move left, check, check, check.

And then it’s over. Just like that, it leaves his mind, but he remains terrified all the same.

“What were you talking about?” He asks. He doesn’t look at Nishida. “What’d you say?”

“I asked if you were hungry.” Nishida lies. Majima knows he’s lying. He doesn’t say anything about it.

“Nah.” Majima replies.

“Can I ask you about the Tsuruha Clan?” Nishida then asks.

“I don’t know ‘em.” Majima answers.

“Okay. They’re looking for you, Oyaji. The owner of West Park. They want the deed.”

“Well, they’re not going to get it.”

“Okay, Oyaji.”

Nishida leaves. Majima lays down.

Kiryu feels out of place.

On the bed, he feels like an ant, insignificant and small. He misses the crowded walls of the motel. He misses the dust, the near-moldy smell. At least that was familiar. There’s only one bed, so he rests on one side, while Haruka takes the other side. Even though they share, they still have space between them.

“Did you have to sleep next to your siblings in the orphanage, Haruka?” Kiryu eventually asks.

She nods.

“So did I,” He continues. “Sometimes I felt like a sardine in…You know. Those cans. I don’t like being crowded, but I got so used to it…” He pauses. “Even now, it feels weird to sleep alone.”

“Is it normal to want to sleep by yourself?”

“Maybe, but we didn’t have that luxury. Sometimes normal means different things to different people. It’s up to us to decide what works for us, and try to understand where people are coming from.”

“Sometimes it feels like you always have the right answer.”

“I’ll be honest. I never think I do. But I try.”

“I don’t know why you could think that.”

Kiryu pauses for a moment. He squints at nothing.

“I’m not sure, myself.” He answers. He means it.

Haruka scoots closer to him, resting her head on his arm. Her cheek is squished, and it muffles her voice.

“I was so scared.” She mumbles. “Majima fights a lot scarier than you.”

After a moment, he adjusts his arm so that it’s around her, her head on his chest.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“It’s okay.” She replies, but it’s not.

She cries silently in the fabric of his shirt, and his eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry. He fears he can’t cry anymore.

Nishida stares out his own window, positioned so he can see the metal gate around West Park in the distance. His bat sits underneath his pillow.

Retold, Kiryu knocks on Majima’s door, after an unknown amount of hours.

“Hold on.” Majima calls. After a moment of silence, a lock clicks, and the door opens. His room is still entirely lit. Kiryu gets a good look at his chest. At his irezumi. “C’mon.”

He leaves the door open, turning back around. Kiryu shuffles inside, clicking the door shut behind him.

“What’s it this time?” Majima asks.

“I’m using your shower again.” Kiryu replies.

Majima raises a brow. And then he waves his arm.

“Yeah, sure.”

So, just like that, Kiryu disappears into the bathroom. Once again, he feels dumbfounded. The bathroom, like the rest of the hotel, is bright and loud. There’s a full-body mirror, so he pulls his clothes off. He smells like a sewer. He smells like absolute death.

He looks at himself in the mirror. He wonders why he’s here again. He supposes he doesn’t want to risk Haruka seeing him. It’s a lesser concern if Majima sees him, though, and he can’t figure out why. This is him. He looks like he’s lost weight in the small amount of time he’s been here. There’s a mark in the center of his stomach from where the stun gun was shoved, a nasty electric burn. Somewhere, an old memory begins to refill Kiryu’s mind, a strange sense that he does not belong in his own skin. Some kind of man you are, he hears a voice chime. Be the man you want to be.

In his darkest, and most lonely, Kiryu’s body responds with uninterested arousal.

Kiryu ignores it, and gets in the shower. The shampoo smells like flowers. They even have body wash. Kiryu douses his body. He feels terrified. Once again, the time will come when he will never see this district of Tokyo again. He will depart Kamurocho, and never return. He won’t call Date, and he won’t call Kashiwagi. He won’t call Majima. And none of them will call him. He’s starting to shake violently. He keels, holding his hand over his stomach. The water violently hits his head, an endless supply of noise in his ears. Water drips down his face, down his nose, down into the drain. His chest is tightening. His chest hurts. Alone, he lets out a whimper.

He’s back, a towel wrapped tight around his waist, hugging around his hipbones. He holds his clothes in his hands, covering his stomach.

Majima’s in his boxers again, sitting leaned out the window, a cigarette between his fingers. His back is covered in bandages. Even now, blood is still faint on his face. Kiryu looks at his profile, his gruff face. His beard’s scragglier than he remembers it being. Majima sways on one foot, his other bent. He moves like a machine that hasn’t been oiled right. He twitches, like he should be creaking. His fingers aren’t still. In his darkest, and most lonely of moments, Kiryu’s mind responds with attraction. He wants to see Majima try to hurt him again. He’s remembering how Majima’s skin felt. He was warm. He felt almost frail.

“You sure they let people smoke here?” Kiryu eventually asks.

Majima remains where he is.

“Nah. Don’t care.” He replies. After a moment, he turns to Kiryu. “What, you wanna join me?”

So, Kiryu does. Majima hands him a Hi-Lite, and he takes it, even though he hates the brand. It’s not the cigarette he’s focusing on.

“You’re still against rejoining the clan?” Kiryu asks.

“Ask me that again, and I’ll kill ya.” Majima replies, cigarette between his teeth.

“Just asking. What are you going to do with your boys?”

Majima pauses. He watches a couple walk past the hotel. They look happy. They look drunk.

“No fuckin’ clue.” He answers.

Kiryu hums.

“You could try something new. Try something you’ve never done before.”

Majima snorts.

“I’ve tried a lot of shit.”

“I mean like a job. You could be their boss, without being their patriarch.”

“I doubt I’ll ever stop being theirs. I didn’t want it, but I’ve got my claws in ‘em. Every single one.”

“That’s what happens when you give people hope.” Kiryu whispers. “You gave them something to believe in.”

“What, by beating them?”

“If you didn’t want to beat them, then why’d you do it?”

“It’s just what you do.” Emphasis on you.

“You don’t like doing it?”

Majima’s eye twitches.

“No. But it’s what I do.” Emphases on I.

Kiryu sighs. Wind brushes through the window, through his damp skin. He shivers.

“Nishida acts completely different when he’s away from you. We found a couple of your boys in the sewer. He hit them. He sounded like you.”

Kiryu watches as Majima’s eye widens. His lip quivers. His hand hovers over his mouth, fingers digging into his nose, his cheek. Like he’s never seen this outcome coming. Like nothing has consequences. His stomach churns, and lurches. He freezes, and his face drops. He turns away from Kiryu. There’s Nishida, there’s Shimano, and there’s him, and him again. Monkey-see, monkey-do, son-see, father-do. He wants to drench this place in his own blood, to rip it apart and scream until they have to beat him to make him stop. There’s no fixing this. There’s no fixing him.

So, he turns it off. He shoves it away, to be confronted at a later date. Not in front of Kiryu. Not in front of the world. He is always being watched. The next time he lifts his face up to look out the window, he’s expressionless. Kiryu knows to let it lie.

Each time Majima inhales, each time he keeps that cigarette between his lips, the more he falls back into his own skin. He is human. He is horribly, disgustingly human.

Kiryu rubs his forehead, and adjusts how he’s standing, switching the foot he’s leaning on. He almost bumps right into Majima.

“After tomorrow, I doubt we’re gonna see each other again.” Kiryu says.

“You itchin’ to get back to your life?”

Kiryu’s silent. Once again, his eyes sting.

“No.” He answers.

Majima doesn’t provide him a reply to that. He looks back out the window.

“I can’t afford dinner. I didn’t graduate high school, so the only people willing to hire me will mistreat me, and even then, I’ve been fired from every job I’ve tried. Children in Haruka’s school comment that she only has a few pairs of clothes. She’s scared, and I can’t do anything about it.”

Kiryu leans forward, resting his elbows on the windowsill. He covers his face.

“I want a damn couch. I want people to stop bumping into me in the street.”

His life is Kamurocho.

Kamurocho is a body, and he, in a horrifying realization, is the beating, bloody heart of it all.

“At least here, I know who I am. I like fighting. I want to hit people more than I want to talk to them. But it’s not fair to Haruka. She deserves better.”

After that, it’s deafeningly, humiliatingly, silent. The both of them stand raw. Both built up of flesh and violence. It’s all either of them know.

“You ever think of setting her back into that orphanage she came from?” Majima eventually asks. His voice comes out like a gentle croak.

“I can’t. I promised her. I promised her mother.”

“Is it for her, or for you?”

“I don’t know.”

Kiryu can hear Majima’s voice here and there; ‘You’re selfish, Kiryu. You’re just like me’.

Majima turns to Kiryu, still resting an arm on the window. He glances over to his bed, sees Kiryu’s clothes there.

“Why the hell are you here, Kiryu?”

“I don’t know.” He repeats.

Majima’s chest tightens. Sometimes, the best thing a man can do is walk away. He doesn’t know what to say when one man’s life is a spinning, never-ending revolving door. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth. Selfish and selfless, the two of them. They’ve never been good people.

“This might be the last time we see each other.” Kiryu says, echoing the thought that started this.

“What’re you going to do about it?” Majima challenges, because it’s all he knows.

“I’m too tired to fight.” Kiryu replies.

“You’ll regret it if you leave without it.” Majima says.

Kiryu looks at Majima. Majima looks at him. Doppelgangers.

So, Majima does the only thing he knows how to do. He backs Kiryu up. Half of him expects Kiryu to remain stationed right where he is. He’s terrified to find that Kiryu relents. He lets himself be cornered. He lets him be cornered by Majima. His back hits the wall.

Without touching him, Majima leans forward. He gives Kiryu a once-over like an opponent. Kiryu’s never felt like this before. He’s shaking. They both are. Majima’s head hovers right over Kiryu’s neck, over his shoulder. His breath touches Kiryu’s skin. He breathes in Kiryu’s body wash. They both feel like the wrong move will shatter everything, bring it all back to zero. Majima can’t understand why he’s doing this now. Why he wants this more than anything.

Neither of them move. Kiryu lets Majima take him in, one moment at a time. He doesn’t care how long it’ll take. If Majima wants it, he’ll stand here. If Majima needs it, he’ll leave. Majima’s toeing his way into the water.

Kiryu knows what women like. He knows how to touch them. They’ve never touched him in a way he’s liked. He’s never told them that.

Majima roughly grabs one of Kiryu’s wrists. He winces. And then Majima places his own palm within it. His skin is warm and dry. His fingernails are bitten. His fingers twitch. There’s a large vein running from his knuckles down to his arm. His pinky is noticeably farther away than the rest of his fingers, in its natural position. His wrist bone juts out.

“If you want this, then you’re gonna have to step up.” Majima growls. He pulls back, glaring. It’s not antagonistic. He’s not trying to show cruelty. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He can’t take control. He’s scared of giving. He’s scared of taking. He trusts Kiryu.

“What do you want me to do?” Kiryu whispers, holding onto Majima’s hand.

“Show me where to touch you.” Majima says, turning his hand over in Kiryu’s grip.

The cogs visibly turn in Kiryu’s head.

Kiryu’s hand drifts slowly, moving towards the back of Majima’s hand. His palm now rests against it. The feeling is all-new. It almost feels too much, with how he ghosts his hand over Majima’s. The barest touch almost tickles. He listens. He brings Majima’s hand over to his collarbone, where Majima’s thumb rests in the v-shape between them. He drags Majima’s hand back and forth against his skin, listening to the sound it makes. Majima’s hand is coarse. It's covered in calluses. It nearly hurts to feel. He drifts his hand down, because bringing it up to his face is something he’s too scared to feel. He presses Majima’s hand down into the center of his chest. He can’t bring himself to look at Majima’s face. He keeps his eyes trained on the hand he’s leading.

Majima stills. All of his focus goes into the hand in Kiryu’s. His skin is soft, softer than it should be. It’s like how it was back in the old motel room, dark and violent. Fighting is all they know. Majima doesn’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t know how not to.

Kiryu wants to share a space with someone. He doesn’t want it to be about blood. But it’s all he’s done. Through birth, it’s all he’s known.

Kiryu, with his other hand, grazes his fingertips against Majima’s side. Majima freezes, and Kiryu’s heart sinks. On instinct, Majima grabs Kiryu’s wrist, pushing it against the wall with a loud thud. In surprise, Kiryu grunts.

As Majima realizes what he’s done, he turns his face away from Kiryu’s. He doesn’t let go.

“I can’t,” He breathes. “I can’t.”

He can take violence. He can take a hit. He can’t take this. He wants to be gentle. He wants to scream at the idea of someone wanting to be gentle to him. He can’t handle it.

“I won’t touch you.” Kiryu tells him. “I won’t touch you unless you tell me to.”

Majima lets go of his wrist. After a moment, he urges his hand back into Kiryu’s grip.

Kiryu and Majima stand between an ocean of tripwires.

Majima begins to push himself into Kiryu, his leg pushing against the fabric of Kiryu’s towel, between his knees. He leans his head into Kiryu’s, but they don’t kiss. They breathe. Kiryu, in, Majima, out.

Kiryu brings Majima’s hand back to his chest. To his right breast. Kiryu huffs through clenched teeth.

They’re pelvis-to-pelvis, now. The leg between Kiryu’s knees pushes, pushes, until Kiryu finally looks at Majima. Kiryu forces Majima’s hand down to the towel, urging him to untie it, and he does. Majima doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Kiryu pulls Majima, pulls him by his hand, and then he’s pushing himself down onto Majima’s thigh. He grabs both of Majima’s wrists roughly, pulling it behind himself to rest on his hips. They’re pushed up against one another. When one pushes, another pulls. They almost want to fight each other. They want it to make sense. Sex is one step away from violence, and they’re tip-toeing between the two like indecisive dancers. After a moment, Majima brings his chest right up against Kiryu’s, and he presses his open mouth to Kiryu’s neck. They feel each other breathe.

“Grab me.” Majima hisses. Kiryu nearly misses it.

Kiryu wraps his arms tightly around Majima, making sure it’s firm. Majima feels his muscles flex underneath the skin, feels how they move back and forth. He squeezes, groping like he can’t help himself. Majima brings himself down onto his knees, brings Kiryu along with him, but they stay on each other. Majima pushes, slowly turns Kiryu around so he can bring them both down onto the carpeted ground. Kiryu bends his knee upward, brings it right into Majima half-accidentally, and Majima hisses like he’s just been struck. Slowly, this inches into familiar territory. They can’t help but slip into their habits, into their nature. Like tug of war, neither give in. Neither lets the other turn him fully onto his back, so they rock, they rock back and forth, breathing into each other’s spaces, breathing each other’s air. Kiryu instinctively beats a fist on Majima’s back, a solid slap on his damp skin. He doesn’t know if it means too much, or too little. Majima’s leg is hairy and thick, and the way it drags against him is arousing as much as it is uncomfortable.

It’s not a power-struggle. It’s almost fun for them.

Majima makes sounds like he’s suffocating, violent wheezes that spur Kiryu on as much as they concern him. Majima refuses to take his boxers off. He doesn’t want Kiryu to see him like that. He doesn’t want pity.

But Kiryu doesn’t ask. He doesn’t suggest with his hands. He keeps them firmly on Majima’s back.

It feels like they’re coiling around each other, more and more. They share each other’s sweat. Majima watches Kiryu’s eyes squeeze shut, his brow pulled upwards. He’s so quiet, hissing out wheezes. He presses his mouth to the side of Kiryu’s face.

They keep playing this war. Eventually, somebody is going to win, and somebody is going to lose. All they can feel is each other’s hands. Kiryu’s stay planted flat on Majima’s back, and Majima’s grasping on what he can, increasingly losing his grip on Kiryu. They press tighter and tighter against one another, until it threatens to hurt. Kiryu can feel Majima’s stomach lurch, he can feel Majima’s ribs. They clamp their legs closed on one another, and Majima’s hands finally coil around Kiryu like Kiryu has his arms around Majima. They keep moving their hips, keep attempting to turn the other over. They bring their faces close to each other again, and then push. They aren’t kissing, not by a long shot, but their mouths press tight-lipped against one another, their foreheads hot against each other.

And then they both still.

And neither come out on top. With how their bodies slacken, it’d be easy to push the other onto his back, but neither do. It doesn’t always have to be a fight.

Their grips on each other soften. Their mouths open, and their lips graze. Their eyes open, and they look at each other. It feels like the first time. Their chests heave against one another.

Neither of them came. It wasn’t about that.

They lay side-by-side, the carpet digging into their skin, sure to leave imprints. Their arms gently pull away from the other, and their legs untangle. Through the aftermath, they put their hands together, palm to palm, clasping.

Kiryu’s eyes sting. This time, a tear slips down his face, down into the carpet. He doesn’t let it show on his face. He remains stoic. It’s all he knows.

Regardless, Majima touches his face, no longer in a battlefield, and he strokes his thumb over his cheek. Kiryu can’t read his expression.

“I have to get back to my room.” Kiryu eventually says, after they both migrate from the floor, tugging his sewer-scented clothes back on. The shower was useless.

“Yeah, I know.” Majima replies, settling into his own bed. “See you tomorrow.”

After a moment, Kiryu rests his hand down on the bed, right in front of Majima’s face. He’s offering his palm. Majima takes it, just for a moment, and gives it a squeeze.

“See you tomorrow, Majima.”

Kiryu manages a faint smile. Majima doesn’t return it, but he gives his hand one last consideration before pulling it away.

“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here.” Majima shoos. “Scram.”

Majima knows he’d never be able to sleep with Kiryu next to him. He’s never been able to sleep with anyone by his side. He can dream, though, in the dark recesses of his brain, he can dream.

As Kiryu opens the door to leave, Majima asks him to leave the lights on, and then he leaves.

Everything is blinding, and nothing is blue-grey.

The year is 1986, somewhere that may be June, or maybe August. It’s golden out the window, and in any amount of consideration, he figures it’s August. August is a golden month, not out of any virtues or goodness, but as a simple fact of life, a boring thought. August is golden, and Majima Goro is on a couch.

The couch sits tacky, pressed right up against the wall with the windows that expose the golden-August. The couch is striped and faded. The arms are frayed, dotted with spots where the fabric appears to be pulled up in fuzzy strings. He likes to pull on them when he’s alone, spin them around his fingers until they turn purple. Right now, he isn’t doing any of that. No strings are getting pulled today. Majima repositions the leg he can move, and it jingles as he does so. He bends it, rests it on the couch, so that he may rest the book he holds in his palm right on the cusp of his bandaged ankle.

This book, in terms of its lifespan, is not old, but this single, individual copy Majima holds certainly looks the part. The pages are yellowed and wrinkled at the bottom. Most of the pages have folded little ears that unfurl when Majima turns the page, like a terse wave hello. Pages have markers dancing across them, a rotation of thirteen, unique different colors. In his palms, Majima feels like the book is seconds from succumbing to its age, crumbling to dust right in his hands.

Majima is, unknown to those to glance his way, someone who reads. Yes, he reads, but it has never made a difference in his life. He still never graduated high school, and his daddy still beat him.

This book, in his hand, is one of many that Sagawa Tsukasa will leave on the coffee table in front of Majima, and when he leaves, Majima will toe the coffee table closer to him, inch it closer across the carpet, and he will grab the book, read it all in one sitting, and put it back down, and Sagawa Tsukasa is none the wiser.

When he was a boy in the seventies, Majima would read, and Shimano would stand far away from him, only to turn his head and ask; ‘What do you think?’

On this particular day, Sagawa steps inside to his strange apartment. He shuts the door with his shoulder, and toes his buffed shoes off his feet. Majima does not make a show of pretending not to be reading the book, because Majima is someone who doesn’t back out of his own decisions. He sits with it, now held in both hands, making a point to show the front and back covers of the damaged book, like he’s rebelliously showing off something vulgar.

Sagawa regards him with a certain kind of repulsion, but not the kind anyone else would expect, looking at Majima’s brutalized form. He looks at Majima like he’s a philistine, not a victim. It’s a strange sight.

“The hell’re you doing?” Sagawa asks. His kitchen exists in the same space as the couch, so Sagawa’s still looking at Majima as he throws his keys in a bowl on a counter. The sound is sharp. Majima yelps.

Majima was on the second-to-last page, and now he’ll never finish it. He sets it closed on the coffee table. Silently, he stares at Sagawa.

“ ‘A Wild Sheep Chase’.” Sagawa hums, stretching out his neck to crane it towards the coffee table. He certainly can’t read it from here, but he can see the colors in the vague shape of a book. “Y’know, I’m not even a fiction person.”

Majima glances down at the book, then back to Sagawa. Again, he is silent. Sagawa opens his mouth again, pretending Majima replied.

“But I liked that one. It reminded me of when I was younger.”

Majima stares.

“You should finish it.” Sagawa suggests.

“I’m not going to finish it now.” Majima answers.

Sagawa makes a noise comparable to a laugh as he lights a cigarette. He sucks on it once, twice, three times in quick succession.

“I doubt you’re even reading, with that eye.” Sagawa says. He fixes himself a drink.

“I was.” Majima answers.

Sagawa raises a brow. With the rim of the glass held between his fingers, he pulls up a chair to the coffee table with his other hand. The chair is old, and there’s blood stains on it. He sits on it, and he sets his glass on the coffee table. There’s a coaster on there, too, but it has been forgotten.

Sagawa then takes the book. With surgical precision, he fingers through it, though he isn’t reading anything.

“Don’t act like you’re smarter than me. You’ve got class like a pigeon.” Majima says. And then, “You leave your shit everywhere, and you never shut up.”

Sagawa laughs at him, fingers still tucked in the pages of the book. “A little shit like you should know when to bite his tongue.” He says.

“Reading doesn’t make you classy. It makes you a dick.”

“Is that right?” And with a quiet consideration, he adds, “What sort of shit was Shimano reading?”

“I don’t know.”

Sagawa hums.

“You don’t have interesting thoughts.” Majima states.

“Where’d that come from?”

“The book. You write all over it, but you don’t say anything.”

Sagawa looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“It doesn’t matter if you understand the book or not.” Majima says. “But you should at least believe something about it.”

“And what do you believe?” Sagawa asks.

Majima is silent for about thirty seconds. When Sagawa concludes that he has nothing to say, that is when Majima speaks.

“I don’t like mysteries. Stories need to end. I don’t believe in leaving it open.”

“Stories need to end?” Sagawa repeats.

“Stories need to end.”

“And how should Stories end?”

“By shootin’ itself in the head.” Majima hisses. “Stories are made to die.”

“Never heard it said like that before.”

“It’s the honest truth. They aren’t made to be open-ended.”

“Everything ends.” Sagawa thinks. “Didn’t take you for a philosopher.”

Majima doesn’t laugh.

“I used to think of myself as an utilitarian.” Sagawa breathes smoke. “If Stories weren’t pushing you to one side, or another. It didn’t matter.”

“I don’t give a shit if Stories have meaning. They end, and it’s over. Either everyone dies, or they don’t.”

After a moment of persistent silence, Sagawa finally laughs.

“You’re not a philosopher, you’re just a fucking nihilist.” He says, smiling. “If it’s gonna be anyone, it might as well be you.”

Silence continues to persist between them.

“Y’know, not everything ends.” Sagawa eventually says. He taps his cigarette against the ashtray on the coffee table, right by the unused coaster.

“And you’re a dreamer if you believe that.”

Sagawa takes a sip from his glass.

“ ‘The song is over. But the melody lingers on’ .” Sagawa quotes, almost with the cadence of a college professor, and Majima, the student.

This is a quote from the book. He’s quoting a book. Majima sneers.

“You ever do theater?” Sagawa segues, gesturing with his hand. He opens his palm, and then closes it. There’s a pen in his shirt pocket, so he retrieves it, and goes to tapping it against his palm. Tap, tap, tap.

“No.”

“Well, think about it. You got your actors, and you got your characters. In those types of tragedies, everyone dies, and it’s over. But what about the actors? In a sense, the story never ends, because it’s retold. Over and over again, the actors repeat the same story. Is that an ending?”

“I don’t get it.” Majima says. “You wanna know why people do it again, and again? For money. You keep doing it, and then more people will show up. It’s not deep.”

Sagawa leans back in his seat, still tapping his palm with the pen. It has a floral design.

“But each time, it’s different. An actor gets sick, and he’s replaced. Somebody fucks up a line. There’s a different costume, because the old one got ripped. Each time they do it again, it’s a whole different play. Everyone leaves feeling a different sort of way.

“What are you getting at?”

“There was a Kamishibaiya in my city, in the same spot, when I was a boy. He always showed off the same story, again and again. And for some reason, I’d always be there.”

“An old lonely geezer with a box. That’s not an argument. That’s just sad.”

“He had all the poor-as-shit kids in his grasp, though. Didn’t matter if it was the same story, we kept comin’ back. He wasn’t lonely. He was the happiest son-of-a-bitch on this planet. Him and his box.”

“I don’t care about your childhood.” Says Majima.

“Eh, shut the fuck up.” Sagawa replies, jabbing his pen in Majima’s direction. “I’m not finished.”

So, Majima shuts up. He folds his arms across his chest.

“Nihilism.” Sagawa repeats, “Nihil. It’s Latin. When you’re bored as shit in college, you read. It means nothing.” He spins his wrist around, “So, from nothing. People used that term, from nothing. It’s poetically bullshit, but it reminded me of that old man on the street. From nothing, came something. That make sense to you?”

Majima doesn’t move an inch. He sniffs, his nose twitching.

“Yeah, didn’t think so. This shit’s lost on people like you.” He wiggles his pen between his fingers. “Your ending should’ve happened long ago, down in the hole.”

“It already happened.” Majima says. “I should be dead.”

“And yet, here you are,” Sagawa answers. He gestures to Majima as a whole, waving his hand around. He says it with a comma, a certainty that he’ll continue. “Nothing matters, so why give a shit?”

In a few years, when Sagawa is long dead, Majima will remember this moment, and he will internalize it, paint it on the insides of his mind.

After a moment, Sagawa laughs. He lifts up his leg and rests his foot down on the coffee table, heel set right on the coaster. He throws the pen down, and it clatters against the table loudly.

“It’s all about cultural capital, Tiger. Every Story has its use.”

“I’m not a fucking philosopher.” Majima hisses. He puts his hands on his head, pulling on his hair from the roots down to the tips. “I don’t care. I don’t. Go away.”

“When you talk like that, I don’t even remember why I’m keeping you alive. Try being optimistic.” He smiles, but his mouth is the only thing that moves. “That old man’s probably dead as shit now. I barely remember the story he told. Something about a fish.”

Majima is unsure if Sagawa truly believes in anything. Sagawa will chirp out words like they’re affirmations of his good character, as if sounding smart makes you respectable. A dictionary of nothing. Deleuzian, Heteroglossia, Epitasis, Catastasis, Catastrophe.

This is when Shimura steps inside. He knocks, then opens. Sagawa turns his head, but remains casually resting against his seat.

“Boss,” He says, because there is a deep distinction between the way Majima says ‘Oyaji’ , and the way Shimura says ‘Oyaji’ . Sagawa is definitely, absolutely, no-one’s father. “There you are.”

With cropped black hair and a thin face, Shimura is very unrecognizable from the near-elderly man in the future.

“Yeah, Shimura-chan?” Sagawa hums. He stamps out his cigarette, then grabs his glass, swirling it around.

“Takahashi called. He’s finally surrendering to the Sagawa Family. Ownership’ll be transferred over to you shortly.”

“It’s about damn time.” Sagawa chuckles, and then it progresses to a full laugh. He turns to Majima. “I shot his dog.”

Once again, Majima silently stares at him.

“Anyways, you’re wanted at one of his clubs. LOVE-Dust. The girls want to meet the new owner.”

“Tell ‘em I’m busy.” Sagawa replies, then gestures towards Shimura, waving his hand. “Over here, kid.”

So, Shimura comes. Majima doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at Majima. Majima can tell it’s out of disgust, or genuine fear. He wants to show Shimura everything. Bare his missing teeth, show off his shattered kneecap, his missing eye, his amputated toe, his castrated testicles, turn Shimura into the kind of boy that has to look underneath his bed for monsters. Look underneath his bed for him , and cry for mommy.

“Yes, boss?” Shimura asks.

Sagawa slides his foot off the coffee table, and he moves it out of the way. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a key. After a moment, he unshackles Majima’s ankle.

“I’ve gotta make sure his injuries are healing right. You hold him up.”

Majima finally smiles. When he looks at the disgust in Shimura’s eyes, he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs. Majima’s a real monster to the loyal Shimura. He’ll show Shimura what it means to be afraid.

“Ojisan…” Shake.

“Ojisan!” Shake, shake.

Kiryu awakens in a cold-sweat. Instinctively, he shoots upwards, desperately dragging in a breath. On his side, sits Haruka on her knees, a terrified look on her face.

“Haruka?” Kiryu gasps. He looks around the hotel room. Blinding white and not much else. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

She’s shaking for a moment, hands trembling. She closes her eyes, steels herself, and then opens them back up.

“Majima-san is gone.” She says. “So is Nishida-san.”

Kiryu’s reaction is slow. His jaw opens, and it remains open for about ten seconds.

“What?” He finally asks.

She grabs his hand, both of hers around his, and she pulls, bouncing off of the bed on her side. Instead of getting up on his side, Kiryu crawls over the bed to her side, where he stands up next to her. Again, she grabs his hand, pulling.

Majima, gone. There’s no keeping a man like him. Kiryu’s stomach twists.

“I woke up, and I wanted to see if Nishida-san was okay, but his door was left open, and when I went inside, he was gone,” Haruka explains, her voice rapid and quivering. “And then I went to Majima-san’s room, to tell him, and he was gone, too. What if somebody took them?”

So, Kiryu takes initiative. Hand still in Haruka’s, he pushes his door open, and turns towards Majima’s room, right next to his. The door is slightly ajar, and the lights are off. In a strange way, the darkness of the room seeps into the light of the hallway, and not the other way around. Kiryu takes in a deep breath, and opens the door.

The room is blue-grey in appearance, with the lights off. Majima’s wallet remains on the bedside table. Each step Kiryu takes inside, a new surge of anxiety rips through him. It shoots once, twice, three times, and then there he is at the bed. The window is still open. It’s the middle of the day. He can almost smell Majima’s cigarettes still in the room.

There on the bed sits a black briefcase. It remains closed and inconspicuous in the most suspicious of ways. Kiryu stares at it, while Haruka hides behind his arm.

Schrodinger's Cat. This briefcase. As he stares at it, Kiryu makes note of dried blood on the surface.

Kiryu forces himself to open it. There’s no point living life in uncertainties. His thumbs click at the two locks keeping it together, push them up. The briefcase is cold, and smooth in texture. It could be leather. After another breath, Kiryu opens it.

A hollow sense of disappointment fills Kiryu’s chest, as he looks down at the one-million yen. It makes him feel alone. He remembers Majima’s offer of payment, when first he stepped into Kiryu’s apartment. This is the conclusion of this, and Kiryu couldn’t feel more hopeless. He is standing in the hotel room where he pressed his lips against Majima’s. Kiryu wasn’t lying when he said they were probably never going to see each other after this.

“What is this, Ojisan?” Haruka whispers, gripping his sleeve. “Is this…”

“That’s what he was going to pay me after we were done here in Kamurocho.” Kiryu says.

“Then where is he?”

Realization dawns on him in an instant.

“He’s at West Park.” Kiryu replies.

“Alone? Ojisan, what if he dies?” Haruka pleads. “What are we going to do?”

“You need to stay safe. I…” Kiryu pauses. His throat is dry, and his head hurts. “I have to go after him.” He says, more sure of that fact than anything else.

Haruka moves past Kiryu, placing her hands on the bed. Her eyes are on the briefcase. First, confusion, then realization. She reaches her hand out, on the interior of the briefcase. There’s a slip, a space where the interior-velvet breaks. It’s something nobody would be able to catch but her.

“Ojisan!” She says, pushing her hand inside. She retrieves a letter, a folded piece of paper. “Look!”

She holds up the paper, and Kiryu takes it. He unfolds it. There’s a stamp on the page, a Tojo Clan Crest. Kiryu’s brow furrows. He holds the page tight between two hands, wrinkling the paper.

This is a letter addressed to one Majima Goro, sent by the one-and-only Kashiwagi Osamu.

And when he reads it, he holds in a breath in his aching lungs.

He finishes it, and drops it back down on the payment. Its white skin rests as a ghost against the sea of money below it.

Fear permeates through this room. It permeates throughout the whole of Kamurocho. There’s a sink dripping in the bathroom. Kiryu recalls the unknown man, pleading for Majima’s safety, for Majima’s life. He placed it in Kiryu’s palms like he knew Kiryu well. Like he knew he could trust Kiryu with something like that.

“I have to get to him.” Kiryu echoes.

And that is when, through the wall, he can hear his own phone going. He runs, and Haruka runs after him.

His flip-phone rests, vibrating against a table, so he slaps his hand over it, flipping it open with enough force to break it.

“Kiryu!” Date greets loudly. “Fuck me,” He sighs. Kiryu can imagine he’s running a hand through his hair. “Where the hell are you?”

“Date-san, Majima’s at West Park alone.”

“I got that idea! I’m right by you, I can hear a fucking war going on in there!”

“I have to get to him, I need you to get over here to protect Haruka. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Kiryu. I’ll be there. You tell Haruka to stay where she is. Which hotel are you in?”

“Hotel White, room three-oh-three. Got that?”

“Yeah, I got it. Kiryu, you stay alive, whatever you do. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Date-san. I’ll try my best.”

That is when Date hangs up. Kiryu turns to Haruka. He crouches down to her size.

“Haruka, I need you to stay here. Date-san is just right around the corner to look after you.”

Terror dawns on her face. After a quiet moment, she throws her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight.

“I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to die.” She cries.

“I’m not going to die. But I have to protect Majima.”

“I know you do.” She replies. “But I’m so scared.”

After a moment, Kiryu lets himself rest. He eases into her hug, and then he places a hand on her back, the other on the back of her head.

“I’ll always come back to you, Haruka. I made a promise I’d never leave you forever.”

Haruka hugs him tighter.

“I love you, Haruka,” Kiryu says for the first time, with as much genuine care as a father should hold for his daughter.

Haruka sobs. She doesn’t say it back, but it’s okay. It doesn’t matter if she does, or not.

And after this, Kiryu has to pull away, even if he doesn’t want to. Haruka rubs at her eyes with her sleeves. Her face is red and puffy.

“Stay here, and lock the door. If there’s someone knocking, you ask who it is, and you don’t open unless it’s Date-san. Understood?”

Haruka nods.

“Okay.” She sniffles.

And just like that, Kiryu pats her head one last time, and then he’s running out the door. She watches him go, her head poked out of the door, and with a quiet resignation, she shuts the door.

The moment he’s outside, he’s running down the street. This is when he puts up his mental corkboard once again. He reaches Park Boulevard, and then notes the police blockade outside the entrance to West Park. Once again, they refuse to step inside, only remaining on the outside looking in. There’s an entire truck lodged through the wall of the West Park fence. Before they can catch him running, he turns back around, running right back for Hotel District. He has to rethink things. There is no storming in after Majima. He thinks about their original plan. Using the sewers. This is his best chance, going through the sewer, and through Purgatory. If Kiryu’s speculation is correct, then that is where Majima’s journey will end, as well. With that, he sets his destination on the manhole they pushed through last night, near Adam. People stare at the walls of West Park in consideration, people are poking their heads around the police blockade, so nobody pays mind to the strange man that smells like a sewer struggling to pull a manhole cover open. His hands sting, and his stomach lurches from the stress, but he does it. With a grunt, he’s throwing the manhole aside, and shimmying down the ladder with a fervent speed. He jumps down the rest of the way, landing right in the northern sewer, on the cusp on the eastern system.

“Fukunaga!” Kiryu shouts, hoping the man is nearby.

Out steps the darkness.

“Is this who you’re looking for?” A voice asks.

Kiryu turns towards the corridor to the east. Out on the catwalk stands a blockade, and there, in the center, is Fukunaga, held by the arm by the man in the center.

“Fukunaga!” Kiryu gasps. He takes a step, and the man in the center holds a gun to Fukunaga’s head.

Fukunaga gives Kiryu a certain kind of look. Kiryu stops.

The man in the center is unrecognizable, but he certainly recognizes Kiryu.

“I knew you’d come skulking down here eventually, Kiryu. You’re so predictable.”

“And I don’t know, or care, who you are. Let go of Fukunaga, and let’s settle this like men.” Kiryu replies, cracking his neck.

“You think I’m letting you do that?” The man in the center laughs. “Fuck no!”

The rest of the blockade laughs.

“Shut the fuck up!” He barks. The rest of the blockade stop laughing.

“I’m the man that’s gonna keep you from stepping one foot in West Park.” The man in the center announces.

“Is that so?” Kiryu asks.

“There’s a lot of cogs turning, and we don’t need a wrench getting stuck in there. You’re the wrench.”

“I got that.” Kiryu says.

“So, why don’t you take a seat. You and me are gonna be here for a long time, until Oyaji puts a bullet in Majima Goro’s head.”

Kiryu glares.

“I doubt a man like Majima is going to be taken down by the patriarch of a gang nobody’s heard about.”

The man in the center sneers in complete annoyance. He really wants to shoot Kiryu. Fukunaga smirks.

“Then you’ve never met the Oyaji. And believe me, you don’t want to.” The man in the center chuckles. “Majima Goro won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Once again, I doubt it.” Kiryu, after a moment, smirks. “Your piddling, nothing-clan isn’t even on the Omi Alliance’s orders. How do you think they’re gonna react when they find out about this? About the nothing-clan that proved absolutely nothing, and then got destroyed.”

And then, the man in the center’s face turns red, and he points the gun right at Kiryu’s face.

Fukunaga grabs the man’s arm, and flips him right around with the force of a wrestler. It takes a moment for the rest of the blockade to even realize. Kiryu pounces.

First, he kicks the gun away from any of the blockade, while Fukunaga grabs the heads of one of the men, headbutting him violently. Without his crowbar, Fukunaga is one cranky motherfucker. Kiryu disposes of the blockade with a speed of which should embarrass everyone. Only seven men, now all on the ground. Kiryu’s got the feeling it won’t be the only ones.

“Kiryu-san, glad to see you down here.” Fukunaga says, as he kicks one of the men. “Lemme guess, you’ve gotta get to Purgatory.”

Kiryu nods, and just as he does, more men show up, this time on the opposite side of the blockade.

“Ah, shit.” Fukunaga huffs. After a moment, he picks up the gun left behind by the man in the center.

“Fukunaga…” Kiryu mumbles.

Fukunaga cocks the gun.

“You go through that path,” Fukunaga gestures behind him. “And you keep straight. You’ll end up right where you want to be. If you lose your way, look for any motherfucker in a suit. He’ll send you on the right way.”

After a moment, Kiryu nods.

“Thank you for everything, Fukunaga-san. Stay safe.”

“You kidding? I’m the Florist of Sai’s top informant. I’ll die when hell freezes over.”

So, Kiryu runs, leaving Fukunaga behind to dispose of the trash. The gunshots become more and more distant with each step he takes.

Rewind, back a couple hours. This is where Majima Goro started.

Nishida escorts him back to his own make-shift hole, his apartment. The rain’s stopped now, and Majima can see his breath in the air. Every now and then, the wind will violently swing through every street, and Nishida will shudder. Each glance Majima takes of Nishida, his stomach twists more and more. Two miserable men, walking side-by-side. Let all who look at the two of them feel just as miserable. When they finally reach his apartment, once again, it is a terrible sight for sore eyes. There are still broken windows. There’s still graffiti on the sides. There’s still vomit stains, and there’s still shattered glass. Majima looks up towards the fourth floor, where his room is. The curtains are blowing out of it, just as he left it. So, he shoves past the tension, and makes his way inside, and Nishida is quick to follow after him. They’re both silent.

Majima walks his steps like a ghost. The floors are the same.

The second floor, there lives the woman with her newborn baby. Her ex-boyfriend kicked in her door two months ago, and it is still broken. Majima has never seen her face, but he’s heard her crying.

Third floor, there’s nothing, because the man closest to the staircase is still dead after he jumped. Majima remembers that the man liked to bake, and he liked to share them.

Fourth floor, this is Majima’s tomb. So, he walks, like a funeral entourage is escorting him. There’s more eviction notices on the door. Nishida, with a key, unlocks the door for Majima.

The apartment smells rotten. Bottles and needles and vomit still coats the floor. Neither of them remove their shoes. Three times, Nishida has cleaned this apartment, and three times, Majima let it become like this. He couldn’t help himself.

Majima stands in the ruins of his own machinations. He turns around, facing Nishida. Another ruined machination of Majima’s own doing. At this point, Majima doesn’t want to hit him anymore.

By the door sits the briefcase, now encased in a fine layer of dust. This is Terada’s gift, and it will be the gift Majima casts aside. It should’ve been Kiryu’s all along. It was he who protected the Tojo Clan. A man like that should not be struggling to survive. Majima will right this wrong.

He picks up the briefcase.

“Nishida, you’re fired.” Majima says.

Nishida, who has heard this before, gently takes the briefcase from Majima’s hand. Majima doesn’t object.

“Okay, Oyaji.” He says.

Majima shuts his eye.

“I mean it.” Majima hisses.

Once again, Nishida has heard this before. He remains unphased.

“Do you want me to give this to Kiryu-san?”

Majima grabs his shoulders. Nishida yelps.

He gives him a firm shake. He looks at Nishida like he’s in pain.

“You’re out. Do you hear me?” He demands. “I’m not your Oyaji no more. Get that through your thick skull.”

Nishida blinks.

“W-why are you firing me, now?”

“I just don’t like you anymore.” Majima lies, giving Nishida another shake.

“Why?” Nishida asks.

“I don’t wanna look at ya anymore. You smell like me now, Nishida. Once that stench’s there, it’s never going away.”

“You’re firing me because I smell like you.”

“Because you should fuck off, and get in a little cubicle, and count your numbers.” Majima howls. “Little pussies like you shouldn’t be yakuza.”

Nishida’s face is expressionless. His lips are pressed tightly against one another.

And then, Majima presses his head to Nishida’s chest. It’s not violent. He is bowing down to Nishida. His grip on his shoulders only tighten.

“You’re a good kid, and now I’ve ruined ya.” Majima croaks. “Nobody should be like me.”

“Oyaji, stop.”

“You put that briefcase on my bed, and then you walk, and you never look back.” Majima says, lifting up his head. His hands move from Nishida’s shoulders to his shirt collar. “Do you hear me?”

“Oyaji,” Nishida squeezes his eyes shut. “Oyaji, stop, please.”

“Things matter,” Majima pleads. “Things matter. Don’t live life like me.”

“Please.”

“You don’t beat the men who believe in you. I’ve got no excuse for what I’ve done to you, or any of my other boys. You gotta get far away from me. I’m a time bomb, Nishida. I’m just plain rotten. You hear that? I’m the fuckin’ Monster. I’m a piece-of-shit-Monster-motherfucker, everyone’s right about me, I’m fuckin’ crazy. I oughta be put down,”

Nishida slams the briefcase right into Majima’s skull.

In utter shock, Majima stumbles backwards. The pain takes a few seconds to register. It spreads through his ear, into his brain, out the other ear. His head craned to the side, he slowly twists it back to Nishida. His jaw clenches, his eye twitches.

Nishida hits him with the briefcase again.

“Stop!” Nishida screams. “Stop it!” Slam , “Do you think this solves anything?” Slam , “Do you know how many times I’ve taken you to the hospital?” Slam , “How many close calls?” Slam , “And you just never cared!” Slam , “But I did it, and I’d do it again!”

Nishida’s panting when he finally stops swinging. Majima stays standing, holding his head.

Finally, Nishida cries. His face scrunches up, just like how he does right before vomiting.

“I don’t want to leave you. I know you. I know you.”

Majima stares at him.

“If I’m not there, then you’ll forget your phone number, you’ll forget your safe combination, you’ll hurt yourself, and you won’t help yourself. You’ll forget to feed yourself, and you’ll walk in twelve-inch-snow because you don’t have a car. You’ll just keep going, and going, and you won’t stop, until you die. I’ve never regretted joining you, not once. I swore myself to you, and I’m not letting you take that away from me! I don’t care how many times you hit me, as long as I can believe that someday, you’ll be fine. I don’t care how long it takes.”

He sounds just like Majima when he was a boy. Majima clutches his head tighter and screams.

“It’s not fair.” Majima howls, screaming like a long-forgotten child. “Shimano broke me. And before that, it was my own papa. You wanna know what’ll happen to you? You’ll get broke, just like me. And nobody wants to play with a toy that’s broke.”

“People aren’t toys!” Nishida screams. “Everyone is broken, and nobody needs fixing! That’s not how people work.”

Majima pulls his hand away from his head. Even with the dark leather, even in the darkness of his room, he can see the blood. He looks up at Nishida, and Nishida looks down at him.

“All these years, you hurt people because you hurt. You didn’t care if they deserved it or not.” Nishida rubs at the snot running down his nose. Hiding his face in his elbow, he struggles to breath through his sobbing. “Now you’ve got an army that blames themselves for your hurt. Like it’s their fault you’re the way you are.”

Finally, Majima stands up straight, rising slowly. Glass cracks underneath his foot.

“I’ve said this all before.” Nishida eventually croaks. His voice cracks.

“No you didn’t.” Majima answers.

“I did. You don’t remember.”

Majima begins to feel fear.

“I’m not goin’ to forget, this time.”

“Okay.” Nishida replies underneath his breath, like a sigh. He can’t bring himself to believe Majima.

After an eternity of silence, Nishida speaks once again.

“You’re going to West Park alone, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Majima replies.

Nishida takes a step back. And then another one. He turns around and walks out, briefcase in hand. He doesn’t spare another glance towards Majima.

Kiryu keeps running. Adrenaline pumps through his heart, and he doesn’t feel a lick of pain. The monotonous sewer design can’t hold up to the singing in Kiryu’s heart, the feelings that point him in the right direction. He knows where he’s going. He always has. The sewer remains empty, just him and the rushing water, so he keeps going.

There’s a thousand people waiting with bated breath for him. He can’t see Date and Haruka, looking out the window with hope, he can’t see Kashiwagi, looking up at the sky, he can’t see Kameyama and Umeda, wondering what ever happened to the man they got fired, and he can’t see Ritsuko, or her son Shinji, wishing for the safe return of him, but he feels all of it, deep down. People count on him. There’s hope, and there always will be. That’s why he knows he’ll get to Majima in time, before Majima can get himself killed. There’s a connection, right between the two of them. Kiryu can feel his heart burning. If he can still feel that, then Majima Goro is alive.

Once again, in his mind, he stands at his mental corkboard. The world of Kamurocho is one big body, with thousands of organs, all working in unity. It’s not a terrifying thought, anymore.

This has always been Kiryu Kazuma’s Story. He’ll never leave it off on an ending like this.

He runs right into an ambush, but he isn’t caught off guard. When one man swings a sword, Kiryu ducks, spins around, and punches the man right in the face.

“Come at me, then!” Kiryu roars.

Once again, there is a rainbow of ties. All different men, but the ties all stay the same. He’ll show these men real terror.

Kiryu darts through the tight tunnel, slamming Red’s head right against the concrete wall, and with the same hand, backhands Yellow hard enough to send the man into the water below. He reaches Purple, and he punches once, twice, three times, straight, up, down, and when Purple stumbles back, he drives his knee right into Purple’s gut. Blue, the man with the sword, finally gets back up on his feet, still holding the weapon. He dashes through the water, holding the sword within his hands. Kiryu hears the water breaking with each step, and right before it strikes him through the back, he darts out of the way, pressing his body tight against the tunnel wall, watching as Blue drives the sword right through the stomach of Green.

In Blue’s shock, Kiryu takes the chance to knock his foot right into Blue’s face, cracking the man’s nose, and sending him down to the ground. As Green registers the sword in him, Kiryu grabs the back of his head, throwing him down on top of Blue.

More men fill the tunnel, all after Kiryu. Right past this point lays the ladder to Purgatory. This is Kiryu’s home-stretch.

So, Kiryu does what he does best.

Burgundy leads the charge, and just as he’s close enough to feel Kiryu’s breath, Kiryu slams his fist right into the man’s chin, and he lifts right up off of the ground. Kiryu drives his fist right into his stomach, and sends him tumbling right into the rest of the men, and like a domino effect, they all fall, a chorus of screaming as they hit the water. So, Kiryu runs through them like a newly paved road. The ones in the back manage to get back on their feet before Kiryu reaches them. Simple and easy.

Stripes, with a pipe in hand, swings it, and Kiryu catches it with his arm like he’s replaying a memory of catch. It sends pain through his arm, but he ignores it, twisting the weapon right out of Stripes’s hands. Now holding it, he jabs it right into Stripes’ sternum, stealing the breath right out of his lungs, and then he brings it down onto his head.

Before Lime can react, Kiryu drops the pipe and provides him with a butterfly kick, twirling in the air like he’s seen Majima do. He lands right on Lime’s chest, and looks up right at Beige.

After a moment of consideration, Beige gets down on the ground. Kiryu steps over him.

Up a single step, and Kiryu is out of the water-filled tunnel, now on solid concrete ground. He runs, the water rushing right next to him moving in the opposite direction. He pants, and sweat drips down his brow, but once again, Kiryu keeps going. He wants everyone to feel his passion through every punch. He wants every kick to define just what Majima Goro means to him. There is no-one else that can understand him like Majima does. It’s not love, not truly, but it’s something. Something unchangeable. Majima Goro stands as the last testament of the ideals Kiryu believes in. In this way, they are mirrors of each other. Their fathers died fighting each other, and Majima and Kiryu will live the same way. There is no animosity between the heirs of Shimano Futoshi and Kazama Shintaro. In a way, they have progressed eons past their fathers.

So, Kiryu continues to make his impact in Kamurocho. This is who he truly is, fighting tooth and nail against whoever is dumb enough to step foot into his arena.

Long ago, in a little working class district of Tokyo, where Kiryu Kazuma once called home, Kiryu was empty. He had long forgotten who he was, and self-hatred had taken over. A certain resignation of his own demise. He was mean, and he carried himself day-by-day held down by the grief of those he lost. The only solace was that of Sawamura Haruka, who held his weight just the same as him. Kiryu sees through the mirror between him and Majima Goro, and as Haruka stands behind Kiryu, there stands Nishida, looking at Haruka with a familiar gaze.

So, Kiryu makes a change.

As Kazama and Shimano set a weight upon Kiryu and Majima, they have now passed that weight down onto Haruka and Nishida. Kiryu’s realizing now the unfairness of that life. He lived uncritical of his own father, hopeful and dreamy-eyed that he may too be like him.

Now, he’ll smash that cycle into pieces. Kiryu is a mold-breaker by nature, and he’ll never set this pain onto his daughter again. Majima once called him selfish, and he reluctantly agreed. Now, he’s fighting for who he wants to be. He may be yakuza by heart, but he also must make the effort to live happily, for her. It doesn’t have to be a sacrifice. The ideals he holds onto from his younger days must be retaught, relearned from a new perspective. Deep down, he is eager to try.

So, Kiryu approaches the staircase to Purgatory. There, a man stands, bringing down a cinderblock down on the ground, a pipe driven through the center of it like a make-shift hammer.

Instinctively, Kiryu rolls backwards, shielding himself from the concrete the cinderblock brings up into chunks. The blow was mighty, and shouldn’t be capable by human hands.

There, a protector stands. If Kiryu’s to reach his destination, then he must bring down this giant.

After the dust clears, Kiryu lifts himself back up onto his feet. He looks right at the giant, and realization dawns on him.

“Foreman Sugimori.” He greets in disbelief. He takes a step back.

There stands Sugimori, foreman of the Shimura Construction Company. Then, another realization.

Shimura, owner of the SCC, is the patriarch of the Tsuruha Clan, a subsidiary of the Omi Alliance.

“About time you showed up, Kiryu.” Foreman Sugimori says, swinging the cinderblock hammer over his shoulder. Its weight should be overbearing, but he manages just fine. He provides a crooked grin. “I was looking forward to crushing your head.”

After a moment, Kiryu glares.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks.

Foreman Sugimori laughs.

“You’ve been dense since the day you walked into our site, kid. It’s about progress.”

“And what about the other employees? Were they Omi?”

“Nope. They were just as clueless as you. Just Tokyo schmucks we dragged in. When you first walked in, we didn’t even realize it was you. We figured it out once you were employed. We figured it’d be good to keep an eye on you.”

“Then why’d you fire me? If I was that important that you needed to keep an eye on me.”

“Because we were runnin’ a legit business, you dumb asshole! We didn’t need a troublemaker like you, even if you were a Tojo legend. We anticipated you’d not even know we were setting our sights on Kamurocho.”

“And now here you are, trying to take control of West Park. All of this for a plot of land?”

“Believe me, this ain’t no Empty Lot.” Foreman Sugimori remarks. “But, it’s got the potential to rival the Millennium Tower, with the right people behind it.”

“And that’s why you manipulated the Takano Family.”

“I didn’t do shit. It was all the boss. Once they cleared out the poor schmucks livin’ up there, it was easy movin’ in right alongside ‘em.”

“You used their anger against their patriarch in order to fuel your own agenda. Why? This doesn’t service you, and the moment the Takano Family see your deception, they’ll be against you.”

“You haven’t even realized it. Majima Goro owns the deed to West Park.”

Like a man who was late to the first half of a movie, his mind begs the question; ‘What did I miss?’

“He owns West Park?”

“This whole thing? This wasn’t just some case of a messy divorce. West Park’s got buyers from all over the city. And then there’s the Tojo Clan. When West Park gets demolished, whoever’s got the deed’s gonna head whatever they build. It’s gonna be us, and Majima? His body’ll be buried under the cement.”

“You idiot! This wasn’t even ordered by the Omi Alliance. Don’t you get how this’ll drag the both of you down? The Omi Alliance aren’t stupid. They know them and the Tojo Clan are both in a weakened state. You’re leading the charge on a war that doesn’t need to happen!”

“It was a long time coming!” Foreman Sugimori shouts, flailing his arm out. “I’m done pussy-footing around, acting buddy-buddy with the enemy! I’ll fuckin’ stomp out the Tojo Clan like a bug, and I’ll enjoy it! You wanna talk politics? You talk to Shimura. I’m just the bulldozer, and you’re in my way!”

So, Foreman Sugimori brings his hammer down once again.

“I dare you to get past me, you little shit!”

Once again, we start before Kiryu awakens.

Majima stands outside West Park. The barrel right out by the restroom is still lit, and there, a few of his boys stand. He walks forward.

Kimura, a boy with a peanut allergy, and Kitada, a boy with piercings through his nose, notice Majima immediately. They don’t face him with hostility. Kitada flicks a cigarette into the barrel.

“Oyaji?” Asks Kimura.

“What’re you doing here?” Asks Kitada.

The rest of the men outside the restroom take notice. Arai, Ushiki, and Takakura.

“I’m payin’ a visit to Takano.” Majima tells them.

They all stare, and then, Kimura smiles. He begins to laugh, wheezing as he slaps the back of his hand onto Kitada’s chest.

“No shit? You hear that? Oyaji's comin’ for a visit.”

“So what, you gonna take me to ‘em?” Majima asks.

“Fuck no,” Arai announced, where he sits on one of the steps to the restroom. “We got kicked out.”

Majima laughs.

“Kicked out?”

“We got Omi in there, now!” Ushiki shouts. “And we’re the only ones that care! The rest of them are too fuckin’ angry to notice what they’re even doin’.”

“Oyaji, look, look,” Takakura beckons, waving his hand like a child. He opens up his unbuttoned shirt, showing off his bare shoulder. There sits a bullet wound, a few days old. It doesn’t look like he’s managing it properly.

“Look at you, fuckin’ moron.” Majima says. “You go see the doctor about that. Don’t need you dyin’ anytime soon.”

Somehow, Majima falls right back into his old duties as a patriarch. He doesn’t feel angry. He doesn’t feel the need to hurt them. They’re making him smile.

Kimura claps his hands. Majima turns towards him.

“C’mon, Oyaji, show those little bitches how it’s done.” He punches the air, like a boxer.

Kitada gently rolls his head to the side. He purses his lips.

“Does this mean you’re comin’ back to the Tojo Clan, Oyaji?”

Majima barks out a laugh.

“Fuck no, but a family is a family.” He says. “It’s about time I saw that.”

The boys all stare at him with wide-eyes. And then, they whoop and holler, boys with no manners to speak of. People across the street stare. A child points.

“You little shits stay outta West Park for the time, alright? That’s an order.” Majima tells them.

“You got it, Oyaji!” Kimura replies.

Arai quickly steps onto his feet, giving Majima access to West Park’s entrance.

As he steps inside, Majima turns back.

“You wanna know what you could be doin’?” He asks.

They all look at him with bated breath.

“Helpin’ out the fuckin’ homeless you kicked outta their own damn homes, you nincompoops!” He screeches. “I’ve never been so damn disappointed in my life!”

So, they stand ashamed. They all bow in sync, down to their father.

“Yes, Oyaji!” They shout. “Accept our apologies!”

“It’s not me you should be apologizin’ to!” Majima shrieks, flailing his arm out. “Go! Scram!”

And so, they scatter.

Majima steps inside the entrance to West Park. When he reaches it, he kicks the door open hard enough to snap it right off its hinges.

In his jacket lies a tantō, one of which Majima has not held in his grasp for a long time. He slips it out and holds it in his hand. He wiggles it, gets reaccustomed to it, and steps out into the open.

There stands the combined might of the Tsuruha Clan and the Takano Family, a uniform collective of suits and ties, and a ragtag scrapheap of piercings and exposed collarbones. He recognizes his boys, and they recognize him. The Tsuruha Clan only regards him with contempt.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Majima?” Adachi stands out amongst the crowd. “You lookin’ for another assbeatin’?”

“Nah,” Majima replies, walking forwards. “Today, I’m kickin’ all your asses.”

The suits and ties laugh. The piercings and exposed collarbones do not.

“Look at that.” One of the suited men shout, gesturing an arm towards Majima. “Even now, and he’s disrespectin’ his own boys. How about that?”

“This ain’t disrespect.” Majima replies. “I’m teachin’ my boys a lesson. You prissy fuckers in the ties can stay outta it.”

“We stood the fuck up and made our own choices!” Adachi shouts. “And now you’re ‘teachin’ us a lesson’ ? Fuck off!”

“You kicked out Kamurocho’s homeless community out of their own fuckin’ homes, and when that wasn’t enough, you pushed them outta the sewer when they were hidin’ from the likes of you.” Majima growls. He takes another step forward. “You wanna know what that is? That’s fuckin’ gentrification. Don’t know what that means? Read a fuckin’ book. I’m here because I’m draggin’ all of you outta here whether you like it or not. I spent too long thinkin’ of you all as a past mistake.”

Expressions soften. Eyes widen.

“You weren’t the mistake. Never was. I spent my days livin’ life like nothin’ mattered. It didn’t, not to me. I didn’t care if I lived or died, and I took it out on the rest of you. You wanna know the truth? An honest truth you all can take to your graves? Nothing ends. Not in this world. I never stopped bein’ your patriarch, even when I wanted it to be over. I’m stayin’ out of the clan, but no matter what, you boys are stayin’ with me! You stick with these fuckin’ low-tier wannabes, and you’re dead meat!”

Majima cracks his neck.

“The Takano Family ain’t endin’ today. It’s getting new ownership. Once again, you’re Majima Family!”

It’s silent enough that anyone could hear a pin drop.

Then, a gun cocks. And then another one. When Majima glances towards the suits and ties, they all stand with pistols in their hands, all pointed right at Majima.

“You’ve gone on long enough, Majima!” A man declares, unnamed and irrelevant. “Your time in the spotlight is over, you hear me?”

“You wanna know what the Tsuruha Clan’s doing here?” Majima screams, undeterred. “They’re fuckin’ manipulating you! They never cared about what you were goin’ through, they only wanted West Park! They’re using you, dumbasses. And they used your anger to do it!”

“They fuckin’ what?” Tezuka growls. He’s an organ donor.

“I knew it!” Oyazaki howls, pounding his fist into the meat of his palm. He rescues abused dogs.

“You’re gonna believe the words of him?” A suit and tie says, backing away. He swings the gun towards the rest of the newly-reformed Majima Family.

“Rather him than you!” Inoue retorts, slamming a baseball bat right against the hand of the suit and tie, sending the gun tumbling to the ground.

“Fuck me!” Adachi screams, horribly, absolutely, winned over. He swings around, and drives his fist so hard into the face of a suit and tie, he crashes him right down to the ground below.

And so, a war breaks out. At the first sight of blood, Majima grins and laughs.

“Let’s do this shit!”

In truth, his boys never stopped believing in him. Easy to sway, and stupid as all hell, they’re his boys. And as he sees a man point a pistol right at Inoue’s head, god help anyone who hurts his boys.

Majima dashes through the crowd, eyes set on Purgatory. If Takano’s going to be anywhere, it’s going to be there. He’ll never pass the opportunity for a fight, though, and he makes a detour, right into the thick of it.

Majima ducks underneath the trajectory of a body being flung by Adachi, while Inoue swings like a madman. With his tantō, Majima spins, driving the blade right through anyone that dares to grab for him. He’s quick to notice who’s a Majima boy, and who’s a suit and tie.

Fire swells through his very soul. He’s trembling.

This is the life he’s meant to live. No more will he trudge through Kamurocho’s filth like a ghost, uncaring of his own life. He watches Oyazaki drive a blade right through the gut of another suit and tie. Blood splatters violently enough to catch Majima’s coat. Majima wheezes out a cackle, and like it’s a rallying cry, his family surges forward.

Perhaps this is Kiryu Kazuma’s effect on him.

West Park is painted in blood, as the Majima Family batters the Tsuruha Clan, but they just keep coming, fanning out from the Purgatory entrance.

Surrounded, and separated from the rest, Majima sneers. Adachi, through the crowd, rams through them, and with violent disregard, grabs Majima’s bad ankle.

“You want ‘em? Fuckin’ have ‘em!” Adachi howls, spinning Majima around like a hammer throw. He keeps his grip tight on Majima.

Majima, catching on quick, throws out his tantō, the blade cutting right through the chest and stomachs of any poor bastard in his way. The men shriek, holding their stomachs as they fall to the ground.

Finally, Adachi lets go, and Majima goes flying. Before he can gain his composure, and land gracefully in a somersault, he lands right on his ass, rolling across the concrete roughly. Adachi claps his hands together, and when someone’s behind him, he elbows them right in the nose.

Majima, dizzy, lets his head spin for a moment. And then, he’s back on his feet in an instant.

“You’re crazier than me!” Majima shrieks, right towards Adachi.

Adachi rips off someone right off of his shoulder, and throws him into the crowd, watching the man get pummeled by bats. “Thanks, Oyaji.” He huffs.

So, Majima undercuts through the sea of men, his boys step away whenever he’s near, letting him finish whoever is there off. He watches his tantō blade disappear into the shoulder of a man with sunglasses, and when he pulls it out, the man shrieks like a banshee.

Surely, the sounds of war have reached the Kamurocho streets.

Majima flips himself right over Inoue’s bat swing, letting him take the reins on crushing a man’s kneecaps. He offers Majima an innocent smile.

Ogawa, with his broken nose, picks up a box, once used as a chair, and breaks it right over someone’s head.

Tatsukawa, alongside a surge of Majima’s boys, all circle around a larger Tsuruha man. In an instant, the man is flat on his ass.

This is a proper war. Something is missing.

That something comes in a horn honking.

Men cower in the might of Nishida’s truck, driving through the West Park fence, breaking through any form of blockade. Bodies of flesh all struggle to stay out of the truck’s trajectory, and Majima stands motionless. It screeches, smoking out the hood, and it stops, the wheels leaving permanent marks right in the concrete below. Majima’s nose is inches away from the truck’s large engine. It roars at him, a beast like no other. Fearful, much of the Tsuruha Clan flee.

Nishida kicks the door open.

“Get out of my sight!” Nishida commands Majima, swinging his bat towards a random direction. “And go get Takano!”

After a moment, Majima smiles. And then he grins. And then he laughs. He bounces backwards.

“You’re my captain.” Majima tells him.

“I know!” Nishida replies, certain of nothing else but that fact. “Go!”

With that, Majima turns on his heel, and runs. Nishida cracks his bat right on someone’s skull. His boys all watch him sprint. Eyes are all on him, but he isn’t scared.

There’s a thousand or so boys all routing for him.

He dashes down the subway stairs, down into Purgatory’s maw. This is the point in time in which Kiryu Kazuma awakens.

Kiryu rolls past Foreman Sugimori’s swings, struggling to avoid the man’s cinderblock hammer. The Foreman’s face is red, sweat-stains all down his face, and Kiryu’s sure he looks the same. The Foreman cracks his hammer down on the railing, and after a moment, the whole entire railing line is pulled from the concrete, down into the water below. The weight is violent enough to send water splashing up onto the concrete they stand on.

“Stand still!” Foreman Sugimori demands, creating a crater in the wall as Kiryu ducks.

The hammer is stuck. Kiryu takes the chance.

He throws a kick right into the side of Foreman Sugimori’s head, watching the weight of his foot crash down on the man’s thick head. Immediately, with one hand, Sugimori throws Kiryu’s leg back, sending Kiryu stumbling back. One kick isn’t going to topple this giant. If Kiryu’s going to take him down, he has to think. If he can keep himself alive, eventually Sugimori’s gonna tire himself to exhaustion, with that thing between his hands. All Kiryu can do is dodge.

“You’ve been a thorn in my side since the day-” He swings. “You showed up!”

“That must be so hard for you!” Kiryu retorts, backing away from the swing.

Kiryu swings himself right out of the way of the hammer’s trajectory as Foreman Sugimori attempts to bring it down on his head. A crater is made. For good measure, Kiryu throws a punch before Foreman Sugimori can catch his fist. He cracks him right in his big nose, then quickly backs away. If Sugimori’s gonna be a beast, then he’s gotta rush. He rolls his shoulders, hearing them pop, and bounces up and down, keeping his stance guarded. Like a boxer in a ring against a wrestler with a steel chair, Kiryu’s just gotta evade, not that it has ever been a strong suit of his. One wrong move, and he’s dead.

“The moment you’re out of here, the Omi Alliance will throw you out!” Kiryu tries to plead, “You can still walk away!”

“I’m not doing shit!” Sugimori howls.

“Stop listening to whatever Shimura is telling you, and see reason!”

“Reason this, asshole!”

Another crater, another close call.

He is relentless. Kiryu doubts he’ll ever get through to him, but if he keeps him talking, it’ll overwork Sugimori’s lungs. It may overwork him, too, but Kiryu’s smaller, and smarter than him. He’ll find a way to make it work.

“You’re gonna bring this sewer down on us if you keep swinging like that!”

“Then at least I’ll know you die!”

With enough distance for a breather, Kiryu sucks in a breath, dragging his fingers through his sweaty hair. Sugimori struggles to lift the hammer back up.

Kiryu looks to his side.

And he does something no sensible human should do.

With the confidence of a man who has tried everything once, he wraps his hand around a rat trying to scurry away from the chaos. Before it, or Sugimori can react, he throws it like a baseball bat, right at Sugimori’s face.

It latches itself to his nose, and Sugimori howls, dropping the hammer down onto the ground, shaking the environment. He grabs at the rat, rips it off his nose, and throws it down onto the ground. It manages to escape. As Sugimori holds his bloody nose, now thoroughly bitten through, Kiryu dashes towards him. Using the hammer’s cinderblock as a jumping point, he steps onto it, and launches a kick into Sugimori’s jaw. Finally, he gets a reaction, as Sugimori lets out a howl in pain.

He lands, and follows it up with a punch, which Sugimori catches. He tries with his other fist, and again, Sugimori grabs it. They stand face-to-face, struggling to push the other away.

“I’m not losing to a pipsqueak like you. Once you and Majima are out of the way, it’ll be smooth sailing for the rest of us.”

“You think it’ll be that easy?” Kiryu scoffs, and sends a knee right into Sugimori’s dick. Sugimori immediately reacts, keeling forwards. With his opportunity laid out in front of him, Kiryu lifts his arm, and brings his elbow down upon the back of Sugimori’s neck. Sugimori falls, but not for long.

Kiryu goes to the hammer, with its pipe sticking out of the cinderblock like a sword handle in stone. He grips at it, attempts to pull it up off of the ground, but the time it takes Kiryu to even lift an inch is enough time for Sugimori to get back up on his feet. He grabs for his own weapon, attempting to pry it out of Kiryu’s hands. He headbutts Kiryu, sending him down onto the ground with the sheer force of it.

Sugimori quickly lifts the entirety of the hammer up over his head, nearly sending himself toppling backwards. Kiryu sits right where he wants him.

“You’re dead meat!” He screams, bringing down the hammer.

Kiryu dips between Sugimori’s legs, and in this miscalculation, Sugimori crushes his own foot.

Majima steps into Purgatory’s magenta walkway, water flowing beneath him softly. There’s music playing faintly. He steps underneath an umbrella. He looks to his left, to his right, and begins traversing the walkway. An underground Camellia Grove. In all his time in Kamurocho, Majima has never been to Purgatory. Lanterns sway softly, glowing in shades of pink overhead. Petals, most likely cherry blossoms, are scattered across the floor like a romantic proposition, leading into the empty brothels. Purple lanterns shaped like flowers drift along the water below.

Something is calling out to him. He looks to the end of the road. A bridge stands menacingly across the water, where a large mansion looms. It’s lit overwhelmingly bright, reds and yellows dancing across the water it reflects upon. Rocks permeate through the water underneath the large mansion. There’s a small boat with no conductor, drifting aimlessly. Everything is abandoned. Like an apocalypse. This is Purgatory’s most true essence, not the lights, not the brothels, not the casinos. Now, they all stand empty. This is Purgatory. Empty, and alone, with the feeling that once upon a time, this place was alive. Majima walks forwards.

But it’s not what’s calling out to him.

He stops, right when the path diverges. He turns. There stands the entrance to the Coliseum, overbearing and violent. That’s where Majima’s road ends. He approaches them, like he’s meant to be here. He takes in a deep breath.

So, he pushes the doors open, and they open with a trembling sigh, dust billowing out around him.

He steps foot right within Purgatory’s Coliseum. The doors shut behind him.

Silence.

Majima enters as a guest, in the empty audience. Nobody is around, everything is dark. All that exists is the coliseum ring, where Takano sits.

This is it. The face of the Takano Family. He’s bleached his hair entirely now, with his sides shaved. His piercings have stayed the same.

Takano never had the authority to command the so-called Takano Family. It was his namesake, but it wasn’t his. He hid in the shadows, humiliated by his defeat in the bar. It feels like an eternity ago. It was only four or so days ago. He’s not a leader. He was just a man orphaned. Majima finds himself wincing as he remembers everything he said to Takano, down in that bar. Takano was an open book. Who knows what damage Majima’s left on him now. Majima steps down the steps of the audience arena, down towards the stage below. This is a tragedy as old as time. Majima rests his hands down on the railing. His grip is tight.

“It’s about time you showed up, old man.” Takano says. His voice echoes. “Was starting to get tired of waiting.”

“What can I say,” Majima returns, “Had a lot on my plate.”

Takano sneers, turning his face away from Majima’s. With this distance, he’s like a single player on a field, ant-like and small. He sits with his legs folded over each other.

“Yeah. I thought so.” Takano sighs.

“The Majima Family’s back together.” Majima announces. “Your stint’s over.”

Takano shakes his head, his head hung low.

“Whatever, old man. I don’t care.”

Nihilism, passed down.

“Step up and face your actions!” Majima demands. He slaps his fist against the railing. “Your boys rallied with the Tsuruha Clan. Your boys forced the homeless outta their own community. You think that’ll just go unpunished?”

“Fine. Beat my ass.” Takano waves his hand.

Majima jumps over the railing, hitting the ground with a powerful thud.

“This ain’t a beatin’. I’m fightin’ you. Fair and square.” Majima tells him. He walks up the steps, right into the ring.

Takano continues to sit.

“Like the time in the bar was a fight? Let’s face it. You’re always gonna win.”

“It ain’t about winnin’.” Majima tells him.

Finally, Takano looks up at him. Majima looks at him with a fresh eye. He has big earnest eyes, a narrow button nose, and ears that stick out endearingly. His favorite color is golden yellow, and he takes care of his baby sister. He’s the model example of what makes a troublemaker, and a model example of what loneliness will do to a person.

With wide eyes, Takano asks; “What does that mean?”

So, Majima elaborates.

“It’s never about who comes out on top. I forgot what it really meant to fight. Fightin’ a man means bringing out your beliefs.”

“Beliefs?” Takano asks. Slowly, he stands.

“The only thing that matters is showin’ me who you are!” Majima shouts. He grips the shoulder of his coat, and in an instant, he throws it off.

The Hannya on his back stretches against his skin. The light hits his back, reflects the sweat on his being. He is covered in bruises and cuts, but here he stands.

“When I was your age, I believed that because nothing mattered, I shouldn’t care about the world. Then, I believed because nothing mattered, then I should just go all out, fuck all the consequences.”

Takano finally manages a glare. “And now what do you believe?” He asks.

“You’re gonna have to find out.” Majima replies. He spreads his feet out and discards his tantō onto his jacket. He brings his fists out. “Get your shirt off. Let’s do this shit.”

Hesitation flows through Takano.

“Why now?” He asks.

Majima could tell him it was Kiryu Kazuma’s influence.

“I’m gonna show you just what matters in this world.” He instead says.

Takano stands as a reflection of Majima’s young self, just as the rest of his boys do. He is the most concentrated form of Majima’s anger, of his apathy.

But, Majima now, sparks something in him. He wraps a hand around his leather jacket.

Takano discards his jacket and bares his skin. There, on his back, stands Oniwakamaru, driving a blade through the side of a giant carp fish. A water pattern cascades down his back, with waves curling around the fish’s brilliant red fins. The eyes of the boy remain unfilled, but the rage in his face persists. Unlike Majima, Takano wears ink only on his back. Takano scowls.

“Fine, old man.” Takano relents. He lifts up his fists, just the same as Majima. “I’ll show you what I’m made of!”

The spotlights remain on them, two actors playing out their parts. For a moment, they dance around each other, toeing the edge of the ring, sizing each other up.

And then, Takano grows restless. He charges.

Majima takes the blow to his skull like a pro, before Takano swiftly sweeps his legs out underneath Majima’s feet, which Majima narrowly evades by jumping back. Takano swings a punch, and Majima catches it with his arm. Takano drives his fist into Majima’s stomach, and Majima grips his wrist, still balled up in his gut. He pulls it out, pulls it behind him, and drives his knee into Takano’s stomach. Takano lets out a wheeze, spitting out drool out onto the mat below. With his free arm, he wraps it around Majima’s waist, and with a strength uncharacteristic of someone with his skinny frame, brings them both down to the ground with a heavy grunt. Majima slams down, and Takano’s quickly on him. Takano grips his face, grips his jaw, and lifts up a fist.

“Not so tough, are you, old man?!” Takano screams, bringing his fist down, cracking it against Majima’s temple.

Majima’s ears ring for a moment. It’s like he’s hearing everything for the first time again.

Baring his teeth, Majima reaches up to grab Takano’s shoulders, throwing the boy off of him. He rolls, nearly tumbling right off the side of the ring. Majima bounces back onto his feet.

Takano steps up onto his feet, and as he’s hunched over, he screams, dashing across the ring. Like two sumo wrestlers, he once again wraps himself around Majima’s waist, pushing as hard as he can. Majima’s forced to back down until he’s right on the edge of the ring, struggling to keep on it. With one hand on Takano’s shoulder, right at his shoulder-bone, and the other arm raised, Majima cracks his elbow right down on Takano’s skull, jabbing it and digging it in until Takano relents, letting go of Majima. Majima follows it up with a kick to the knee, sending the boy down.

To avoid getting knocked down off the ring, Majima quickly steps over Takano, bouncing back into the center, while Takano struggles to get back onto his feet. His knee buckles under him, but he doesn’t give up.

Meeting in the middle, Takano swings a punch, and so does Majima, crushing both of their cheeks under the might of their knuckles. They both recoil. Then, they both swing out kicks. Their legs catch on one another, forcing them to recoil back once again. They look at each other, panting.

“Look at you.” Majima remarks. Like a proud father.

Takano scrunches his face up. Majima prepares to punch it.

The boy spins, and in a strange imitation, somersaults sideways. This evades Majima’s punch, and evades Majima altogether. The boy flies past him, landing right behind him.

Majima turns his head, and Takano elbows him, and then follows it up with a kick to the side.

Majima stumbles to the side, holding his cheek from the impact of Takano’s elbow. He lifts up his head, and there’s Takano, bearing down on him.

He catches Takano’s fist between both hands.

Confused, Takano meets his gaze. Majima smirks.

Swiftly, he grabs onto Takano’s wrist, and then he spins the boy, just like Adachi spun him. Takano lets out a surprised, high-pitched gasp. Majima lets go once he’s gotten enough velocity, and Takano goes tumbling. His body thuds against the mat, and he curls up once he’s still. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Majima approaches him, about to offer his hand.

And then Takano grabs his bad ankle, and brings Majima down with him.

Once again, Takano’s on Majima, grabbing his skull between both hands, and slamming him down over and over again. Thud, thud, thud, thud. The sound is sharp.

So, Majima backhands him. The sound is sharper.

Takano yelps, holding his cheek, and then Majima’s grabbing his head, just the same as him. He brings Takano down, and headbutts him, crushing his forehead into his nose.

Takano recoils, his head swinging back as blood rushes to his nostrils. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his nose. Majima pushes him until he’s falling backwards, down onto his back, between Majima’s legs. Majima pulls himself back with his arms, and pushes himself up into a squat.

And then, Takano stands, stumbling. He catches Majima’s gaze.

Majima and Takano, in this fight, are equals. They both see that now. Takano’s beginning to believe Majima.

So, Takano dashes, about to bring his knee right into Majima’s face, but Majima sees it coming. He stands up, just as Takano descends on him, his shoulder meeting Takano’s stomach. He lifts the boy up onto him, with unbridled strength. Takano punches at his back, swings his feet wildly, but it’s no use. On the edge of the ring, Majima brings them both down, and bears his weight down onto Takano, twisting up his legs until his back pops from the stress. Without the ring, they’re no longer actors. The spotlights aren’t focused on them. They lay in darkness, with Majima’s strength overcoming Takano. In this, Takano understands. Majima is the weapon of which realization comes.

So, Majima rolls off of him, and back onto his feet, no longer an adversary. Takano rolls onto his side, holding his bloody face. Majima offers his hand.

“You’re back.” Takano finally says. After a moment of hesitation, like Majima will take it away, he places his palm into Majima’s.

Majima places his other hand on the back of Takano’s, wrapping it securely in his grasp, and then he’s heaving him up onto his feet.

“Shimura manipulated you, kid. He never cared about you.” Majima admits. His voice is quiet and subdued. He places a hand on Takano’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Takano hugs him. He shudders out a breath. He’s been holding this in for a long time.

So, Majima holds him, too.

“I’m going to do right by you all.” Majima says. “Startin’ with taking out Shimura.”

“He’s in the big room.” Takano tells him. “The one across the bridge.”

“I figured.” Majima replies. He pulls away. “We’re not goin’ back to the Tojo Clan.”

Takano looks at him. He considers this silently.

“But, I’m not abandoning you.” Majima elaborates. “And I’m not giving up West Park.”

So, Takano nods.

“I understand. He says. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

Majima’s chest twists.

“Yeah, don’t do that cheesy, mushy shit.” Majima wheezes, blinking his eye forcefully. He steps back. “You little punk.”

He reaches a hand into Takano’s frizzy hair, and ruffles it.

“I’m puttin’ an end to Shimura’s story.” Majima says. “You get to Nishida, and the rest of the boys back on the surface.”

Takano blinks. Then he nods.

“You got it, old man. I’ll show those Omi pricks what happens when you fuck with Takano Haruo!”

Takano punches his fist into the meat of his palm. He doesn’t consider pulling his shirt back on. If he’s going in fighting, then he’s baring his skin to them.

Majima quickly recollects his tantō, but not his jacket. He decides to take a note from Takano’s book.

“Takano, don’t get yourself killed.” Majima tells him.

Takano looks back at him.

“I’m sorry for smashing a glass in your face.”

And then Majima barks out a laugh.

Just as Sugimori brings his hammer down onto his foot, he lets out a haunting screech. It echoes through the sewer tunnels. Kiryu winces.

“You little shit,” Sugimori struggles to say, stumbling over his quivering lip. Regardless, he keeps his hammer within his grasp, refusing to let go of it. With Kiryu behind him, he swings around, and Kiryu mirrors him, trailing around him. Once again, Kiryu is at his back. Sugimori pants.

“You’re persistent,” He wheezes.

“So are you.” Kiryu replies.

Sugimori squeezes his eyes shut, and then he swings again. This time, he’s stumbled far enough that he’s dancing right on the edge of the walkway, toeing a dangerous line between safety, and the ravaging sewer waste below. With his exhaustion, he’d surely drown.

“Sugimori!” Kiryu tries to warn.

Eyes still shut, Sugimori once again swings, until his feet finally give out. The hammer acts as a weight, swaying him right off the edge.

Kiryu runs.

And as Sugimori gives into his exhaustion, Kiryu grabs his palm desperately. His feet drag against the cement floor. He brings his other hand up to Sugimori’s arm. If he doesn’t let go of that fucking hammer, then he’ll bring them both down. For a second, Kiryu is absolutely terrified of drowning. He nearly lets go of Foreman Sugimori’s hand, but he refuses. His terror extends to Sugimori, who, as he realizes the danger he’s in, lets out a fearful wail.

“Sugimori, let go of the hammer!” Kiryu demands.

Sugimori looks up at him.

And then he complies.

The hammer hits the water like an asteroid, cratering it. Water splashes up towards the two of them, and in an instant, Kiryu’s able to pull the man right back up to safety. With the sudden shock of the hammer’s loss, Kiryu stumbles back violently, and sends the two of them tumbling backwards onto the ground, with the Foreman settled right on Kiryu’s chest.

Sugimori breathes with the absolute terror of a near-death experience. He lays limp on Kiryu.

After what feels like an eternity, Sugimori’s weight finally starts getting to Kiryu, who wants him to get off.

“Why’d you save me?” Sugimori asks.

Kiryu throws him off. It’s not hard.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” He replies. He struggles to breathe.

So, in utter thankfulness, Sugimori grabs the side of Kiryu’s head, and sends it crashing down to the concrete below. He holds it there, straining his skull. Kiryu feels like he’s about to pop out his brain. The man’s hand is giant. It’s as big as Kiryu’s head. Kiryu grabs at his arm, baring his clenched teeth.

“You,” Sugimori wheezes. “Fuckin’ moron. Moron. Moron!”

His voice increases in volume. He holds Kiryu’s head tighter. Kiryu kicks his feet.

“You don’t do that hero shit in this world!” He growls. Kiryu squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t realize it, but the sheer volume of which pain shoots through his head causes him to whimper.

Kiryu can’t bring himself to reply. Slowly, his legs kick slower and slower. His body acclimates to the idea that he’s absolutely about to get his head crushed. Tears sting at his eyes. The pain is too much.

“We’re gonna bury everyone you care about.” Sugimori threatens. “I’m gonna skin ‘em. You hear that?”

Kiryu scratches his nails across Sugimori’s arm. He scratches hard enough to draw blood. He’s not giving in. Neither of them are. Kiryu struggles to think. He sees Haruka’s face. It’s unrecognizable, but he knows it’s her.

“Keep fighting, motherfucker. It’ll just make this all the more sweeter.”

A bullet tears right through Sugimori’s shoulder. Blood erupts from the wound. It hits Kiryu. Immediately, the pressure off his skull is lifted, and in terrified relief, Kiryu’s eyes finally well up, tears streaming down the side of his face. He breathes desperately. Sugimori holds his shoulder and turns his head.

There stands Fukunaga, gun in hand, smoke billowing out the muzzle.

“You fucker.” Sugimori growls. And then Fukunaga shoots him in the stomach. The man caves, and topples down onto Kiryu, who struggles to get him off. His eyes are bloodshot, with tears drenching the side of his face. He doesn’t get why he’s reacting this way.

In this way, Majima and Kiryu are mirrored. A fight of belief, and a fight of ignorant violence.

Once Kiryu manages to get Sugimori off of him, he clutches his head. He still feels like he’s dying.

“It hurts,” He whispers, his chest heaving with each breath he takes. “It hurts.”

Fukunaga holsters the gun into his thick jacket pocket, and he darts right across the room, bringing himself down onto his knees right next to Kiryu.

“Hey, you’re alive, kid,” He tells him. He puts a hand on Kiryu’s face gently.

Kiryu doesn’t know why he’s doing this.

After a moment, Kiryu brings himself up, still clutching his skull.

“I have to get to Majima.” He says. He can barely hear himself.

“Kid, stop, look at you.” Fukunaga grasps at Kiryu’s shoulder. He gives him a gentle rock, but it feels like a violent shake.

“I need to get to him.” He reiterates. “I need to get to him, and then I need to get to Haruka. People…” He taps his hand against his skull, trying to get it to act right. “People are waiting for me.”

Fukunaga considers the ladder right in front of him. Kiryu’s goal is right there.

“Alright, c’mon, kid. Onto your feet.”

Fukunaga reaches underneath Kiryu’s armpits, bringing the man back onto his feet. Kiryu stumbles.

“You’ll get back to being yourself soon,” He says, brushing off Kiryu’s jacket. “You’ll be fine, alright?”

“I’ll be fine.” Kiryu agrees. He rubs his head once again.

This is a traumatic event on top of many. This is a traumatic event that will be swiftly forgotten in the next coming days, only revisited on the days they pierce themselves through Kiryu’s brain like needles. Even with a concussion, Kiryu needs to continue on.

He forces himself up the ladder. Fukunaga watches, but stays behind to keep an eye on Sugimori, who lies like a sleeping giant, in a pool of his own blood.

Kiryu pushes the manhole cover up, grunts and huffs as he struggles to get it out of his way, but he manages it. Sliding it to the side, Kiryu finally crawls up into Purgatory, moments after Majima steps within the Florist’s office. He stumbles onto his feet. Everything is quiet, save for the water and the music. It’s an old, fond memory. It’s bringing Kiryu back to himself. He walks with his back hunched. He’s right by the bridge to the Florist’s office.

He turns towards the subway entrance, where men begin to pour in. He remains where he is.

“It’s Kiryu!” One of the men cry out, and immediately after, he is swiftly knocked out by a bat.

Suits and ties quickly swarm through Purgatory’s hall, with the Majima Family quickly running after them. Kiryu’s ears are ringing violently.

“Kiryu-han?!” One of the Majima Family boys cries out. He’s grabbing onto the neck of one of the suits. “You’re here, too?!”

The suits and ties disregard the Majima Family boys. While some stay behind to hold them all back, an ambush sets upon Kiryu. Kiryu looks back towards the Florist’s office, but he stays to fight. He puts those fists up, and he succumbs to rage. Violence for violence. He doesn’t care enough to note the color of their ties.

He dislocates the shoulder of one of the men, and crushes his skull against the walkway’s railing. He throws him over it, down into the shallow water below. Someone grabs him by the collar of his shirt, so he whips around and suplexes the man. He kicks out the knee of another poor bastard, and watches him tumble to the ground. When he punches a man violently enough to break his nose, blood splatters, and he can taste it. He nearly pukes.

Majima fights as Kiryu, and Kiryu fights as Majima. Unbeknownst to Kiryu, he is protecting Majima, a guardian of the bridge. Deep down, Kiryu’s always understood Majima. He’s never agreed, but he understood. Now, he needs to channel that rage more now than ever.

He tears his shirt off his skin, and men cower at the Dragon of Dojima, flexing his scales. Kiryu’s burning, a raging fire in his lungs.

He cracks his neck, and then his fists.

“Come at me if you want to die!” He thunders. Nobody in the walkway can suppress the terror running through their very souls.

Majima steps inside the Florist’s office. The doors shut behind him. The room is lit blue, and it’s freezing. Majima stands in the center of a long checkerboarded, marble pathway, lined with water on both sides. Pillars loom on each side of the room. The highlight of the room stands at the end of it, a fish tank which dominates everything else in its shadow. Nothing lives in it anymore. A shudder runs through Majima’s spine.

There stands Shimura, now utterly recognizable. His shadow is overcast against the marble pathway, a silhouette against the fish tank’s vibrant blue. Slowly, he turns his head.

Majima steps forward. His heels click loudly against the marble.

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, after all this time, but we’ve already met before.” Shimura hums. “You were just too delirious to remember me.”

“Nah. You just got too old.” Majima replies.

“You’re just as recognizable.”

“I’m the guy with the eyepatch.”

Shimura hums in acknowledgement. He turns back towards the fish tank.

“You bought West Park due to the cheap price, back in 2003. Maybe 2004. You were supposed to sell to Dyna Chair, or at least a subsidiary of them, which then Osaka Talent would acquire, therefore passing the deed over to the Omi Alliance.”

Majima glares.

“But you never did. Due to the meddling of Katsuya Naoki and Park Mirei. Katsuya was able to counteract the deal, and get it moved off the Omi Alliance’s board before anything could be finalized. It was your doing, wasn’t it?”

“If anyone was going to get Shimano’s head out of his ass, it would’a been Katsuya.”

Majima steps on a black tile.

“So, there you were, with the deed to West Park. All these years, you had it. And somehow, nobody knew. Nobody but us.”

Majima steps on a white tile.

“Not even the Tojo Clan knew. And they’re one of the people trying to secure the deed to West Park. You could’ve sold it to them.”

“I don’t owe the Tojo Clan shit.” Majima spits. “I’m on my own path now. If I choose to sell, it won’t be to the Tojo Clan.”

“You can’t stop Tokyo’s machine. Eventually, the news will break that you are the one with the deed to West Park. You won’t be able to stop it from being demolished.”

“You think a low-tier gang like yourself has what it takes to run a fuckin’ construction company successfully?” Majima asks.

“I already do.” Shimura replies.

“Your employees hard-workin’? Happy with the management? Believe me, motherfucker. You try to play on Kamurocho’s field, and it’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

Shimura pauses for a moment. He turns back to the fish tank, and then he softly chuckles.

“Rich coming from a man like you. You abandoned your family, left them out to the wolves. You’re no businessman, Majima. Do you honestly think you’re better than me?”

“I know I’m better than you. Upstairs, my boys are beatin’ the asses of every punk you brought in. I’m makin’ the choice to change. Apathy is no way to live. I had to learn that. I thought I could wash my back of every man that put his faith in me. I ruined that trust. The only thing I can do now is try to fix it.”

“If Sagawa could see you now,” Shimura remarks.

Majima scoffs.

“He’s been dead since the eighties. It’s time to move on.”

“I never did.” Shimura tells him. “But you did. You ended his Story before it ever even had the chance to take off.”

“His Story was of a moron who underestimated Shimano Futoshi.”

“And what of your Story?” Shimura asks. “How will it end?”

Long ago, Majima would’ve responded with death. A tragedy, bound to happen.

“I’ll be fightin’. My Story ends with me fighting.”

And in that, he will never win, nor lose. He will be forever.

“Your Story should’ve ended long ago.” Shimura tells him. “Down in the depths from which you came.”

“Yet, here I am.”

“Here you are.” Shimura agrees.

“You messed with my boys, Shimura. You could’ve stayed in your own lane, but ya didn’t. You could’ve faced me directly, but you’re a coward. Now, your plan’s shut down. Your idol is a dead man. You want to see him again?” Majima cracks his neck, and he manages a grin. “I’ll fuckin’ send you to him!”

Shimura finally steps out from around the Florist’s desk. He steps his way down from the marble stage, and glares.

“Funny. I used to think that between you two, Kiryu would’ve been the one to confront me first. Now, who knows where he is.”

Majima’s stomach twists. He pulls his lip up into a snarl.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“I knew that, even if you came alone, eventually Kiryu would come skulking through. So, I put my captain right where I knew Kiryu would end up.”

Majima nearly backs away.

“You think Kiryu’d lose to a single captain?” Majima asks. He scoffs.

“If the captain fights with a cinderblock.” Shimura replies. “Kiryu Kazuma is a strong fighter, yes, but he’s been going at it nonstop for the past couple days. A man like Sugimori would exhaust Kiryu to the point where he couldn’t fight anymore. Kiryu Kazuma’s skull is most likely crushed against the sewer pavement.”

Majima trembles. He can almost recall how Kiryu’s face felt in his palm.

“You fuckin’ piece of shit.” He growls.

“Your time in the spotlight is over, Majima Goro.” Shimura says, gripping his own shirt collar.

He bares his skin.

Stretching across his back stands Raijin, his face pulled in an eternal snarl. Surrounded by taiko drums, he grips onto the hammers required to play them. He sits upon a cloud, and lightning swirls around his being. The tattoo is faded, but still, Raijin’s red skin shines against the dominating light of the fish tank. The tattoo spreads across Shimura’s breast bones, where the clouds spiral across his chest. On his arms, down to his biceps, rest peonies, brilliant in color. They curl against the swirls of the clouds, with pink petals permeating through the dark ink, scattered meticulously. Everything is by design.

Shimura cracks his knuckles.

“I’ll be writing the end to your Story in blood, Majima!” Shimura howls, his voice echoing powerfully.

“Just try and stop me, Shimura!” Majima shouts right back. The battle begins.

Kiryu pummels a man’s face right into the ground.

The glow from the overhead lanterns cast a discothèque light-show over the surrounding chaos. Men are thrown overboard into the water below, ruining the perfect sanctity held by the illegal paradise. It feels as though the faint music’s increased in volume, drumming through Kiryu’s ears violently. The fighting across from the walkway, over by the subway, all of it has disappeared into a near silhouette, black shadows in the vague shapes of violence. Right now, only he and the men who dare to fight him exist. He stands up straight, his nostrils flared, his eyes blown wide. Blood coats his knuckles. He’ll put an end to this once and for all.

Kiryu darts through the path, stomping over the gentle petals grazing the ground, and lands a flying kick, launching both feet into the chest of a suit. The man flies backwards, as Kiryu hits the ground with a near-bounce. He twirls himself back onto his feet, swinging out his arm to crush the nose of another suit that just so happened to be behind Kiryu.

He is utterly, completely, alive. Drenched in sweat, with pain pounding through his whole body, he is alive. He swings out a butterfly kick, follows it up with a backhanded punch. He hoists a man over his shoulder, and breaks him over the red-painted railing. With his skin free, everyone can see the claws curling along his back, the snarl on the dragon’s maw. He matches its expression. He wears it proudly. His brain slowly recollects itself after Sugimori’s assault. Like each punch he takes is a cold shower after a hangover, he’s waking up. He’s recognizing the rainbow of ties once again. For a moment, the assailants are just the same as him. Desperate humans.

Red surprises Kiryu, wrapping his arms around his neck from behind. Kiryu attempts to retaliate, but Red quickly whips Kiryu around, sending him tumbling into one of the brothels, the one closest to the bridge. Kiryu catches himself, lands in a near-crouch, and Red slides the door behind him shut. There, an ambush awaits. A light spins overhead, a mini-disco light that’s meant to evoke a certain kind of eroticism. For Kiryu, it just pisses him off. Lights dance across the room, highlighting the faces of the goons like the headlights from a car.

One large man, Blue, holds a couch with mysterious, suspicious stains on it. Green holds a long katana, the likes of which was most likely broken out of the inconspicuous katana-length shattered frame on the wall. Red, Yellow, White and Grey stand weaponless.

Kiryu stands up straight.

Blue swings the semen-stained couch violently, the weight of it nearly spinning the man in a complete circle. Kiryu narrowly dodges, rolling backwards to avoid the impact.

Grey grabs Kiryu's shoulder, and Kiryu punches him right in the temple, throwing out a punch, and then another one, pummeling the man until his eyes roll back. When Grey sways to the side, Kiryu slams his palm against the back of Grey’s neck, bringing him low to the ground, hunched over, before he crushes his knee right into Grey’s face. He twists Grey’s arm behind his back, spinning him around. With one fist wrapped around Grey’s wrist, he catches Yellow’s leg after Yellow attempts to throw a kick. In shock, Yellow attempts to pull his leg free. Kiryu throws Yellow’s leg far over his head, flipping the man onto his back with a thud. Then, he grabs Grey’s skull with both hands, lifting the man and throwing him over Kiryu’s shoulder, spinning rapidly before crashing down to the ground.

Bouncing to the left, Kiryu parries past Red’s punch, twirling across the ground with his leg swept out, throwing Red off of his balance and sending him falling. Kiryu kneels, driving his elbow right into the back of Red’s neck, a loud crunching noise echoing through the room. He does it again, this time digging his elbow into Red’s neck.

Distracted, he doesn’t notice Blue’s swing, and before he can react, Blue brings the couch down into Kiryu’s side, sending him tumbling. The pain rips through Kiryu’s shoulder, and he writhes on the ground with his eyes squeezed shut. He wheezes out a curse.

Blue holds the couch over his head, with an incredible might, and Kiryu forces his eyes open. Kiryu rolls as Blue brings the couch back down, narrowly avoiding the crushing weight of it. The couch, clearly cheap and not that strong, breaks, its wooden frame shattering with Blue’s weight over it.

Kiryu rolls back onto his feet, jumping up from a squatting position. White throws an open-palmed strike against Kiryu’s chest, and Kiryu recoils backwards, a loud ‘oof’ sound escaping him. White repositions himself, once attacking with his right hand, now with his left. He spins, lifting himself up into the ground to attempt to strike Kiryu with a butterfly kick. Kiryu turns, and crouches, White’s leg passing right over Kiryu’s shoulder. Kiryu quickly grabs onto the man’s leg, and in a display that has the rest of the assailants gasping, Kiryu throws the man down onto the ground, gripping his ankle like he weighs nothing. Before White can recuperate, Kiryu lets out a howl, throwing himself into the air and bringing his arm down onto White’s back, crushing the man under Kiryu’s great weight.

With his back turned, Green decides to strike. He twirls the katan unskillfully, holding it tight between his palms. He dashes across the wooden floor, and brings his foot down onto Kiryu’s shoulder blade, holding the katana up over his head.

Before anyone can realize it, Kiryu’s caught the blade between both of his palms, moments before it could cut right through his head.

Green throws his foot off of Kiryu, attempts to pull the katana free, but Kiryu doesn’t relent. Slowly, he lifts himself back onto his feet, the katana still held in a vice-like grip. Finally, he throws the katana up, with Green struggling to keep his grip on the handle. Kiryu twirls around, and throws a punch right into Green’s sternum, the man gasping for air. He throws the katana up into the air.

And it spins gracefully, cutting through the air.

This is when Blue grabs one of the stained cushions from the newly broken couch, desperately throwing the cushion right at Kiryu.

Kiryu catches the katana, and without a second thought, cuts right through the cushion, the bisected sides landing behind Kiryu on opposite sides.

“Holy shit!” Blue yells.

Kiryu flares his nostrils, letting out a harsh breath.

Now, the goons all cower, attempting to escape. With the katana, Kiryu saunters with overflowing confidence towards the entrance to the brothel. Most of the assailants have vacated the area, but Blue, who is slower than the rest. Blue slowly turns his head towards Kiryu, trembling.

Kiryu discards the sword, and kicks Blue hard enough to send him through the brothel window, flying right over the water and right back onto the pathway, unconscious.

He steps outside.

“Kiryu-san!” He hears a voice call. There stands Nishida, bashing in someone’s brains. He looks like he’s about to vomit.

“Nishida!” Kiryu echoes. “Where’s Majima?!”

A boy with bleached hair, the esteemed Takano, fights without a shirt. He’s holding a man in a headlock.

“The big room, across the bridge! Get over there, old man!”

“We’ll hold the remaining Tsuruha Clan back. You get to Oyaji!”

“Right!” Kiryu nods. He bounces backwards, turns on his heel, and runs across the bridge, his feet picking up the blossoms scattered across the ground. They dance in the wind of his wake, quivering from the power of his walk.

Shimura twists Majima’s arm behind his back, spinning him right into one of the large marble pillars. It stresses under the force of which Shimura crushes Majima against it. For a moment, he holds Majima’s head against it, palm against Majima’s cheek. Majima lets out a loud huff, growling as he grabs Shimura’s arm. He pulls Shimura down, just as he sends his knee flying, colliding right with Shimura’s gut. Shimura makes a nasty sound, mouth opening to let out a string of drool as he gasps. Majima wraps an arm around Shimura’s back, and he brings his fist down on him with his other hand repeatedly, thrusting it against Shimura’s spine. With each strike, Shimura’s knees buckle. Shimura wraps his arms around Majima’s waist, and thrusts forward, sending Majima colliding once again against the pillar. Pain shoots through Majima’s back as his eye clenches shut. Before Majima can pry himself off, Shimura grabs Majima’s shoulder, thrusting him right back against the cold pillar. Majima’s eye snaps open, just as Shimura cracks his fist against Majima’s jaw, Majima’s vision going white for a moment as he stumbles onto the ground. He holds his jaw.

Shimura dashes across the marble floor, and as Majima catches Shimura’s gaze, Shimura kicks Majima in the stomach, nearly lifting him right off the ground with the sheer force of it. Majima rolls, clutching his stomach. He coughs roughly, his throat stinging. He slaps a hand against the ground, just trying to get himself up.

Shimura leans down and grabs Majima’s hair, knuckles digging into his scalp.

Majima lets out a banshee’s shriek, grasping behind himself for Shimura’s wrist.

Shimura lifts Majima up, then brings him back down, crushing his nose against the hard floor. He lifts him again, and slams him back down. Majima’s ears ring, and blood pools down his mouth.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for?” Shimura hums coldly. He presses his mouth against Majima’s ear. “This is just sad.”

Majima spits blood out on the ground. With his knee bent, Majima’s able to unconspicously pull up his pant leg, up over his sock. There, rests his tantō, pressed tightly against his skin, hidden from Shimura. As Shimura brings his skull back down onto the marble, Majima’s hand grips the handle.

Before Shimura can react, Majima drives the tantō through Shimura’s calf, blood gushing from the wound. He lets out a haunting howl as Majima pulls the blade back out. Shimura keels, falling on his side to hold his leg.

Majima holds the tantō between his teeth, clutching the handle as he jumps onto Shimura, bearing down his weight upon him. He grips Shimura’s neck, and lifts his fist.

Once, against the temple. Twice, in the nose. Three times, in the mouth.

He breathes out his mouth, through the tantō held between his teeth. The sound is nearly akin to a snarl.

Shimura doesn’t close his eyes. He stares right through Majima as he brings his fist down on him.

Then, Shimura reaches up, and grips the end of the handle. He thrusts it out of Majima’s teeth, and slices. The blade runs across the corner of Majima’s mouth.

Majima immediately screams, throwing his hand over his mouth. His eye twitches, and blood pushes through the space between his fingers. Shimura, gripping the tantō fully, attempts to stab Majima.

Majima grabs his wrist, the tip of the blade pushing into the eye of the snake on his breast. Shimura doesn’t relent, no matter how hard Majima grips his wrist. He just keeps pushing. Majima lets go of the side of his face, and lifts up the arm, cracking his elbow down into Shimura’s forearm. Immediately, Majima slaps the tantō away from Shimura’s hand, and it scatters across the ground, blood dripping from its cold blade.

Shimura backhands Majima, and Majima recoils, the force throwing off his balance. He rolls off of Shimura.

“You’re an animal.” Shimura gasps, struggling to climb back onto his feet. “You’re not even human.”

Majima, on his hands and knees, looks up at Shimura. Blood fills his mouth, coats his teeth. Regardless, he stretches his mouth into a grin, his eye widening. This is the man Shimura once feared, down in Sagawa Tsukasa’s apartment. Even when he was dead and dying, Majima was human. Here, he is human. Shimura is wrong. He’s always been wrong.

“You little bitch-baby,” Majima growls. He wheezes out a hee-hee-hee. He slaps his bloody palm against a white tile, leaving his impact, one whole life recorded in that single handprint. “You wanna know what I am? I’m alive, motherfucker. I’m alive.”

Shimura attempts to kick Majima once again, this time aiming for his head, but Majima quickly ducks, rolling onto his back. He bounces onto his feet, parrying past Shimura’s punches, waltzing across the black-and-white tiles, one foot at a time. They stand as chess pieces, violent and powerful. He shields his face with his forearms, dancing from left to right. Sweat drips down Shimura’s brow, and when he retracts his fist, Majima strikes, slamming his open palm into Shimura’s rib, digging it in. Shimura throws his fist into Majima’s temple, and Majima wheezes, neck cracking from the force of which his head is made to turn. Majima turns his head, the fist still pushing. He laughs.

He grabs Shimura’s arm, and brings the both of them down to the ground, cracking Shimura’s elbow against Majima’s kneecap. Shimura spits out a scream, and Majima backhands Shimura against the face.

“People like Sagawa, they dehumanize you, lock you in a kennel and feed you on the floor. Me? I never was a fuckin’ dog.” Majima declares, jumping back onto his feet. He looks down upon Shimura’s crumpled body. “I hated him. But you know what? He liked me more than you. You? You were a pawn. And I? I was the fucking golden boy. Nobody even remembers your name.”

Shimura looks up at Majima with a horrified look on his face.

“You failed the day you decided to follow in his footsteps.” Majima says, tenacity bubbling in the way he growls. He shakes his head, grinning. “I took what he gave me, and, baby, I wove gold .”

“You’re a mistake!” Shimura retorts, knocking his fist right into Majima’s knee. Majima buckles, cursing, and Shimura lifts himself up onto his feet, throwing himself onto Majima. “I’ll kill you, and then I’ll kill that backstabbing little shit Katsuya!”

They grip onto each other, rolling across the ground, leaving bloody imprints where they cross.

“The Empty Lot was a fuckin’ mistake, and this is too!” Majima screams. “You’re nothing more than a fanboy of a time worth forgetting!”

Shimura bites into Majima’s shoulder, and Majima elbows Shimura’s spine, feels it pop with the way he digs.

Finally, Majima rolls Shimura onto his back once again, victorious. He holds Shimura by the shoulder, and blood drips down his shoulder, down to his arm, from where Shimura bit him.

“You’re fuckin’ over!” Majima shrieks, spitting blood right onto Shimura’s face.

And with that, he brings his fist down.

Shimura goes limp underneath Majima.

Majima breathes like he’s hyperventilating. His chest heaves, and he hunches over the man, clutching his face. He runs his palm across his forehead, down his nose, finally cupping his mouth. The man behind everything lies underneath him, unconscious. Now, everything is over.

He stumbles onto his feet.

And he limps towards the door.

And then the door quakes.

Energy swells through Majima, a bright burning heat scorching his lungs. The door trembles once, twice, three times.

And there’s Kiryu, kicking the door open with a force unlike anything else. Blood coats him. He’s baring his skin. Kiryu takes a healthy breath in, and when he sees Majima, he exhales.

“Majima-san!” Kiryu shouts. He pushes the door the rest of the way open, and it swings shut, now horribly chipped.

“Kiryu,” Majima gasps.

And like that, they’re together again. Kiryu doesn’t care that Majima left him, left to face West Park alone. He doesn’t care about that. He approaches Majima and grips his shoulder, his skin damp with sweat and scorching hot. He gives Majima a gentle shake, and Majima offers him a crooked grin.

“I should’ve known a motherfucker like you wouldn’t take the hint and dip.” Majima says, huffing out a weak laugh.

“I’m glad you’re not dead.” Kiryu replies. “After pulling a stupid move like that. I nearly got crushed by a cinderblock.”

“But ya didn’t.” Majima says. “You’re right as rain, bud. You’re glowin’.”

“I’m in a lot of pain.” Kiryu corrects. “I have a concussion.”

“And I got my mouth slashed. The motherfucker bit me.” Majima gestures behind himself to Shimura.

Kiryu looks over to the unconscious man. There stands Shimura, of the Shimura Construction Company, his former boss. He once considered the man agreeable and gentle.

“Appearances are deceiving.” Kiryu hums. He turns back to Majima. “Your family is cleaning up the Tsuruha Clan.”

Majima claps a hand over Kiryu’s shoulder. He presses his side against Kiryu’s. After a moment of hesitation, Kiryu presses his hand against Majima’s back. They both turn towards the door.

Relief finally hits the both of them. The feeling of their skin against one another means the world. Majima feels like a weight has been lifted off of himself. Kiryu’s going to see his daughter once again. They take a step forward, together.

A click.

Majima and Kiryu both spin back around, and Majima moves first, pressing his back to Kiryu’s front before he even knows it. His eye widens, his mouth drops open.

Shimura lays right by his jacket, a pistol in his hand. Without hesitation, he shoots. The sound shakes the office, shakes the mighty pillars. Majima recoils.

He stumbles against Kiryu, and the two of them back up violently. Majima slaps a hand over his stomach.

“What?” Majima gasps. Shimura looks at him with pure disgust.

Kiryu grips Majima’s arms, and then they slip down. His arms go to his sides. Majima turns his head, unprepared to face Kiryu. Once again, they’ve found themselves in this Story. A repeated scene. Kiryu lets out a gasp.

Majima’s eyes drift downwards. Kiryu clutches his own stomach, too.

“What?” Majima repeats. The sound dies in his throat. He snaps his head back to Shimura.

“Full metal jacket. Nine millimeters.” The man says, smoke billowing out of the barrel. “Always prepare for the worst.”

“Bastard…” Kiryu hisses. He stumbles forward, but his legs give out. His knees hit the ground painfully.

Majima follows suit, falling down to a hunched crouch, his palm slapping against the marble. After a moment, Majima finally gives out, landing fully on the ground with a thud.

Shimura stumbles onto his feet, the gun still held in his hand. He takes a step forward. He runs a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t want to kill you myself, Kiryu-san.” Shimura says. “But your Story’s reached its end.”

Kiryu shudders out a breath.

“You think Stories end just like that?” He asks. “Your childish and reductive world-view disgusts me.”

Shimura barks out a weak laugh. He keels over for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut in a grimace-grin.

“That’s rich. That’s rich coming from you, Kiryu Kazuma. The moron of the Tojo Clan.” As his eyes snap open, he gestures the gun like an extension of his hand, towards Kiryu, towards the ceiling. “You’re the one with the childish worldview. The world is run by business, not by honor. Those Stories only exist in the movies.”

“You’re wrong.” Kiryu growls. His hands, on the marble, curl up into fists. He trembles. “The world isn’t black and white. It’s not kill or be killed. Maybe you’ve never been loved before, but the world isn’t cruel. Stories exist to inspire those who take them in. They inspire people to be stronger. To live how they want. It’s not childish to believe in something, even if it’s something like a Story. We inspire each other. We take pieces of ourselves, and leave them in the people we love. That’s how Stories get passed down. Your Story, of vengeance and cruelty, will be forgotten in due time, Shimura.”

He looks towards Majima’s crumpled form. He thinks of Haruka, of Date. Everywhere, Kiryu’s left his impact. A man like Kiryu will never be forgotten, while a man like Shimura will be lost to time.

Shimura holds the gun back up.

“I don’t believe in fairy-tales.” He says. “I’m putting an end to this.”

Kiryu stands.

Shimura’s eyes widen.

Kiryu steps over Majima. He bares his teeth.

“Shoot me all you want. I’ll take you down to hell with me.”

Shimura shoots Kiryu. It hits him in the shoulder.

Regardless, Kiryu walks forward.

“You hurt my friend.” Kiryu growls. “You manipulated thousands.”

Shimura shoots again. It hits him in the leg.

“Why won’t you stop?!” Shimura begs. He takes a step backwards.

“You may be right that I’m a moron. But I’ll tell you something, Shimura. I’m stubborn. And I hate assholes.”

Bull sees red, bull strikes.

Shimura attempts to point the gun right at Kiryu’s skull, but Kiryu’s crossed the threshold. He grips Shimura’s wrist, throws it down hard enough to dislocate it. The gun clatters to the ground. Shimura lets out a weak whimper, and Kiryu pulls back his fist.

“You’re done.” Kiryu roars.

And he crushes Shimura under the force of his fist, letting out a powerful scream as he knocks Shimura down to the ground. This time, for good.

He stumbles forward. Blood drips from him like rain. He holds his stomach, and turns. Back he goes, limping.

“Majima.” Kiryu wheezes. He kneels, dropping down onto the ground. He turns Majima over, and then collapses, his hand on Majima’s knee, while Majima’s head rests against Kiryu’s calf.

There, they rest. Kiryu can barely see Majima’s stomach rising faintly.

“Majima.” He repeats.

“Kiryu.” Majima shudders. His eye drifts open. “We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

“I’m sorry.” Kiryu tells him.

Majima tries to laugh.

“You were right. After this, we ain’t gonna see each other. You were right.”

“I wish I didn’t say that.” Kiryu admits. “I care about you.”

Majima shuts his eye once again. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and leans into Kiryu’s calf like a caress.

“I don’t want to leave Haruka.” Kiryu says.

“The detective’ll look after her.” Majima assures him. “He’s good people.”

There's a silence permeating for a moment, foul tasting and lonely. Kiryu can still feel Majima against him, that hawkish point of his nose.

Majima weakly laughs, then coughs. “The moment I finally decide to live my life…” His eye stings. “That’s when fate catches up to me. That’s life, Kiryu, baby. It’s a bitch.”

“I wish we got more time.” Kiryu tells him.

“Yeah. Me too.” Majima agrees.

Silence fills the air. But, two stubborn men like them don’t die easy. Together, they struggle to breathe. Neither of them will go down willingly.

“Y’know,” Majima hums. “I got a brother, too.”

Kiryu wants to look at his face when he says that.

“You do?” He asks.

“Uh-huh. Prison. He got death row, but I always…” He deeply sighs. “I thought he’d make it out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, shut up…” Majima places his hand on Kiryu’s hip. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t give me that. He’s gonna get out, and he’s gonna dig me up, and kick my ass.”

So, Majima laughs. Kiryu doesn’t laugh.

“It was nice meetin’ ya, Kiryu Kazuma.” Majima says. He slaps his hand down on the marble, right by Kiryu’s.

After a moment, Kiryu drags his hand into Majima’s, palm against palm.

“If I see you again, I’ll kick your ass.” Kiryu mumbles. “That’s a promise.”

They hold onto each other.

The curtains have drawn once more, but that doesn’t mean it’s all over. Miraculously, the Story always goes on.

A nurse turns on the light. A gentle little click, and Majima has to squeeze his eye shut. The split second of flashing light pierces right through his head. He tenses up his arms, but keeps them limp against the bed. After a moment, he slowly slides his eye open, attempting to acclimate to the light. He shudders out a breath. Something is beeping.

“How are we feeling?” She asks, no smile to her voice. The ‘ we ’ gets to Majima. As if they’d have anything in common. They’re as far away from ‘ we ’ as night and day.

Majima doesn’t answer. He gently rocks his head to the side. He looks at her.

His wrists and ankles are restrained. He’s unaware of the nurses he punched. All he knows is that he’s tied up in a hospital bed. He’s restrained, and there is somebody in his space. He sniffles, scrunches up his nose. After a moment, he turns his head to the ceiling, pushing his skull down into the pillow, hoping he’ll simply absorb into it.

The nurse walks around him, around the bed, towards the window.

“I dunno want the window open.” He murmurs, his jaw taking a moment to work with him.

“You’ll feel better with the fresh air.” She replies. She lifts up the frame, and it makes a violent shuddering noise. It goes right to his ears, right to his head. He winces. As if she knows him.

“Turnnat machine off,” He then slurs. He gestures his head towards the beeping. The IV machine. It’s gentle, but cacophonous. It’s monotonous. It’s driving him insane. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

She approaches him. There’s an IV pressed into his elbow. She presses her hand to his bicep. He jolts.

“Please don’t bend your arm, sir.” She says. “I can’t turn the beeping off.”

“Whymeye in here?”

She reaches for a clipboard, a pen. There’s a blanket covering his stomach, so she lifts it with the corner of her pen, slides it down his stomach.

“Gunshot, sir.” She replies. Her eyes are drifting across his front tattoos. “Concussion, and a mouth laceration. I’m not even going to ask.”

“And I’m tied up.”

“For your own, and our safety, sir.”

“I’m a model fuckin’ citizen.” He hisses. He squeezes his eye shut and attempts to live through the sudden throbbing in his head.

“I’m sure you are, sir, but we have our protocols.”

He wants to break the bed. A thought pops into his mind, more important than anything else. His mouth moves on its own.

“Nishida.” He jolts, thrusting his head up. His neck cranes in a painful way. it's the first person that comes to mind. “Where’s he?”

“I don’t know who that is.” She replies. She watches him begin to pull at his arm again, pull at the restraint. “Sir, you’re not seeing anyone right now, not until we know you’re…” She trails off.

“Lemme go to the bathroom.” He demands.

“You have to use the bedpan.” She answers.

“I said, let me go to the fuckin’ bathroom.”

“Sir, you can’t get up right now!”

“Then fuckin’ untie me! I can walk on my own, I don’t need this fuckin’ bedside manner bullshit.”

The more he shakes the bed, the wider her eyes become. Her lips are pressed tightly together. She has dimples on her chin when she frowns deeply. Strangely, he finds he wants to cry.

“Please calm down.” She says.

“I’ll be calm when you let me go take a fuckin’ piss!”

“Staying in bed is for your own safety, sir! You have to use a bedpan!”

Majima had enough of that when he was twenty-something. The absolute certainness on her face drives him insane. His nostrils flare. His fists ball up.

“Talk about some hippocratic oath bullshit,” He spits. “All you nurses are all the same, fuckin’ piece of shit leech power-hungry little shits, shit-fucker, motherfucker, asshole,”

She backs away. Her heels click loud enough against the tiled floor to get to his ears. They throb. Everything is too loud.

“You untie me, and I’ll fuckin’ kill myself! Right in front of you!” He shrieks, opening his mouth wide enough to pull at the stitches on his mouth. “I’ll jump out the window, and make you clean my body!”

She shudders, letting out a fearful gasp. She holds a hand to her chest, as if he could do anything. As if he would, or wanted to.

“I’m getting a doctor. You-You need sedatives. You need something.” She stutters.

“I need to get the fuck outta here!” He replies. “You bring in a doctor, I’ll fuckin' tell him, too! I need to get out of here! He jabs me with anything, I'll stab 'em, too!”

He’ll kill anyone that touches him like this. He swears it. Nobody fucks with Majima Goro in a hospital bed.

Managing to accumulate enough spit in his painfully dry mouth, he spits it right at her. It doesn’t travel much farther than his bed, landing on the ground with a pitiful spatter. The feeling’s all the same.

She makes a strange kind of noise. He glares right through her, and she trembles. After a moment, she turns on her heel, and runs right out the door, slamming it behind herself.

Victorious, Majima’s face drops into nothing. He turns his head back to the ceiling and drops it down onto the pillows. His arms go limp. He pants. That was absolutely horrifying. Somehow, for both parties. The anger leaves him immediately, and he's left with a solid, hollow feeling of anguish. He knows they wouldn't listen to him, so all he can do is snap. He does not trust doctors.

He recalls something similar happened when he met Sagawa Tsukasa. He wrestled a pair of scissors from his hand, and despite the broken leg, tackled Sagawa down to the ground and held it to Sagawa’s throat. He’d never been more afraid. Sagawa offered him a look of pure nothing. Not even a reaction. It made him scream.

Now, he’s silent, in a hospital bed, all alone. At least alone is better than anything else. Alone, he gathers his thoughts.

He’s been shot, he knows that now. Slowly, he remembers. Shimura, Takano, Kiryu, Kiryu, Kiryu. He blinks, he sees Kiryu next to him, dead and dying. He blinks, and he’s gone. He needs to get up, more now than ever. He needs to find Kiryu Kazuma. There’s no way he died, and Majima lived. He pulls on his restraints again, and for a moment, Majima considers he’s the one in hell. Control has been taken from him again and again. He’s not going down without a fight. He’ll never submit, not to doctors, not to men who’re weaker than him, not anyone. He’ll submit the day he dies. He’s done enough submitting. He’s sick of it.

So, with the arm not currently jabbed with an IV, he pulls, and pulls, and pulls on the restraint. It’s fabric, something thick, but he’s a stubborn motherfucker. He’s hungry, in pain, and he has to take a piss, and that is a deadly combination. He shakes his head, shakes his hair out of his face. It’s grown too long.

If he’s not fast enough, a doctor will come in and sedate him, knock him out for unruly behavior, treated like an animal. He thrashes his arm, keeps doing it until it starts to cut into his skin. He doesn’t trust doctors, and he doesn’t trust nurses. They say they’re helping. They never listen. They act like they know you. They jab, and jab, and jab you until you’re complicit, until you’re a drooling, nodding mess that doesn’t cause them too much trouble. Majima seethes, breathing hard enough through his teeth to fling out spit with each exhale.

He’ll show them a beast. He’ll break out of every cage the world puts him in, and he’ll do it grinning. After a moment, the restraint struggles against his arm, struggles against the railing it’s attached to, and it gives. It snaps, having decidedly to give up against the might of Majima Goro. He pauses, his stomach lurches. His mouth is agape. Then, he smiles, letting out a breath. He laughs, flexing and unflexing his fingers. He turns, slaps his hand onto his elbow, and rips out the IV. The machine screams at him, screaming that something has gone absolutely, terribly wrong. He unwraps his other wrist, then goes for his legs. He laughs, giggles, as he wiggles his toes. Pain be damned, Majima Goro will get up. He’ll show them all. Once untied, he rests a hand on his stomach. It’s neatly, cleanly bandaged. The only person who should be checking on him is himself. He knows what’s best for him. He touches his face, feels a bandage covering the stitches. The bruises Shimura caused have faded. How long has he been here? The moment he's completely free, the anger, the rage, all of it bubbles away. He gives back what people give him. All he needs is to get up, and walk.

So, after a moment, he gets up. His feet touch the cold ground and he shudders. The IV machine is still screaming. When he stands, he immediately hunches, moments from collapsing once again. He lets out a growl, holding onto the bed behind him. He shakes his head again, he rattles his brain. He regains his step, and lets go of the bed. He limps forward. Thankfully, he’s wearing pants. He doesn’t have a shirt. They didn’t give him socks. The room is horribly empty. His feet pitter-patter against the floor, like a child tip-toeing past their parents after midnight. He breathes heavily, his chest heaving. Kiryu Kazuma. That’s who is on his mind. He slaps a hand against the door, a loud, violent thud, and he throws it open, sliding it hard enough to rattle it.

Phone calls, chittering-chattering, walking, beeping. Majima steps out of his room. He squints his eye, the light somehow brighter than inside his room. Nobody seems to notice him. He doesn’t recognize the telltale signs of a nurse nearby.

He turns his head left, turns his head right. There’s chattering coming from the turn to the right. Louder than the rest. There’s the sound of wheeling. Squeaking. Majima walks right. He steps, once, twice.

The noise grows closer, like a train, passing right by you. Passing right by him.

Doctors wheel an unconscious Kiryu Kazuma down the hall. Majima runs.

He passes by somebody asleep on the chair next to his room. The shape snaps awake.

“Huh?” The shape gurgles. After a moment, the shape’s up on his feet. “Oh, shit- Oyaji!”

Majima runs. He slams himself against the corridor corner, struggling to turn. He keels, stumbles. A nurse stepping out of a room notices him before he turns the corner.

“Hey! Sir!” She screams. “Sir, you can’t be out here!”

Majima runs. He slams right into a woman carrying a tray of pills. They go scattering to the floor. He moves like a battering ram. The nurse who had called out to him has now amassed a small group, all chasing after him. Majima catches a glimpse of the top of Kiryu’s head, as he’s wheeled. He sees the shifting doctors as they walk alongside the bed, like curtains in the wind. He’s still. Majima doesn’t know if he’s breathing or not. He can’t notice, and he can’t get close enough. He doesn’t call out, despite wanting to. A doctor, and several nurses, finally tackle him. The doctor crushes him against the wall, brings him to the floor. He writhes, convulsoes, kicks as hard as he can. The floor is cold, and he’s burning hot. He watches the doctors, and Kiryu, disappear, and he slams his forehead against the cold tile floor.

“Stop moving, sir, stop!” One of the nurses say, hands gripping his leg tightly.

“Don’t hold him down!” The shape yells. Majima finally recognizes it as Nishida. “That just makes it worse! Get off him!”

The doctor holds his knee to Majima’s back.

“It’s for his own good!” The doctor replies, exasperated and desperate. “He’s having some type of episode,”

“And you think the best thing to do is hold him down?!” Nishida howls. Majima can picture his face red. The doctor’s are all terrified of him, but Nishida knows right. He could take all of their jobs in a heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” The doctor hushes. There’s something in his hand.

Majima lets out a long, heavy sigh. Someone’s ringtone is going off. He shuts his eye.

The next time Majima wakes up, Nishida’s got his head on the edge of his bed. Majima slowly lifts his hand. He’s not restrained. Nishida’s face is turned to him, eyes shut and gentle. It’s rare Majima sees this. For a moment, he thinks back to Nishida, tears down his face, hitting, hitting, hitting him with that briefcase.

So, after a moment of looking, Majima slaps his hand on Nishida’s head, not too hard, but far from gentle. Nishida’s eyes snap open and he thrusts himself backwards into his seat.

“Oyaji!” Nishida yelps.

“Fuck me.” Majima suddenly groans. He slaps a hand onto his own face, digging his palm into his eye. “That hurts.”

“It’s better than being drugged up,” Nishida replies. He puts a hand on Majima’s shoulder, and Majima relaxes into a resting position. “I-I can’t believe you’re…”

“You think I would’a died? You must fuckin’ hate me…”

Nishida’s eyes go wide. He grips Majima’s blanket, rustles the bed a bit.

“Stop getting stabbed! Stop getting shot!” Nishida demands. “I don’t hate you!”

After a moment, Majima wheezes out a laugh. Nishida slumps back into his seat.

“Good boy, Nishida.” He sighs. “I didn’t get shot for nothin’, Nishida. It was real business.”

After a moment, Nishida sighs.

“I suppose it’d be worse if you just decided to get shot for nothing.” He bites at a fingernail for a moment. “At least, this meant something.”

“Fuck, yeah, it did.” Majima replies. He blinks. “...Takano? What about the rest of the boys?”

Nishida gestures to his room. After a moment, Majima sits up. There’s about a hundred cards, all stacked on a table. Flowers, too. Too many flowers.

“Send their regards.” Nishida says. He rubs the back of his neck. “Takano is cleaning up the mess he and the rest of the family made. Including assisting the homeless community. The police have blocked off West Park, who knows for how long. Nobody’s getting in there. Do you remember Dragon Palace? A lot of them have moved there. The Majima Family’s become the Homeless Hunter-Hunters. To make up for kicking everyone out of their community. The Tsuruha Clan have also disappeared, after their patriarch was arrested. After you and Kiryu-san…After everything, the cops finally stepped in, due to Date-san. You won’t believe it, but the cops nearly wanted to arrest you two! But, but, the boys, Date-san especially, convinced the police that you were just stopping Shimura-san, the man who was behind everything!”

“Ah,” Majima hums. He closes his eye for a moment. He’s missed Nishida’s long-winded talks. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days!” He barks in response. He has to suck in a deep breath afterwards. “You can go home in a day or two, the doctors wanted to keep you, monitor you, but I told them that you’d try to kill them if they tried. They seemed responsive to that.”

Majima hee-hee-hees.

“That’s my boy. My boy’s tellin’ the doctors what for…” His head lulls. “Sorry for what happened back in my ‘partment…”

Nishida’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment. He sighs.

“It’s okay, Oyaji.”

“No, it ain’t.” He replies. Again, he rubs at his face. “I’ve lived a life full’a fuck ups. A whole lot of fuck ups. I don’t wanna go around like that no more.”

After a moment of looking at each other, Majima continues.

“You ain’t fired, unless you wanna be.”

Nishida claps his hand over Majima’s.

“Then, I’m your captain, still. I’ll be with you no matter what, Oyaji!”

It seems the speech he gave to the rest of his boys has been relayed back to Nishida, with the way his eyes water.

Majima thrusts upwards, wrapping an arm around Nishida. He brings his fist down on his noggin, scrubbing it.

“Don’t you get all sad on me, ya big fuckin’ baby!”

After a moment of hesitation, Nishida laughs. For once, it sounds genuine.

And when Majima pulls away, he grips at Nishida’s shoulders. He gives him a grave look.

“Kiryu.” He states.

“Recovering!” Nishida quickly yips. “I don’t know if he’s awake yet. He got shot three times, sir. He’ll be in here longer than you.”

And then, he slumps back into the bed. He lets out a sigh.

“Thank fuck,” Says Majima. He shudders. “Wouldn’t be right if I kept on without ‘em.”

“You’ve changed a lot, over the past couple days, Oyaji.” Nishida hums. “I thought you hated Kiryu-san, for the longest time.”

“I thought I did,” Majima answers. There’s a wistful look on his face. “Really hated him. Turns out, I just hated myself so bad, I…” He trails off. “Nah. I don’t hate ‘em.”

He recalls Kiryu’s words, on the cold hard floor; ‘I care about you’ he said.

Majima shudders again. He hisses out something, and covers his face. After a moment, Nishida realizes the trembling he’s doing is silent, breathless laughs. Despite everything, Kiryu said that, anticipating it to be one of the last things he said. ‘I wish we got more time’. Majima looks up at the ceiling, resting a hand on his chest. He can feel his own heartbeat. Alive. Alive, he surely is. Alive, the both of them are. Majima could dance.

How strange a wish that is. Majima feels like he’s known Kiryu all his life.

“You ever thought about what you’d do if you got vacation?” Majima suddenly asks.

“W-What?” Nishida stutters. He blinks, and thinks. “I’ve never gotten a vacation.”

“Yeah, I know that. Fuckin’ humor me a little. Damn.”

“I’d want to go somewhere quiet.” Nishida replies. “Or, a casino.”

Majima sits up, an incredulous smile on his face.

“A fuckin’ casino? Nishida, I thought you were the innocent one.”

“Las Vegas, in America.” Nishida answers. “Have you seen it? Pictures at night? I want to go out there. I want to drive in a car without a hood.”

Majima laughs.

“You been thinkin’ about this for a while?”

“We all have our daydreams, Oyaji,” Nishida replies. “In mine, you’re in the backseat, throwing things at people and cursing at them. It was more of an intrusion at first, but I’ve gotten used to it as an inclusion.”

Majima grins. He grabs Nishida again, and presses his face up to the side of Nishida’s head. Nishida yelps.

“Now that’s a good thought. Definitely ain’t happenin’ anytime soon. We’ve got a family to raise, a couple thousand-large.” He announces, clapping a hand on Nishida’s back. “I gotta have my captain around.”

After a moment, Majima realizes he’s hugging Nishida. Nishida’s hands hover over Majima’s frame, and after a moment, hugs him back. Majima doesn’t recoil. If anyone’s gonna be allowed to hug Majima Goro, it’s the man keeping him alive. Nishida shudders out a long, stressed breath. It transforms into relief. If Majima’s going to restart this all over, he’s going to do it right. He pats Nishida once-more on the shoulder. Easy come, easy go.

By the time Kiryu awakens, he already has a hand resting upon Haruka’s head.

Her hair is softer than anything else. His eyes slowly crack open, and in comes the light. It shines through, burns at him, but he perseveres, even through the blurriness, through the pain, he opens his eyes. He is alive. He looks down at himself, sees the bandages all around him, sees his chest rising and falling, he is truly breathing. Through the thin walls, he can hear gentle voices, the sound of phone calls being made, being taken. He peers over to the door, shut, although there’s a large window right by it. He sees nurses walking past, their silhouettes cast in darkness from the blinding white they dance across. A bouquet rests on the table right by his bed, the flowers are golden-orange-yellow.

He sees Date, resting with his trenchcoat over his shoulders, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes are shut, his head gently swaying with each breath he takes. He looks like he hasn’t gotten much sleep. Without the stress of the force, Date could be here. He chose to be here, waiting for his friend, to make sure he was okay.

And there’s Haruka, holding her head in her arms, squished against the bed, her chair as close as it can go. She’s resting, too. She hasn’t realized Kiryu’s hand is on her.

Kiryu rests his eyes a little bit more. The sound of the hospital is mechanical, yet comforting. A sign he’s recovering. All at once, everything hits. The past few days, Takano’s boys, the Tsuruha Clan, Fukunaga, Sugimori, Shimura. He glances towards the bouquet, his eyes struggling to focus. He can see a card, wrapped around the stems, small and peach-colored. It’s folded in itself, so he can’t see what it says. He can nearly make out neat handwriting inside.

So, this is where Kiryu’s life has led to, laid up in a hospital bed. At least he’s not alone. There’s something comforting in that. Safety always comes after the worst of it.

“Haruka,” Kiryu whispers. His throat is dry, so his voice comes out rough. He rubs her head soothingly.

It takes a moment. Her brow furrows, her face scrunches up, but she awakens. Her eyes blearily awaken to her father’s face. She sits up.

“Ojisan…” She gasps. Her eyes go wet, her lip quivering.

“Hi, Haruka,” Kiryu greets. Somehow, he manages a smile.

“Ojisan!” She cries out, scurrying up the bed with a surprising agility, she accidentally digs her knee into Kiryu’s stomach, and he lets out a funny yelp. She quickly lifts it. She wraps her arms around Kiryu’s neck. “Ojisan, you’re awake,” She affirms.

“I am,” He reaffirms. “I’m awake.”

He weakly places a hand onto her back.

“Date-san!” Haruka yelps, “Ojisan’s awake!”

Date jolts awake, snorting loudly. He blinks, his coat slipping off his shoulders. Kiryu notices several food stains on his dress shirt. Their eyes meet.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Date breathes, pushing himself out of his chair. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Kiryu Kazuma.”

“I think my luck’s run out, Date,” Kiryu says, “I feel like shit.”

“You got shot three times, Kiryu. Feeling like shit is the bare minimum.”

Kiryu grunts. A gentle ‘Mmh.’ in affirmation.

“What happened while I was out?”

“Date-san and I went to West Park,” She says. Date’s eyes go wide.

“You went to West Park?” Kiryu asks, nearly coughing out his lungs as he sits up, choking on his own spit.

“I had to make sure you were okay,” She tells him, as serious as she can muster.

“And she is very insistent,” Date says. He rubs the back of his head. “You’re raising a little hellraiser over there, got a glare that could turn men to stone.”

Despite the anxiety, Kiryu manages a laugh. She doesn’t look hurt.

“Once I showed up, the cops finally had the balls to go arrest the men that needed to be arrested. I swear, every year they get worse. I almost had to deal with Sudo Junichi jumping down my throat. They had the idea you both were the instigators of this whole thing. I told them that the real perp they needed was Shimura, and whoever else he brought with him. They were definitely biased, especially towards a guy like Majima Goro, but I convinced them to leave you alone. Might still come in for questioning, once you’re up and running.”

Kiryu nods.

“I understand.”

Then, he blinks.

“Majima, is he okay?” Kiryu asks, an embarrassing amount of urgency in his voice.

“Heard he assaulted a couple doctors when they wheeled him in. That’s what they get for trying to restrain a guy like that. Last I saw, he was healing up with his little buddy. Between the two of you, he definitely had the least damage.”

Kiryu thinks about how Majima reacted when he grazed him with his fingers, how harshly Majima could take it in terms of combat, but how he shuddered when faced with something else.

“That’s good.” Kiryu says. “I’m glad.”

“I was so scared,” Haruka sniffles, pressing her face against Kiryu’s neck.

“Come on, you knew he’d be fine,” Date says, resting a hand on her shoulder for a moment. “She said so herself.”

She casts a look right at Date. He laughs.

“It’s okay if you were scared,” Kiryu hums. After a moment, he swallows. His voice grows quiet. “I was, too. I was scared I’d never see you again.”

“Try not to get shot, bud,” Date says. “You’re more worse at this retirement thing than me,”

“You’re always around Kamurocho, Date-san,” Kiryu says, gently coughing into the back of his hand. “Face it, I don’t think you can stay away,”

“Once Kamurocho’s got its claws in you, there’s no getting out,” Date says. If he was outside, or anywhere else, Kiryu can picture him lighting a cigarette all coolly, a drift against his coat. A proper sort of gumshoe, regardless if he’s in the job, or not.

“A lot of people wanted to visit you,” Haruka says, “But the doctors only said me and Date-san could come. They didn’t want a whole lotta people in the…”

“Intensive care unit,” Date finishes. He then gestures to the flowers. “That old guy, uh, Fukunaga, swung by. Told me to leave these for you.”

An informant of the Florist of Sai. Of course. The corner of Kiryu’s mouth twitches upward, a hint of a smirk.

“Glad to know he’s doing alright. He saved my life, down in the sewer.”

“Damn. Remind me to buy him a drink sometime,” Date replies. He shakes his head softly.

Haruka lets out a heavy sigh. After a moment, she lifts up her head, lightly bonking her forehead against Kiryu’s jaw.

“I hope we can go home soon.”

“Me too,” Kiryu replies. He looks to Date for any glimmer of hope.

“For the time, you’re on bedrest, Kiryu.” He says. “I’d say give it a week, but judging by you being you, I’ll give it a couple days. They’re probably gonna let your little buddy out today, maybe tomorrow. I heard gossip they wanted to do a psych analysis on him,”

“Psych analysis?” Haruka asks. After a moment, her arms slip away from Kiryu’s neck, and she sits upright. She’s small enough that she can fit, sitting right next to Kiryu’s shoulder.

Date rubs his chin.

“It’s where they…” He pauses. “Ask you a lot of questions about yourself.”

“Oh.” Haruka hums. “That doesn’t sound that serious.”

“I don’t know. It depends on the type of question. A question can hold a lot of power.” Kiryu replies. He sits up as well, but winces as pain shoots through his shoulder.

“I’m not sure I get it,” She says. “But maybe I’ll get it someday.”

“Yeah, kid,” Date answers. He rests a hand on her head and ruffles it softly. After a moment, he leans down. “Hey, Haruka, you mind running down and seeing if you can get a drink for your old man? You can also tell the nurses he’s awake. They’ll probably wanna know.”

Haruka looks up at him with wide eyes. She glances over her shoulder to Kiryu, hesitant to agree. There’s a small visual journey in her face, as she realizes he’s not going anywhere.

“Okay, Date-san,” She replies, jumping down from the bed.

“You need money?” He asks.

She reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a stolen bill. She looks at Kiryu.

“Did you take that from me?” Kiryu asks, genuinely confused.

She looks down. And then she nods.

“Oh, that’s fine.” Kiryu assures her. She looks up at him once again, shocked. He frowns. “I want you to have money if you want it, but I also want you to feel safe enough to ask me. You can keep that, Haruka. Don’t worry about me. Why don’t you get something for yourself?”

She shoves the bill back into her jacket. She kicks at the ground.

“I’ll try, Ojisan. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Haruka.” Kiryu replies. He smiles, and his eyes crinkle up in a sweet kind of way.

They both watch her go. She gently slides the door shut with a very careful attitude. The moment it clicks shut, Kiryu’s smile fades. He always knows when someone is about to ask him something serious. Date got her away for some type of reason.

“What is it, Date-san?” He asks quietly.

“Nothing too serious,” Date assures. “I just didn’t want her asking too many questions.”

“What are you trying to ask me?”

Date meets his gaze.

“When we found you, you were gripping onto each other for dear life. Even when you were both out cold. What the hell happened down there?”

Kiryu shuts his eyes. Slowly, he rests back down, his head against the pillow. He takes in a sharp breath through his nose, and out his mouth.

“I went through the sewer again, made it to the manhole underneath Purgatory. I met a guy named Sugimori. Turned out, the two men we were dealing with were the same men in charge of a construction site I was working at before Majima brought me back here. Whether it was a cover to remain in Tokyo without anyone noticing, or if it was really legitimate, I don’t know. I fought him, and I lost. He tried to kill me, and that’s when Fukunaga saved me.”

“Shit…” Date croaks.

“I made it to Purgatory. Had to fight the Tsuruha Clan, but I had the Majima Family there to help me. Takano Family?” He shakes his head. “Afterwards, I made it to the Florist’s office. It seemed Majima had already beaten him, but we were wrong. The moment we had our backs turned…”

Kiryu’s brow furrows. He gulps. Date notices.

“What?” He asks. “Kiryu?”

“Majima tried to take the bullet for me. He moved in front of me to protect me.” He says. “But, the type of bullet…”

Kiryu presses a hand to his stomach.

“I didn’t know that could happen.”

“Majima took a bullet for you? First it was a knife, now this. I’m starting to think the guy’s got a crush on you.”

Kiryu gives him a funny type of look.

“That’d be something, wouldn’t it.” Date muses. He laughs. “I think he might just be insane.”

Date may have a vast misunderstanding of Majima’s character. But Kiryu can’t blame him. He hasn’t had much interaction with him, and Majima is a tough man to read. Luckily, Kiryu, miracuously, understands him. Somehow, he gets Majima. He closes his eyes, and smiles.

“I suppose everyone’s a little insane, if you look at them a certain way, Date-san. You hang around me. I bet some people would call you crazy.”

And then, Date barks out a laugh, loud and harsh, a smoker’s laugh-and-cough.

“You’re right,” He says, wiping his eye. “Damn you, Kiryu. You’ve just got something about you.”

Kiryu feels like he’s got a real friend in Date. It makes him feel wistful. Somehow nostalgic. He’s never had many friends. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll think to call Date, once he’s back home. He starts imagining himself, a different version of himself, who invites friends to bars without it involving a fight afterwards. Laughing and joking, clinking their glasses together. He likes it when people throw their arm over his shoulders. He feels depended upon, and it’s an almost safe feeling. It’s not scary anymore.

“I was glad to have you helping me out again, Date-san.” Kiryu thanks.

“Yeah. I’m always a call away, Kiryu.” Date replies.

That’s when Haruka returns, a drink in hand. A simple bottle of water. Maybe that more expensive stuff they label mineral water. Kiryu wonders what the difference is. She sits back up on his bed, feet dangling off the edge, and she opens the bottle with her sleeve covering her hand for extra grip. Even just that small action, and Kiryu feels proud of her all over again. He wonders if that feeling will ever stop, and he hopes it never does. He wonders if his father ever felt the same way.

“I learned this from Majima,” She says. She holds the bottle over her head, the water pouring into her mouth without touching her lips. Then, she holds it out to Kiryu. “Now, you can have some.”

“Majima taught you that?” Kiryu asks incredulously. He raises a brow. He sits up and takes the bottle, attempting to mimic her. He almost chokes on it. When he swallows it down, he hands it back to her. She screws the cap back on.

“He told me he liked to share everything. I thought it was weird at first, since he’s so scary, but I think I get it now.” She explains. “Sharing feels good, I guess, even to someone like Majima.”

Kiryu’s chest feels a little bit tighter. He lets out a sigh, but it isn’t out of distress. “That’s a good lesson. He was never a monster.”

Date glances at Kiryu, and Kiryu doesn’t notice. For a moment, Date seems to catch onto something. Instead of bringing it up, he keeps his mouth shut, and lets it rest.

So, Haruka and Date remain in Kiryu’s life, surrounded by the small four walls he’s found himself in. Even now, he can feel Majima’s near him, somewhere. It’s a comforting thought, and a little bit disconcerting. But he supposes that’s just normal, for men like him and Majima. He wonders what’ll happen next, once he’s back on his feet. He supposes he’ll return to his apartment with Haruka. She’ll return to school, and he’ll find a new job. He hopes he’s grown. He begins to optimistically believe that, somehow, he’s changed for the better. And hopefully, the people hiring him will somehow, magically, know that. Perhaps he’ll never stop being Kamurocho’s heart. Maybe it’ll never stop calling out to him, deep down. But, he knows it’s there. He doesn’t want to pretend it doesn’t exist after he leaves. He will leave an imprint on this district, and it will be remembered. He will leave, and he’ll know that it’s out there.

And, he’ll discover that hospital food does not taste good. But, when Haruka tries it herself, and her face scrunches up, he can savor that and laugh.

After careful consideration, and a lot of tight hugs, Date finally convinces Haruka to come home with him for the night, just to get a bed, and not a chair. He tells her Saya would be glad to have her over. Haruka’s still afraid, but somehow, the hope that’s radiating from each breath Kiryu takes eases her. She’s starting to feel hopeful, too. She’ll come back tomorrow. Kiryu wraps his arms around her, nearly pulling her up off the ground, and he presses his mouth to her temple. He’s never done that before. His father never did. It feels natural to him, though. Somehow, he can manage that.

And, when night sets in, and he’s alone, he looks over to the bouquet. Slowly, he unwraps the string keeping the card attached to the stems of the flowers. He brings up the small note, up to where his eyes can see right, and he unfolds it. There, the note reads; ‘Thanks for the help. -F+F’ . Of course the bouquet would be from him, the Florist of Sai and Fukunaga. Somehow, it’s nice to know that they’re out there, still doing what they do best.

The nurses come in, ask him the sort of questions they’ll ask someone who got shot three times, and they decide to move him out of the intensive care unit, into the standard room for patients. He’s wheeled in on a wheelchair, and it makes him feel powerless in a way, but it only encourages him to recover faster, if that’s possible. Perhaps he can will it so, with just his thoughts. The nurses are nice, but wary of him. One was very clearly checking him out, as he moved himself into bed. They tell him they’ll occasionally come visit to make sure he’s doing alright on his recovery. He nods when he thinks it’s time to nod, and then they leave. He has a window to the outside world. It’s dark outside, but he can see the moon. It’s full, and glows against the backdrop of the night sky. It feels like it has been forever since he’s seen the stars. Eventually, he’ll be out of here.

And in the night, anything can happen.

Kiryu once again settles into his bed. It’s somehow more uncomfortable than his bed at home.

And then, his heart begins to pound.

It happens suddenly, one second he’s resting, the next he’s feeling everything all at once. It’s a funny kind of pre-recognition. It’s not a fearful kind of feeling. It’s not how he felt moments before Majima stepped inside his apartment. This, this is more like a rollercoaster. A manufactured scare meant for joy, and he feels like he’s about to drop. A genuine excitement, regardless of the gentle pain thrumming through him. Always, anywhere, he can count on one man to find him, no matter what. Slowly, his door slides open, on a particularly quiet night, in this particular hospital. Majima, and Majima alone, steps inside his room. Their eyes meet, and he slides the door shut behind him. He’s shirtless, a thick bandage wrapped around his stomach. He wears the same sort of sweatpants Kiryu is in right now, though they hug his hips much loosely, like they’re a size too big. He pitter-patters inside, like a ghost.

“You look like shit,” Kiryu says. He says it in relief.

“You’re not looking too good yourself, dick,” Majima replies. After a moment, he smiles.

Quietly, Majima shuffles a seat over to Kiryu’s bed. There’s a couple lights emanating from the various machines in Kiryu’s room, not to mention the moon carving through the window. It hits Majima’s face gently, hitting him in a faint blue-grey light. It suits his gaunt features, Kiryu thinks.

Before seating himself, Majima turns the chair backwards, and when he sits, he rests his arms on the back of the chair, his chin resting against them.

“You supposed to be out of your room?” Kiryu asks.

“Nope.” Majima says. “Nishida’s distractin’ the nurses by havin’ an allergic reaction.”

“What?”

“I told him I wanted to see you, so he ate a bag of peanuts. The kid’s dedicated. Don’t worry, he ain’t got one of those fatal things.”

Kiryu blinks.

“Huh. Okay.”

Loyalty to one’s patriarch can show itself in a lot of strange, stupid ways. He has to give credit to Nishida.

It feels strange, just sitting with Majima. Before, there was always something looming over the two of them, a terrifying inevitability. Now, there’s nothing. There’s just silence. Kiryu doesn’t know what to do with that. He had gotten so used to that anticipation, that he’s unsure of how to carry on without it. Majima doesn’t know just how Kiryu feels about him.

“Thanks for taking a bullet for me, Majima-san.” Kiryu eventually says, after a long moment of just existing with him.

Majima shuts his eye. “Yeah.”

“Don’t do it again.” Kiryu says. He’s not asking. “I feel like I owe you twice, now.”

Majima laughs.

“You don’t owe me shit. I think I’m the one that owes you.”

Kiryu blinks. He makes a soft noise, a gentle, ‘Huh?’.

“I felt like the whole world was crashin’ down on me.” He says. “Just every day, felt like I was dyin’. Somethin’ about you, Kiryu. You’re somethin’ else.”

Their eyes meet again. Majima’s gaze is so uncharacteristically gentle. In this light, Kiryu can see his crow’s feet. There’s a small light reflecting in his eye. He looks so tired. In a split second realization, Kiryu figures he’s attracted to him, attracted to those harsh features.

“What is this, Majima?” Kiryu asks.

Majima doesn’t respond. After a moment, he repositions his chair normally, just so Kiryu can see his bandages, see his chest.

Majima doesn’t know the answer.

“What is it to you?” He finally replies. It comes out like a gentle croak.

The cards are down on the table.

Majima is a man terrified of intimacy, but he dreams of giving it, deep down. He wants to touch people’s hair softly, but trembles at the thought of being touched himself. Violence has defined his life ever since he could walk. It’s become a part of him, who he is. He’s been hurt in a million different ways. Something is different about the way he feels about Kiryu. He still doesn’t trust him not to hurt him, he doesn’t trust anybody, but it isn’t out of hostility. He will most likely never sleep in the same bed as him, but he wants to touch Kiryu until his hands wear away into nubs. He is in love with Kiryu Kazuma, whatever love means for him. It is entirely different.

Kiryu is a man defined by the walls he puts up. Intimacy is something he’s long since ignored, something he attempted to mimic when he was with women he didn’t know very well. Everything has been about control all his life. Controlling himself. It’s gotten to the point that he’s never truly been able to tell just what he wants. The restraint has extended into his very being. Violence has defined his life in a way similar, yet completely different, from Majima. The way he feels about Majima, he doesn’t know if he can call it love, but it’s a connection like no other.

They’re both broken, but neither need to be fixed. Being with each other will not be able to completely heal either of their damage, but that is entirely, perfectly okay. Because, right now, in this room, Majima and Kiryu are just coexisting gently and purely. It’s a love Story like no other.

Majima does not yearn, does not ache, but he wonders.

They look at each other, and know that if there’s ever an opportunity, and the both of them are capable, and ready, they will take that chance. No matter how long it takes.

So, Majima does not recoil when Kiryu takes his hand gently, and places it upon his own chest. Majima feels his heartbeat, drumming loud and alive, and he knows Kiryu’s answer.

“I’ve got a lot of hang-ups.” Majima mumbles.

“I know.” Kiryu replies. “Me too. We’ll figure it out.”

Majima faintly runs his hand back and forth across his chest. They both listen to the soft sound of Majima’s palm on Kiryu’s skin.

“I still want to kick your ass,” Kiryu eventually says. He closes his eyes. “That won’t ever change.”

And so, Majima laughs.

“It better not. I don’t care if you got shot three times, I’ll still knock ya on your ass.”

He grins at Kiryu. It’s genuine. Kiryu laughs.

Seemingly, they live in two different worlds. Neither of them know what that means. Their veins overlap over and over again, a constantly ever-moving loop.

“So, tell me about yourself.” Kiryu asks. He thinks back to Haruka asking about a psych evaluation. About how a question can hold power.

“A day or two ago, I threatened to off myself in front of a nurse. Turns out, I say crazy shit when I’m down.”

“I heard about that. Date said you punched people.”

“I don’t know about that. I probably did. I was fuckin’ out of it. But it’s startin’ to freak me out now.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know. That that sorta shit just comes outta me. Take this shit to your grave, but after the hole…I just can’t even fuckin’ contain myself sometimes.”

Kiryu’s heard murmurs about the hole. A site in all lowercase, secretive and dark. Nothing comes out, but apparently, Majima Goro. He’ll never truly understand the pain that has sunk itself deep into Majima’s being.

“But, after all this bullshit with Shimura. I just don’t want to live like that. You did that to me.”

“Give yourself more credit. It takes a lot of work to make a change in yourself.”

“Yeah.” Majima sighs.

So, after a brief moment of shared silence, Kiryu asks another question.

“Will you tell me about Shimura?”

“Would you be pissed at me if I said no?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Kiryu’s honest when he says that. “It’s your business.”

“Then, it’s my business.”

“That’s fine. What about West Park?”

“What about it?”

“The fact that you own it.”

Majima makes a great effort not to say something mean, to push back. He knows this isn’t malicious. This is not prodding. After a moment, Kiryu rests his hand on top of Majima’s. Majima looks away for a moment.

“Fuck it. Yeah. Sure. I’ll tell you. It’s all dead news, anyways.”

Kiryu slightly turns, just to face Majima more.

“Back, fuck, I don’t know. Before you got out of prison, Shimano thought he’d improve his property value by colludin’ with the Omi. The same shit as with the Empty Lot. West Park gets demolished, pretty new shit gets put on top, the buildings surroundin’ the place go up in value. Plus, the added bonus of the Omi Alliance now havin’ a stake in Kamurocho as allies. So, he used me. West Park was cheap. Nobody fuckin’ wanted it. And since everyone thought I was fuckin’ crazy, nobody’d bat an eye at me buyin’ a waste of land. I was supposed to sell it to some people, go through some corporate loops, and somehow, it’d end up in Omi hands. Shimano’d be able to keep his hands clean, and if push came to shove, I’d be the one under the bus. But, I had some friends. Was able to convince the higher-ups to abandon the plan, that Shimano wasn’t the best guy to trust. It fizzled out, and…”

He lifts up his hands. Gestures lifelessly with them. Somehow, it’s both the hardest thing ever, yet so easy to say all of this. Kiryu must really have affected him.

“West Park stayed yours.”

“Yep. That’s all I’m sayin’ on the matter.”

“Thank you for telling me,”

“Yeah. Whatever. No problem.”

After a moment, Majima returns his hand to Kiryu’s chest.

“Alright, big guy. I’m not givin’ without somethin’ in return. Gimme something about yourself.”

“Huh. Alright.”

Kiryu rests his hand on his stomach. He lifts it gently, and brings it back down. He’s avoiding the gunshot wound as best as he can.

“Turns out, if the gunshot wound was any lower, the doctors said I could say goodbye to having any theoretical children that I’d maybe want to have.”

“Damn. Close call. Good thing nothin’ happened to the theoretical kids.”

Kiryu manages a laugh. It drifts off, and he goes back to thinking.

“I’m sometimes, rarely, very boring. You always find me at my most interesting.” He says.

Boring sounds enticing. Majima wants to see boring, in a very desperate way. It makes him want to see it in himself, too.

“That’s soundin’ like a hint towards sayin’ you do taxes.”

“I’ll probably end up in jail in the next couple years for accidentally fucking up my taxes.”

“We’re talkin’ about taxes.” Majima suddenly realizes. “Shit, man, we’re talkin’ about taxes.”

“I don’t know what to talk about now that we don’t have anyone to fight.” Kiryu admits.

“No clue, either.”

Kiryu runs his thumb over Majima’s knuckles.

“I’m still scared to go home.” Kiryu admits. He says it in a shameful sort of way. “I’m trying to be hopeful, that things’ll somehow be different. But, I’ll go home and I’ll still be poor. I feel like, if I stop going, I’ll cycle right back to how I was before you showed up. Just…Hopeless.”

“You still ain’t gonna take the money I offered?”

“No, because it’s yours. The letter in the briefcase made it clear.”

“Haw?” Majima crows. He pulls back a bit, turning his head. “Letter?”

“You didn’t know there was a letter in there?”

“I barely opened the thing.”

Kiryu, with the hand not currently on Majima’s, rubs his face.

“It was from Kashiwagi.”

“And are ya going to tell me what it said?”

“I feel like it’d be better if you read it yourself. But I expect a hotel maid has recently gotten very lucky.”

“You left it?” Majima says, mouth dropped. He has half a mind to smack him upside the head.

“You were my top priority. You wanna know what it said?”

Majima’s heart twists. After a moment, the weight in his head becomes too heavy, and he drops it down onto the bed. His forehead grazes Kiryu’s shoulder. He lets out a heavy sigh.

“Yeah,” He answers.

“He wished you luck. He said that he knew you had friends in high places. He had the feeling something was going to happen, to keep your head down. He sounded sincere. Apparently, one of those friends reached out to him to warn him something was stirring.”

Majima swallows. His throat is dry.

“I suppose nobody expected your boys to take over West Park. Nobody could’ve seen that coming. If Shimura and the Tsuruha Clan had their own plans before that, they threw those out of the window.”

“That fuckin’ shit,” Majima wheezes. He laughs, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know if he’s talking about Kashiwagi, or Katsuya.

“Was one of those friends the man who showed up in the sewer?” Kiryu asks sincerely.

“Who knows,” Majima answers. Kiryu suspects it’s just one of those things he’ll never truly know. He’s okay with that.

“Hm,” Kiryu hums. He keeps his hand over Majima’s.

Somewhere else, in another sort of world, Park Mirei spins her chair around towards the window behind her desk. She twiddles the Pen within her hands. She expects a call from Katsuya Naoki soon. No matter what, the three of them, her, Katsuya, and Majima, will always find themselves in each other’s crosshairs. No matter what, they’ve got a connection. She doesn’t see it as a bad thing. Whatever is happening in the lives of her friends, she hopes they’re safe.

“Can I touch your head?” Kiryu asks.

Majima squeezes his eye shut. It almost hurts to hear him ask, in a strange sort of way. It feels scary. It feels nice.

“No,” Majima answers honestly. “But you can touch my shoulder.”

So, Kiryu puts his hand on Majima’s shoulder. His skin feels coarse. His hand leaves goosebumps crawling over Majima’s skin, but he doesn’t recoil. In fact, he lets out a sigh of relief.

“You still think we’ll never see each other again once you go back to your life?” Majima asks. He’s whispering it, saying it desperately.

Kiryu clenches his jaw. He closes his eyes.

“It’d be for the best.” He answers. “But I’ve never really done what was best for me. Not at all.”

Majima finally lifts up his head. He looks at Kiryu.

“We’re officially retired,” Kiryu continues. “I suppose that gives us free reign to do what people our age do.”

“Go golfin’?” Majima asks.

“Why not,”

“I hate golfin’.”

Kiryu chuckles.

“What will you be doing with your family?” Kiryu asks.

“I dunno. Abso-fuckin’-lutely no clue. But, I said I weren’t leavin’ them, so I ain’t leavin’ them.”

“I think you’d be a good bricklayer.”

“What?”

“It’s a job, for construction companies. You lay bricks on top of each other.”

“Sounds monotonous.”

“You get used to that, when you’re retired. Or, in prison.”

“Ain’t gone to jail, yet,” Majima replies. “I’ll think on it. You’ve given me way too much shit to think about, Kiryu-chan. Way too much.”

“Apparently, I have that effect on people.”

“You’ve got some kind of effect, that’s for fuckin’ sure. Y’know, you smell like sewer-shit.”

“I’ve got a hole in my leg. You want me to be clean, pick me up and carry me to the shower yourself,”

So, Majima does just that. He stands, sliding his hands underneath Kiryu’s form. Immediately, Kiryu’s eyes go bug-wide.

“Stop that, I didn’t mean you could actually do it, ow!” Majima roughly regards his previously mentioned hole-leg. He points a fist at Majima’s collarbone. “I’ll make you swallow your teeth. Watch the IV!”

Kiryu watches it himself. He pulls it out, as Majima’s unrelenting. The IV machine gets pissed off, appalled by this absolute disregard for the medical field.

Majima lifts Kiryu up. Kiryu’s faced with a new sort of reality, where he is a man capable of being carried. Like a cat getting its scruff pinched before a shot, Kiryu goes almost limp. Disarmed and confused.

“Yer fuckin’ heavy,” Majima remarks. He doesn’t sound that phased by it, though. “Up-sie-daisy, dickhead.”

It feels different from being wheeled around the hospital. Majima’s skin is warm. Once he’s up in his arms, Majima’s careful not to cause any more harm. These are the glimmers of a what-if scenario. A sort of dream-like world where Majima carries Kiryu through a door, Kiryu makes him try dancing, Majima tries baking for the first time. It’s not for the real them, but it’s a nice thought. He’s just as happy getting jostled around by the real Majima. He’s happy to fight him, again and again, and he’s happy to witness this. This, is a secret, just for him.

There’s a seat in the shower. Majima leans him down into it.

“Ya might wanna be fast with it. No clue when the nurses’ll notice you’re outta your bed.”

“You’re an asshole,” Kiryu replies sternly. He grabs his waistband. “Grab the damn shampoo. I can’t get it from here.”

Majima hee-hee-hees as he reaches across the shower. He grabs the shampoo, and the conditioner, and sets them by Kiryu, on the seat. They’re both a little liquidy. Clearly not the best of the shampoo-and-conditioner business. Kiryu slides his sweatpants and briefs the rest of the way down. He kicks it away, out of the shower’s vicinity. It almost feels awkward, with Majima standing there. He doesn’t feel embarrassed under his gaze, though.

“Turn the shower on,”

“Hold up, stud.” Majima gestures to the bandages.

Kiryu looks down. He hums in acknowledgement.

“Oh,”

“Yeah, oh. That shit’s important to watch. Had Nishida down my throat after the batting cages.”

“There’s a lot of painkillers in me. It’s hard to remember.”

Majima leans down, crouches until his bones pop. He looks up at Kiryu, and Kiryu looks down at him. There’s a silent question being asked. Kiryu’s jaw clenches. After a moment, Kiryu nods.

With a strange sort of careful consideration, Majima places his hands on Kiryu’s shoulder. He’s always watched Nishida, never taken his eye off him. It’s stuck with him. He forgets a lot. He doesn’t forget that. He places his hands on Kiryu’s stomach. He unpins the bandage, top and bottom, and unwraps it. When he pushes it to a point he can’t reach, Kiryu takes the rest of it to continue unwrapping it. They’re working together. Majima can see the faded bruises on his skin. Kiryu sucks in a breath as Majima unwraps it all the way, slipping away from his stomach. There, on his navel, is Majima’s own failure. Red and angry, it will most likely scar. His hand grazes down to Kiryu’s thigh. Kiryu moves his leg closer to Majima. Majima presses a hand to the inside of his thigh.

“I could’ve done that one myself,” Kiryu tells him quietly.

“Yeah, I know,” Majima answers. He continues unwrapping. When he’s finished, he tosses it aside, along with the bandage for his stomach.

He stands back up. Presses his hand to Kiryu’s shoulder. Kiryu’s learning a lot of things about himself. His face is stoic, a glare in his eyes. His brow is pinched up, his forehead wrinkled. But there’s no hiding the red in his cheeks. Majima’s eye on him, it’s burning him up inside. To feel like he has his undivided attention. He had no idea this is what it would feel like. He had no idea he’d have anything close to this. He’s glad it’s someone like Majima. The bathroom light is medicinal, a lifeless sort of grey, but even so, Majima looks good in it. He can get a good look at Majima, see the small grey strands in his beard. He’s got visible, large pores, barely-there indents in his face that indicate years-long cuts. The bandage on his face makes it so he can’t smile that hard. He’s been talking softly the whole time he’s been here.

Kiryu’s discovering that this is the kind of person Majima really is. Quiet. When he’s himself, Majima is quiet. His voice is still rough, harsh, but he’s not a screamer, not really. It doesn’t come naturally to him. It’s something he’s just gotten used to doing, out of fear, out of anger. The way a person acts can imply a lot of things about their upbringing. Kiryu doesn’t want to know the kind of father Shimano was. He doesn’t know what that says about himself , though. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“...All kinds of fucked up, Kiryu,” Majima mumbles. He doesn’t know if he’s talking about Kiryu, or himself. He slips the bandage away. It joins the others.

“You’ll figure it out,” Kiryu answers, assuming the latter.

“If you’re sayin’ it, it’s gotta be true,” Majima says.

“I don’t know about that. I’m wrong about a lot of things.”

Majima keeps his hand on Kiryu’s shoulder. He does a gentle massaging motion, squeezing and unsqueezing. His thumb strokes his collarbone.

“Mmh,” Majima hums. It sounds scratchy. “Say I start up this theoretical company, start buildin’ shit. You think you’d wanna join the team?”

Kiryu laughs gently.

“I don’t think I’d want to see you as a foreman. No, it’s not for me. I tried it once. If I’m getting my hands dirty, I’d just want it to be from knocking someone’s teeth out.”

“That’s my boy,” Majima croons. “You’d be a buzzkill at the party, anyways. No offense.”

“You’re probably right. I don’t get along with punks.”

“They’re the best punks outta Kamurocho.”

“With their most recent behavior, I doubt that.”

“That was my fault. Y’know, I know I get explosive. At least I’m by myself. There’s only one me, but there’s thousands of them, all watchin’ what I do. I’m out of the game. One of these days, I’m gonna have to get outta Shimano’s shadow somehow.”

“I suppose this is the first step,” Kiryu says. “To becoming your own self.”

“I suppose it is.” Majima agrees. He’s not looking at Kiryu, but he gives his shoulder a squeeze. “I chose this,”

He’s referring to Kiryu. He’s referring to everything after he’s left. There’s no one controlling him but himself, now. He’s been acting out these characters too long, they’ve been grafted into the skin. There’s no extracting them, they are a part of him, as much as he is himself, he is that anger, he is Shimano, and he is Sagawa. He’s Nishitani, and he’s Lee. The truth is, there is no secretive, true, good, sweet little Majima underneath the skin. There’s only the parts he’s dedicated the last part of his life to hiding. When all he feels is violence, that’s all he can give out. It’s strange. It’s hitting him that Shimano Futoshi is dead. He will never step inside his office again. He is always going to grieve that, but, he’s got that spiteful part of himself, the part that’s kept him alive all this time. ‘Look at me, motherfucker, I’m alive,’ The part would cry out, standing above Shimano Futoshi’s grave, ‘You’re no father of mine’.

There was a time, long ago, that Majima Goro dreamed of going to college. He liked to read fantasy books, he dreamed of having a happy little family in a happy little house. He could see himself as a quaint little businessman. He was thirteen when he had those dreams, planning for the future without one in sight. A year later, and he’d meet Shimano, and everything would change. He’d try again, with that dream. At nineteen, he’d marry Mirei Park three months after meeting her, and then three months after that, they’d be divorced. He had found a family in Saejima and Yasuko, a brother and a sister, but he never lived with them, and he would visit rarely. Like an absent father. At twenty-two, after the hole, Sagawa was his doctor. He informed him that he’d never have kids, and prescribed him a bottle of whiskey. He never finished high school, and Sagawa saw him as an idiot. There was no point in dreaming anymore. He spent too long trying. There was no dreaming in this life.

Now, here he is, standing over Kiryu, bared only to him. A choice he himself made. A choice Kiryu made. Majima doesn’t know how long this will last, but he’s going to savor it.

He leans down. He presses his face to Kiryu’s. Their lips don’t meet, but their foreheads and noses do. It’s as good a kiss as they can manage. Majima touches his face, holds his cheek. They share their breaths. They close both their eyes.

After a moment, Majima groans.

“I’m gettin’ ya that fuckin’ shower.”

Head still leaned against Kiryu’s, he stretches his long arm to the shower valve, and twists it. Both of their heads are immediately struck, and soaked. Kiryu lets out a yelp, and Majima huffs out a funny laugh. He pulls away, his hair now completely in his face, and he throws his head back, slicking it out of his face with his hands. Kiryu scoots to the side to avoid the immediate blast of the shower. It feels like a million tiny pinches. He gives Majima a nasty look.

“Sorry, man. Couldn’t help myself.”

“Hand me the shower wand,” Kiryu demands, hissing it out. He shakes his head, water dripping down his face.

Majima listens. He grabs the shower wand, makes sure the water coming out of it isn’t too harsh, and hands it to Kiryu. Everything feels so intimate, but so devoid of anything sexual. That says something.

Kiryu eyes him, as he stands outside the shower, his head dripping.

“Are you trying to get a shower, too?” He asks, raising a brow.

“Nah. Not lookin’ to get naked.” Majima replies. He squats down, his elbows on his knees. “I’m plenty good right here.”

“You’ve seen me naked now. Twice.” Kiryu says.

“I’m tellin’ ya I don’t want to be naked. I don’t like it.”

“Oh,” Kiryu replies. Immediately, he feels guilt settle in his gut. “Wait, you don’t like nudity?” He suddenly then asks.

“Nope. Got skeeved out at all the porno mags as a kid ‘cuz I didn’t wanna see what was under there. Somethin’ about not bein’ able to see everything’s more enticin’ than seeing the whole thing.”

“Does that apply to me?” Kiryu then asks. He frowns. “What else don’t you like?”

“I dunno. Been about ten or so years since I got turned on, ‘till I met ya. So you got that goin’ for ya.”

Kiryu gives him a look as he smacks water out of his ear.

“Man, I could see you naked all day long. Fuck. Is that what you’re lookin’ for? You’re hot.”

“Thanks. Half the girls I ended up with were mostly disappointed.”

“You never went for men?”

“No. Felt too…I don’t know. I was with women because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. I thought I knew what to do. With men, I had no clue. It was alien. I was different. I never tried, until you.”

“Ain’t that a shame.”

“What about you?” Kiryu then asks. He reaches for a shampoo bottle, resting the shower wand in his lap.

“You ever hear the stories back in the nineties? Before you went to the slammer.”

Kiryu thinks for a moment. He hums as he does so.

“I heard murmurs that you had an insatiable lust for women, that could only be rivaled by your insatiable thirst for killing.”

Majima laughs, but it’s a thin sound. Almost distressed. He shakes his head.

“Makin’ me sound like some sort of fuckin’ vampire, or some shit. No, fuck no. All of it was just bullshit. I just get along with the ladies, more than I get along with any of the other fuckers in the clan.”

It’s different from Kiryu’s standard of gentleman-ship. He can’t explain it, though.

“Motherfuckers saw me with more than a few women, and started craftin’ that shit. Nah. I don’t try. I wasn’t interested.”

“Why am I different?” Kiryu then asks, scrubbing his scalp.

“Ya wanna know why? I have no fuckin’ clue. Probably has somethin’ to do with the fact that you can throw me through a window without breakin’ a sweat. Yeah, that probably has somethin’ to do with it.”

“Hm.” Kiryu responds. He doesn’t know how to feel about that answer. “Earlier, I asked what you didn’t like,”

“What, like sexually? Or generally.”

Kiryu sneers.

“I-I don’t know,” He replies, shrugging, then wincing. “Pick one.”

Majima rubs at his jaw, mouth open. Kiryu can hear it click. He can hear Majima’s hand running against his chin, his beard. It’s a faint scratching noise.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t like most shit.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Kiryu replies.

“Nah, nah, hold your damn horses. I’m thinkin’.”

Majima sniffles. He rubs his face, while Kiryu washes out the shampoo in his hair.

“I hate lyin’. That backstabbin’ shit. If I’m gonna do shit, I’m gonna do it honestly. Say it like it is, y’know?”

“I can agree with that. I think most people would see it that way, too.”

“Nah. You haven’t seen most people. What else? I hate when assholes pretend they know me, try touchin’ me all over. Fuckin’ hate that. I hate commercials. I hate when morons are late. And I hate hospitals. I hate it when shit is dirty. Or when-- Fuck me, when people come into your place, use your dishes, put ‘em in your sink, then don’t fuckin’ wash them! It’s common fuckin’ decency!”

Kiryu almost wants to laugh. He remembers him and Nishiki always doing that to each other. They’d endlessly complain at each other. A whole lot of back and forth. ‘I’ll stop when you stop!’, ‘Stop doing it, and then I’ll stop!’. It makes him smile to think about.

“You sound like an average person, Majima. For once, you sound average.”

Majima barks out a laugh.

“Shut yer yap. I’m fuckin’ unique.”

Kiryu rolls his head back. He certainly can’t argue with that. After applying conditioner, he washes out his hair. After that, he just holds the wand to his back, feeling it cascade down him. It’s almost relaxing. He sighs. Finally, after a moment of hesitation, he reaches out to attempt to put it away, turn it off. Majima takes it and does it for him. He mumbles out a thanks.

Even alone, there’s always that moment in the shower, the instant it’s over. A resounding, hollow feeling. Getting used to the sound of the water, then immediately, it’s gone. It feels like something is missing, but it’ll pass. It always does. Majima goes searching for a towel, and comes back with something more akin to a napkin. Hospitals have a lot of people to accommodate, and must cut corners, Kiryu supposes. He takes it, and begins drying himself off carefully.

“Alright. Help me up.” Kiryu says. He throws out an arm.

Majima quietly lifts him up. Instead of carrying him, this time he just holds his arm over his shoulder, stumbling carefully back to the bed.

“I’ll call in the nurse, tell her I showered myself, and that I need new clothes. New bandages, too. After you leave.”

Majima sets him on the bed. After a moment, Kiryu lays down.

“Probably for the best. Don’t want that shit gettin’ infected. It hurts. I oughta head out, anyways. I’m bettin’ the nurses have noticed I bailed by now.”

“Will you be getting out?” Kiryu asks.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. If they want me longer, I’ll throw a table out the fuckin’ window.”

“Nobody can keep you, Majima.” Kiryu muses. He says it fondly, if a little exasperated. “I’ll see you later?”

Something said so casually, so fondly. It does things to Majima. There, Kiryu lies, looking up at him and asking ‘I’ll see you later’, like it’s easy. Like he’s starting to get used to having Majima there.

That’s when Majima slaps a hand right across Kiryu, right by his head, and he leans in. He growls in his throat, sits a knee up on the bed, and hunches himself right over Kiryu’s form, their chests grazing. The bed creaks from the stress.

“You’re makin’ a serious sort of commitment here, Kiryu-chan,” He says. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean, you know it gets me mad. If we’re seriously doin’ this, I’m gonna need a solid confirmation.”

Kiryu sticks up his nose, and it grazes Majima’s. He remains a hard-ass, returning Majima’s glare. A man like Kiryu never backs down. He huffs out a strong, heated breath against Majima’s face.

“Then, I mean it. Kamurocho is only thirty minutes away. I want to try this with you.”

“You willin’ to put up with me? All of it? I’ll tell ya, baby, I am not a nice man.”

“I’ve put up with you this whole time,” Kiryu answers. His hands lay at his sides. “Neither of us are nice.”

“I guess not,” Majima grunts. “Nah, nobody is keepin’ me, Kiryu-chan. But,” He presses his head to Kiryu’s. “Keep talkin’ like this, and I’ll keep ya instead.”

Kiryu gulps. His throat is dry.

“I’ll catch ya later, Kiryu-chan,” Majima coos. He lifts himself up off of Kiryu, and just like the shower, Kiryu misses the feeling. Like he had gotten used to it, in the short amount of time he had it.

“Yeah,” Kiryu answers. “I’ll catch you later.”

So, Majima slinks away. He shuts the door, and he’s gone. Even now, Kiryu feels him. He’s going to be feeling this for a long time.

“I hope this letter finds you alive,

Look at you, always stirring up trouble when you don’t need to. I suppose it isn’t surprising, I know the kind of man you are. Go a little easy on us, why don’t you? I feel closer to my grave everytime I even hear your name. I hope you’re keeping yourself fed and watered.

Sometimes I wonder if things had turned out different, if I’d be finding you in my office. They’re fleeting thoughts, the kind of things I see in my dreams. You oughta not get any ideas out of that admission, I’d just keel over and die if I find you dragging mud through my life once again, it’d be my last words, let it be known it was you who killed me!

I wonder if you’ll even get this letter, or if you’ll even read it. It’s your choice. I’ve learned to not care whether or not you do. I don’t mean this in an antagonistic, or hostile manner, but with lives as different as yours and mine, these are the choices that must be made. I know you’ll agree. I hated admitting how similar we were, how angry I could get at you and how that said something about myself. I know I’m rambling. Frankly, I don’t care.

I’ve come to terms with my life, I did a long time ago. I think that’s the difference between you and I. Or at least, the you I remember. A lot can change. I’m brought back to those thoughts I sometimes have, as fleeting as they are. They’re dreams, but dreams can be, can mean, a lot of things. I don’t think they’re the wistful kinds, the kinds that make me want to run back into your arms. The thought is nauseating. They aren’t nightmares, either. I don’t regard you with hatred. I don’t know if I’ll ever find the word to describe how they make me feel. I am not a nostalgic person.

I am a crabby, bitter old lady, and I certainly like it to stay that way.

The last time I received a letter from you was December 17th, 2003. I hope in that time you’ve found something kinder for yourself. I want you to know that I did cheer when I heard that man you called father died. Call me cruel, but I sleep sounder knowing where he is. He put us all through enough.

I’ve done a lot of reflection on my life as I’ve gotten older. Sotenbori is just as grimey as you’ll remember it. The press call me self-made, alone and lonely. The old me may have agreed. But now, even though I may not see the faces of my friends, I still feel them. I hope it’s the same way for you. I don’t hate you, and I certainly don’t like you. Isn’t that a funny thing?

Katsuya worries for you. I know better than to do that. Your life is just that, your life. I don’t worry, but I do hope. I have received your letters. They will remain unopened until the day that I see you again, face to face. You may call me stubborn, and you’d be right. That is my dream. The metaphorical kind you’d talk about. Dreams.

I hope you haven’t forgotten how to do that.

Your friend, Mirei.”

Katsuya stands with his hands behind his back, cigarette perched between his lips like a flagpole. He sticks out like a sore thumb in Kamurocho’s air. Majima stands face-to-face with him, although his eye is on the letter clutched between his shaking hands. It’s snowing, albeit lightly. Each drop shines like a piece of glitter in the light of the sunrise. The sky, the small bits peeking through the clouds, is pink. The clouds almost appear like waves, crashing and violent.

Life almost feels like it’s on pause as Majima reads. Katsuya doesn’t move, and neither do the shadows outside the alleyway they stand in. Everything feels fresher, feels crisper. Majima supposes this is what it means to have a new lease on life. He is a statue as he reads, unexpressive and silent. Her handwriting is sharp. There’s an uneasiness in the joy Majima’s feeling now. A terror. How long will it last, he asks. People recognize him. People see him.

“Well,” Majima says, as life starts up once again. “Handwritin’s too damn small to read. Probably ain’t an interestin’ read, anyways.”

His hands close around the letter, folding it into itself. After another moment, he crumples it entirely, the sound echoing throughout the alley. He squeezes his palms around the ball he’s created, and when he’s satisfied, he shoves it into the pocket of his coat. All the while, Katsuya’s eyeing him without emotion, almost like he expected this.

After a moment, Katsuya’s shoulders slack. It’s all at once, almost like a puppet cut from its strings. He turns, just a bit, and his shoulder nudges with Majima’s.

“I’ll let you save face, Majima, however,” He hums, the barest smirk across his thin lips. His voice lowers into a deep whisper. “I know you’re soft.”

Majima takes the cigarette between Katsuya’s lips and puts it out, right on the brick wall closest to Majima, giving Katsuya a smart look.

“And I know you’re a bitch,” Majima retorts. “How the hell did Shimura get past your eye?”

“I have a job. The kind where I don’t need to babysit old men like they’re teenagers.”

“Right, you babysit regular teenagers.” Majima says.

“Precisely,” Katsuya replies, dry. “Besides, everything’s been chaotic since December. Shimura was just able to slip through all that noise. I hadn’t noticed anything different until I was contacted by your people.”

“And you’ve just been observing from the shadows the whole time?”

“Not entirely. You already had one man from the Omi running around. You add another, and the Tojo Clan would get nervous. I stayed out of sight, but I helped when I could.”

“Figures.”

Majima eventually lights his own cigarette. He turns out towards the exit, towards the rest of the city. Right out from the alley, Nishida and Fukunaga are conversing. Majima’s too far away to hear.

The injuries on Majima remain. He still aches, but it gets better every day. It’s a reminder. Each ping of pain is a reminder. He remembers Shimura’s gaze, his words. Do you honestly think you’re better than me?

Majima knows the answer. He should’ve always known the answer.

It feels almost relieving, knowing the smoke has cleared, but Majima knows now that nothing is truly over. All Majima has to do now is look at the board, look at the pieces still there.

“Tell me, Ka-chan, how’s it look from your end?” Majima asks him. He huffs out a puff of smoke.

“How do you mean? From where I’m looking right now, you look like shit.”

Majima stomps his foot, thrusting his face right into Katsuya’s. He pulls up one corner of his lip, scrunching his nose.

“Get off my back! I’m fuckin’ talking about the Tsuruha Clan. You worked with ‘em under the same team. You fuckin’ called him aniki.”

“That was a long time ago, Majima,” Katsuya says, unaffected by Majima’s provocation. “Once the Sagawa Family dissolved, we scattered.”

Majima’s face softens, his eye twitching around Katsuya’s face. Relenting, he slides back upright, back until he’s hitting the brick wall behind him.

Majima watches as Katsuya falls into a gentle silence. He brings his hands out from behind his back, and he toys at the cuffs of his sleeves. He purses his lips.

“Shall I start from the beginning? Shimura was a bitter man, down to his core. Not to say we’re angels, but he was petty. I think he’s hated you since the eighties. Jealousy? Maybe. He may be older than us, but he had the fortitude of a child. Once I tipped the scales with the West Park deal, I assume he learned you held the deed through the grapevine. The deal was dead on arrival. I reminded the higher-ups of the last time they trusted Shimano, how well that ended.” As he tapers off, he offers a careful glance towards Majima.

“In their best interest to stay away from that shark,” Majima adds quietly. Katsuya nods.

“They took it to heart. They realized the complications that would arise if they implicated Park-san. Regardless, you kept West Park. I knew Shimura had recently moved in on Tokyo’s outskirts, doing business, but I didn’t think too much of it. I figured he’d get burnt out, or the Tojo Clan would just bully him out. Make no mistake, Shimura was low level. So much so that half of the people I spoke to about him didn’t know who he was. I don’t know what his initial plan was, if he planned to kill you, steal the deed, or what, but when your family took over West Park, I suppose he saw his chance. Whatever plan he had was thrown out the window. I suppose that explains why everything felt so sloppy. We are not sloppy.”

Majima scratches his chin. He’s got dandruff in there.

“He wanted to use my boys to get to me. Use ‘em like a meat shield. Guess he didn’t count on the Tojo being loyal, stupid shits.”

“I’m just glad we resolved this with the least amount of bloodshed possible. Especially with men like you and Kiryu Kazuma in the spotlight. He certainly lives up to my expectations.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Majima waves his hand back and forth. “Keep your eyes to yourself. The man’s retired.”

“Same as you, now?”

“Sure.”

There’s peace between them. Majima lets Katsuya’s shoulder touch his once again. He watches the snow land on Katsuya’s dark coat, watches them melt into him.

“When was the last time we saw each other face-to-face?” Katsuya asks gently.

“Nineties. Can’t remember the exacts. Wasn’t doing too hot back then.” Majima replies.

“And what about now? Doing better?”

Majima contemplates that. Two words, heavier than anything else in that question. Doing better. He thinks about Kiryu’s smile. He thinks about Nishida’s forehead pressed against his. He thinks about Mirei, however she looks now, biting the tip of a pen. The bitter pill to swallow is that nothing is going to fix him, but he can reflect. He is the ruler of himself. For the first time, he owns himself.

The book is in his hands now. It’ll be up to him to decide when it’s time to close it.

“Something like that,” Is all Majima answers with. “I’ll do what I can. If that ain’t enough, I’ll do more.”

“And what will that mean? What are you going to do?”

Majima looks up towards the sky. There’s a certain finality to this that’s nearly nostalgic. Something wistful. Maybe something to do with those pinstripes, with that sun. Sometimes, life feels like a series of repeated scenes. He understands what Sagawa meant when he spoke of immortality.

“Once the police are cleared out of West Park, Tokyo’s gonna close in around it. Construct whatever it is they’re gonna construct, and that’ll be the end of it. But, I’ll be there.”

“You’ll be there?” Katsuya asks.

“Yep. Ain’t feelin’ too good about that, but that’s life. Government gets ballsy, just as much as the Tojo Clan. At least if I’m there, I can keep ‘em both in check. Power’s one hell of a drug.”

Katsuya blinks. “So you’re suggesting…”

“Yep. If I ain’t gonna be in the clan, I oughta be findin’ a job. Besides, it’ll keep the boys busy. Honest living.”

Katsuya laughs. His eyes crinkle when he does. After a moment, his hands find their places in his pockets.

“Then, I suppose we’ll have no reason to meet after this, Majima.” Katsuya says.

“Good riddance. Hope I never see your posh little ass in my city again.”

Majima places a hand onto Katsuya’s back. After a moment, it slides to his shoulder.

It’s dawning on him that Mirei may have the right idea. There could be one billion miles between the three of them, and Majima will still love them.

“Y’know I’m not a sentimental man,” Majima tells him. “I ain’t got anything more to say to you. Scram.”

Katsuya can see the obvious contradiction in Majima’s words and Majima’s face. He’s looking at Majima with a smile. There’s not many people Majima can trust to read through him with good intentions.

“Then, that’s that.” Katsuya replies. He’s adjusting his suit once again, and like the snap of a finger, his smile drops. “I’ll be looking forward to hearing about the prospects of…” He rubs his chin. The corner of his lip twitches. “Majima Construction?”

“Bite me!” Majima barks, twisting his head to the side, away from Katsuya. Regardless, he can hear the man chuckle warmly. It’s a sweet sound.

Majima’s sure that’s the right thing he wants to say, the last thing Katsuya may ever hear from him. He wants those two words to be the freshest thing in Katsuya’s mind when he thinks of him. He wants it to be a fond thing.

“O-once again, we’re terribly sorry. Please send our apologies to the Florist.” Nishida says.

Fukunaga rolls his head around, his neck cracking loudly. He waves Nishida off.

“Just keep your boys workin’, and we’ll be peachy.” Fukunaga replies.

Nishida stands alongside Takano, along with a few others, outside the alleyway Majima stands in. Nishida’s got a tight leash on Takano, keeping a close eye on the boy. It’s only been a week, or so. Time will tell how changed Takano really is. Nishida has his doubts, but Nishida has a tendency to doubt everything. Takano sniffles, and rubs his running nose. They’re on Nakamichi Street. There’s the faint sound of 8-bit clamor.

“Of course we’re gonna be workin’, old man!” Takano retorts, offended. “We’re-”

Nishida smacks him upside the head.

“We’re all very sorry!” Nishida once again yells, scrunching his face up. Takano whines.

“This city’s full of pests,” Fukunaga says. For a moment, he gives a sly glance towards Takano, a faint smirk on his face. “The upper class, hell, the middle class’ll point the fingers at us, all the while, they’re the ones reportin’ us for trying to survive. They want us out. We just want to live. Yeah, the city’s full of pests. As long as you keep your boys pointed at the real monsters of this place, things won’t get worse. Can’t say they’ll get better, but maybe I’ll see a lot less innocent blood spilled.”

“The Majima Family will be your watch dog, Fukunaga-san,” Nishida says, furrowing his brow. “Promise.”

“Yeah, yeah, cut the sanctimonious crap,” Fukunaga cough-laughs. He rubs his hands together. “You can talk all day, but I wanna see it.”

Nishida nods. He remains resolute, even when his brow twitches nervously. He remains true to his word, no matter what.

This is when Majima finishes with Katsuya. When he emerges, he’s got his hands in his pockets. Katsuya walked the other way, sliding on a pair of sunglasses.

“Alright, I’m done.” Majima announces. “Takano, you fuckin’ behaving?” He asks.

At the sound of Majima’s voice, Takano springs into action. His eyes widen, and he whips around. He dips his head.

“Yes, Oyaji!” He yelps. Majima grabs the back of his jacket, pulling him back upright.

“Cut that out,” Majima tells him, chiding him like a father, “You keep stayin’ out of trouble.”

“Yeah,” Takano breathes, nodding. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll do you proud.”

Takano meets Majima’s gaze. There’s a resoluteness in both of their gazes, like the fire from their fight. The boy isn’t broken. He’ll be fine.

Majima tilts his head towards Nishida, who perks up. The sun hits Nishida’s face. Even in the cold, there’s a shining sweat on his brow.

“If you’re headin’ out,” Fukunaga hums, holding one of his hands with the other, massaging his palm. “You keep an eye out for Kiryu Kazuma. He’s good people. Better than the rest of us.”

“Like he needs to be taken care of!” Takano gasps, eyes widening. “I’ve seen the dude fight! It’d take…” He pauses, eyes looking off into nothing. He appears to be counting, counting, counting, then, he sighs, apparently having lost his train of thought. “Nah, that guy won’t die.”

Without a piece of wood, Majima knocks his knuckles onto Takano’s skull. Knock, knock, knock.

“You be quiet,” Majima instructs him, grinning. Then, he turns to Fukunaga. “You stay safe, old man.”

“It’ll be like you never saw me,” Fukunaga tells him, offering him a sly smile. The man adjusts his coat.

Majima sniffles as he turns away from Fukunaga. He doesn’t start walking until he hears the footsteps of Fukunaga quieter, quieter, gone. The sound of the city returns, thousands of footsteps grow, grow, grow. That’s when he’s nudging Nishida forward. Takano, catching the drift, follows them into the sea-crowd ahead.

Each passing building offers their own little piece of light that reflects off of Majima’s coat, each passing individual gives Majima their own little side-eye before they’re gone. He’s never going to stop feeling thrill when he meets their eye, when they walk faster just so they don’t have to look at him any longer. He’s got plenty of other people who’ll look at him, no matter how he appears.

“How’s the work, Takano?” Majima suddenly asks, gesturing a hand to the boy. It nudges his chest.

“Huh? Oh,” Takano slouches forward, his neck craning. “We’ve been pickin’ out a few stragglers from the Tsuruha Clan, most of ‘em still holed up in the sewers.”

“Purgatory is operational again,” Nishida chimes in.

“Yeah. This city’s a fuckin’ maze, I swear.” Takano adds.

“Where’s that comin’ from?” Majima asks him.

Takano opens his mouth at the same time Nishida does. When they both realize this, they look at each other in some battle of the minds.

“Well,” Nishida elongates, while Takano scoffs, “With the Majima Family now acting as protection for a lot of the homeless people in Kamurocho, a lot of the boys have been getting lost. Most of them have never been up on the roofs, or the underground. Though, a lot of the people have moved into Dragon Palace, along with some of the other unused buildings.”

“I don’t get it. Why build somethin’ if you’re not gonna use it? It’s a fuckin’ office, use it.”

Majima claps his hand on Takano’s back.

“Well, if nobody’s usin’ it, that means it’s free real estate! Can’t get mad about people usin’ what’s available.”

“People will get mad, though.” Nishida hums, voice formal. “Unreasonably so. That’s why we have bats.”

West Park is a recent wound, one that most likely will never close up. The least the Majima Family can do is try to make it right, mostly with violent solutions.

Majima throws his head back, jaw clicking as he opens it wide to let out a howling laugh. People turn their heads towards him, and he keeps laughing.

“Can’t say I didn’t miss these little morons,” Majima wheezes, leaning to hit his forehead against the side of Takano’s head. It makes an audible bonking sound, as Takano reels back.

As they walk up Nakamichi, Majima glances upwards at the tower. He can see the scaffolding surrounding the top. Who knows how many people are up there trying to clean up the place. The first few floors of the building are still functioning, with people passing in and out of it as they usually do. Majima notices a little group grouped up on the stairs. At the sight, Majima quickly skips up onto the sidewalk, while Takano and Nishida match his pace.

“Adachi-chan!” Majima calls.

Majima recognizes the group that have assaulted him again and again in the past few weeks. Adachi’s wearing a large black coat that almost envelops his large head. Inoue’s baby face looks up at Majima with wide deer-eyes. Majima can see a few new piercings on his ears. Arai’s eating a sandwich wrapped in paper, and even with Majima’s appearance, Ushiki is trying to take it from him. Majima also quickly recognizes the rest of the group, the homeless people who distracted the cops long enough for Majima to get down into the sewers. The woman with the ball, the smoker, and the larger man.

The woman has a yo-yo this time tangled in her lanky fingers. “Hey, big boss,” She croaks, letting the yo-yo dangle like a pendulum. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Not in jail, huh,” Majima hums, resting one of his feet on the step above him, leaning his arm on his knee.

“Nope,” The smoker says. “Oh, shit.” He quickly begins tapping the shoulder of the large man next to him.

The man’s face lights up as he quickly leans forward, gloved hands covering his knees.

“If you’re gonna see more of us, then,” He starts, holding a hand between his chest. “Morimoto,” Hand gestures to the smoker, “Gen,” Then to the woman, “Ruby.”

Another one of Majima’s boys, Kuwahara, is currently poking a finger at the string of Ruby’s yo-yo.

Gen retrieves Majima’s lighter from his coat, having kept a good hold on it this whole time. He gives Majima a crooked brow, a question on whether he wants it back or not. Majima replies with a nod of his head, and Gen quickly lights his own cigarette, pocketing the lighter once again.

“The hell are you lot sittin’ around for?” Majima turns to his boys.

“Chilling.” Arai responds, his mouth full.

“You got shit to do, moron!” Takano blows up, his face going red.

Arai, unphased, eats another bite of his sandwich.

Morimoto scratches his thick beard. He has a handsome kindness to his face. “We got the kid on a quick shopping trip.” He says, looking up at Majima.

“Kid?” Nishida asks.

“Daisaku, his papa kicked him outta his house and out here.” Ruby says. “He’s a little shit.”

Gen laughs, the cigarette pinched between his fingers.

“Ain’t that the truth!” Majima grins, tilting his head towards his boys. “You’re sittin’ next to the little shit convention.”

There’s a large cacophonous whining. When Majima makes a sound akin to a pig growling, the sound dies out.

“Gotta say, Majima,” Ruby says, presenting the boys with a move called ‘rock the baby’ , “Life’s a strange mistress. One minute, we’re in West Park, the next, we’re palling up with gangsters.”

“At least we’re not Fukunaga!” Gen gasps, “You heard the shit he pulled with Kiryu Kazuma, right?”

Morimoto gestures by throwing his arm out in an arc, vocalizing a ‘donk!’ sound. “-With a crowbar!”

“That’s not anything!” Adachi intervenes, lifting both of his hands. “You oughta see that fuckin’ monster right there!” He points to Nishida, who sheepishly scoots behind Majima’s shoulder. “He just doesn’t go down! I should know!”

“You beat on my boy, I beat on you,” Majima chides, reaching over to pull Nishida back next to him, patting his collarbone. “Play nice with your big brother!”

The boys all snicker to themselves. It’s miles apart from fear.

“Can’t believe you guys almost got arrested trying to protect Oyaji,” Inoue says, leaning forward to address Ruby’s group, “That’s real.”

“When push comes to shove, work together,” Ruby says, though her eyes are still on the yo-yo.

“I’m back, bitches!”

Everyone quickly lifts their heads up to the boy skipping up the steps, narrowly avoiding slipping on the ice.

This boy’s got a narrow face, with a big pouty mouth. None of his outfit goes together, and as he falls backwards to sit next to Ruby’s group, Majima notices all the indents in his face, all the places where he should have piercings. This is the Daisaku mentioned before. He holds a Poppo bag between his knees, as the group reach in to recover their requests.

“You won’t believe it, I was walking, and, I said you won’t believe it, I saw some guy trying to rob the Poppo! And I told him to fuck off! He was totally wasted, and-”

“Shut up, Minami!” Inoue uncharacteristically shouts. The two of them quickly glare at each other. Majima may not know this, but Inoue and Minami have a long, long, annoying history in high school.

“Well, kids, papa’s gotta run.” Majima announces, lifting both of his arms up triumphantly. He takes a step backwards. “Keep up the work.”

He doesn’t notice Minami’s eyes lighting up when he realizes Majima’s standing there.

“And don’t fuckin’ slack!” Takano barks, pointing specifically at Adachi.

“See you, sailor,” Ruby bids farewell.

Majima gives a two-fingered salute, and Gen shares the gesture with his cigarette.

The boys quickly give their loud, loud farewells as Majima turns on his heel, giving Takano and Nishida a nod. After a few feet, he can’t help but look backwards. There, his group’s smiling. That’s something to be proud of. Huffing out a breath, he turns around. As he walks away, Nishida and Takano follow, dancing through the shadow of the tower looming above.

Walking through Taihei, Majima’s taken note of how Nishida refuses to fall behind now. No matter how many people smash into his shoulder, he doesn’t fall behind.

“I-I’m glad you’re not dead, Oyaji,” Nishida eventually says.

“Like a broken record, this one,” Majima muses, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“I know you’re not,” Nishida replies, gulping. “You’re…Like a scab!”

“Woah,” Majima yelps, then laughs. He barks it out. “Tellin’ it like it is!”

“If I never have to pick glass out of your face again, it’ll be too soon!” Nishida moans, pale in the face. He squeaks what he says, but it doesn’t reduce the feeling behind it. There’s care in his eye.

“I thought you liked dotin’ on me, Nishida, you’re breakin’ my heart.”

“I’ll always be there! I just don’t want to see you like that again!”

“And, if we’re lucky, you won’t.” Majima’s voice drops, low and serious.

“Because we’re retired,” Takano announces to absolutely no-one. “We’ll be bustin’ our asses out there the right way.”

“That’s the right idea, kid,” Majima urges. “Now scram. You oughta be checkin’ on the rest of the business, make sure nobody else is slackin’ on the job, Captain Takano,”

Takano stops in his tracks. After a moment, Nishida and Majima do as well. They turn back towards the boy, with his bleached hair and baby-face. This was the leader of the Takano Family, an angry, rage-fueled boy, led by grief and fear. The truth of the matter is, he’s a riot. They all have hearts, down in their rowdy chests. Majima’s had a chance to see all of them.

“Yes, Oyaji!” Takano squeals, jumping backwards as he twirls around, gesturing a hand towards Majima. He runs opposite the stream, pushing past the people, cursing at them each time. As the crowd closes in on the path he opened up, Majima can still see the top of his head bouncing up and down.

After a moment, shoulder-to-shoulder, Majima and Nishida return to walking.

The crowd blends together, the voices drown out, and Majima’s got his one good eye on Nishida’s stubborn profile, his scrunched brow. The same courageous man who beat Majima upside the head, again and again. The man who will again, and again, pull Majima back to the shore. Majima will never be able to repay him fully.

He’s looking forward to seeing his phone light up again and again with texts from Nishida.

There was a time where it invoked anger, anger and hatred. He never knew how to cope with that. Nishida would ask him if he was taking his medication. If he was safe. Where he was. No matter the day, Majima could expect a wellness check on him from Nishida. He doesn’t know how Nishida did it. How he could stand to be around a man like Majima. He’s still asking himself that question now. He recalls the fight he had with Kiryu, in the darkness of Majima’s motel room, demanding Majima step up, for the sake of his men. It was a light, a certainty he hadn’t seen in a long time. That’s what he saw in Kiryu’s eyes. No matter what, he meant what he said, and he believed it fully. In that way, Kiryu and Nishida are alike.

In Kiryu’s eyes, Majima once had long ago. An admiration. A blatant trust. Majima’s envious of it, as much as it disgusts him. He’ll never get closure on that, but he knows when to let it lie. The present is here, and the past is there. The Nishida standing with him right now is the same Nishida who rubbed circles upon Majima’s back, held his hair as he vomited. Everytime Majima closed the door on Shimano’s office, Nishida was there to look at his face, look him in the eye, even when he was terrified to do so. Familiarity is a dangerous beast. Majima doesn’t want to be afraid of it.

Majima puts an arm around Nishida, and as fast as Nishida tenses up, he eases. That means something.

“-The men, with alleged ties to the Omi Alliance, have been taken into custody. The ringleader, one Toru Shimura, fifty-six, and Akio Sugimori, sixty-five…”

In the window of a certain little shop, dozens of televisions stacked on each other retell the Story. People crowd around them, enamored with the tale, bewildered by how it progressed, listen silently. Majima strides past the groups, his head held high. He doesn’t need his own Story played back to him. Nishida turns his head, watching the televisions flicker, displaying the bruised faces of the villains. Majima can hear him breathe a sigh of relief.

“That was crazy!” A man remarks. “The whole city on lockdown!”

“It was scary…” A younger woman replies, her face pouting. She leans her head against the man’s shoulder. “But I know you would’ve protected me!”

Another group sit amongst each other. “With all the shit going down, I was half expecting the tower to blow up again!”

“Hey man, don’t joke about that. I heard people died.”

“Yeah, gangsters,”

More crowds…

“I heard that Kiryu Kazuma marched down into West Park and stopped Shimura himself…”

“That’s impossible! He had, like, a billion guys with him!”

“Yeah, but you heard about this Kiryu guy, right, he’s, like, a battering ram! He had the whole Tojo Clan crying for their moms!”

Majima keeps walking. It’s none of his concern, after all. He’s retired!

The city’s alive, just as it should be, and Nishida and Majima walk as miniscule, microscopic parts of it. After passing the news report, Majima can hear the faint sound of a woman singing over the radio, children hitting each other with snowballs, a man rubbing his hands together making a loud ‘brr’ sound, cars honking at each other, the sound of birds flocking together. This is where he belongs. No matter how filthy and heinous the city can be, it’s alive.

Snow continues to drift. Majima knows better now than to ward Nishida away from the sight approaching, as Nishida walks with certainty alongside him. The pavement walkway grows more wilted as they walk, more violent cracks left unfilled. This is the path to Majima’s apartment.

Familiarity is a dangerous beast.

He can see the silhouette of the building, out in the distance, hazy in the fog. There’ll be a vomit stain on the side of the building from when Majima threw up on it. There’ll be the hopelessness in tenant two-oh-one’s door. There’ll be a faint blood splatter from where tenant three-eleven landed. On the fourth floor, there’ll be a shattered window that belongs to him, where the curtains hang out and drift aimlessly. The interior was blue-grey when he wasn’t there, and it’ll be blue-grey when he walks in.

Even now, Majima grows heavier. When he sees that sight, walks this walk, he feels his steps grow heavy, and he feels like he can see the back of his head.

This is when he stops.

Nishida stops too.

Wind rushes past Majima’s hair, a violent, sharp wind stinging his ears. It feels refreshing, almost. The breath he takes in is cold, like an awakening. It is not a cruel wind. It points in the opposite direction from the apartment building. The sound drifts. Drifts between the two of them as Nishida turns to face him. His face is red from the chill, and Majima watches a shudder run through him.

About one million thoughts run through Majima’s head. Different choices, actions he’s made and can make. If he walks through that door again, there he’ll be, fueled with just as much hatred and disgust as the week before, and the week before that, back when his life was monotonous. He fears that being back there, he’ll turn right back into the person he knows he can be, knows he was.

“Hey…” Majima gasps, quiet and hushed. It’s almost gentle. It’s surprising to hear slip past his lips.

Nishida’s eyes narrow, his mouth parts.

“Did you ever consider leavin’ me to the wolves?” Majima asks him.

“Not once.” Nishida answers.

“That place oozes hell, Nishida. The moment he told me it was my home. It was hell.”

Nishida begins to connect things in his head. He looks towards Majima, then back towards the building. He shudders once more.

“Sometimes…For your sake, it’s better to leave while you can.” Nishida says. “Sometimes, it’s too much to bear. There’s no shame in knowing when you need to quit. When to cut something loose.”

He says this while staring out at the building. Nothing in his voice tells Majima that he ever thought about this until now, that he never once considered this.

“Ain’t that hypocritical?” Majima asks him, honestly, truly asks him.

Nishida whips back around to face Majima. He’s got that nauseated, determined look on his face. He casts his gaze away as he collects his thoughts, like he knows he can’t face Majima until he’s got the answer, the key. He’s transparent, and Majima can see the mental journey he’s on just by looking at his round face.

“Who cares?” Nishida finally answers. The wind grows quiet, pin-drop quiet. Majima looks at him with a crooked head, his mouth dropping open. Nishida is a man with a lot of words to say, how can someone respond to that? With such determination in his face, Majima can’t doubt him. Who cares? “Being in that place, it’s dreadful! It’s horrible! I never want to see it again, and just thinking about it makes me sick!”

Nishida, honestly, truly, does not care if it appears hypocritical. He chose his battles wisely and unwisely. Hypocrisy might just be a fact of life. Nishida has a lot more patience for monstrous people than that monster of an apartment. It’s time Majima thought more about Nishida’s point of view.

So, Majima sticks his foot out, and twirls around. The breeze picks back up again, pushing his back, pushing him forward. The choices Majima can make, they’re all equally possible, the world is a strange, strange place. The kind of place where he can find somewhere else to live, and leave that literal non-literal blackhole to the dust.

“Home ain’t about where ya live!” Majima announces, like he’s just been enlightened. Lighter and lighter the steps he takes, and he’s reaching behind himself to tug Nishida, urging him to walk faster. Nishida yelps, and in the quietest way he can, lets out a breathy laugh. “Fuck me, it’s about the bastards that’ll put up with your sorry ass!”

Nishida’s been Majima’s backbone. All these years, Nishida’s been here. No matter how much pain Majima enacted on him, because Majima wanted Nishida to hurt just like him, Nishida remained certain that Majima was the man he wanted to follow. There’s no righting that, violence is a stain that can’t be washed out, but Majima will look at him with trust, and he won’t let it be clouded with vitriol. He can’t say he’s perfected this. Violence will always be a part of who Majima is. He was taught that a raised fist was better than an I’m proud of you.

He’s got that lesson still bouncing through him, though, the voice that’ll tell him to turn around and hit Nishida right in the nose, hit him until he’s bleeding, the energy that’ll tell him the best thing he can do is grab a man by his collar and make him fear death. That feeling will always be with Majima to let him know he’s still alive, tell him that regardless of anything that comes at him, he’ll be able to get the fuck back up and scream. It’s as much terrifying as it is comforting, and it’s carried him this far.

That fire, that drive, it exists in Majima and it exists in Kiryu, Majima’s witnessed that again and again. He can hear Kiryu’s preacher-voice in his head, I don’t let it control me . Anger defines much of their lives, but maybe anger isn’t an awful thing.

The best heroes are very, very angry.

So, maybe Majima is still a violent, mean, angry man. It’s less about a fight between nature and nurture, and more about the river between the two of them. The world doesn’t need to hurt like him. He’s capable of so much pain, but now he knows he’s capable of kindness. There’s no reason to deny that. He’ll come out of this alive.

The breeze at his back continues to push him. Nishida’s by his side, rubbing his hands together to warm himself up. Majima almost bounces when he walks. Life is what you make of it! Life is what you make of it, the good and the bad.

There’s a man squeezing through the street, between the individual cars packed like sardines. Let it be known that, like a law, traffic will always be bad in the winter. He’s got a briefcase in his hand, and he’s got nervousness written all over his face. Whatever is on the opposite side of the road is more important than his safety. Well, there’s not much danger when the cars aren’t moving.

Date taps his thumb against the steering wheel gently. Watching the man, he has half a mind to honk at him, tell him that’s how you get killed. Despite the idea, he doesn’t. Definitely not his responsibility. There’s that monotonous sound of the city, drowned out by the sound of cars thinking that if they honk, somehow the traffic will resolve itself accordingly. Date’s thumb pauses, he sucks in a breath, and then he drops his forehead down onto the wheel, letting out a loud, croaky sigh.

“What’s our world coming to?” Date asks, theatrical and miserable.

That’s when Kiryu lifts his head up from his hand, his elbow leaning on the window.

“I could walk home faster than it’d take for this to clear up.” Kiryu replies.

“That man shouldn’t be doing that.” Haruka says. She’s looking at the man, too.

“He shouldn’t.” Date agrees. Regardless, he says nothing to the man, who has just crossed in front of their car, now squeezing past the sports car to the left of them. Date leans back into his seat, throwing his head back.

Kiryu considers the man, in his colorful suit and tie. Papers are sticking out of his briefcase sloppily. Despite the man’s recklessness, he can’t deny that he’s currently contemplating the same thing. Regardless, it’s a dangerous activity. One antsy car, and he’d be squished between an automobile and a hard place.

“Sir,” Kiryu lowers his window, squinting his eyes at the light hitting him. Still definitely concussed. He can feel his temple throb. “You probably shouldn’t be…”

The man cuts Kiryu off with a surprised yelp, like Kiryu’s the first man that’s ever spoken to him. Kiryu watches him jump up into the air, stumble upon his feet, and then fall forward onto the sports car he’s facing, the same car adjacent to Date’s car. He throws his briefcase onto the car, along with his other hand, in order to catch himself. The sports car honks accordingly, as the briefcase pops open and papers go flying.

“Oh.” Kiryu blinks.

“Oh, no,” Haruka whispers.

“Oh, god!” The multi-colored man cries, with no room to move freely, he struggles to collect his papers.

Mr. Sports Car, the man driving it, can be heard audibly cursing. Kiryu, whom is in the passenger seat, gets an obscured look at the man through his tinted windows.

“Hey!” Mr. Sports Car yells, albeit muffled. “You scuffed my fuckin’ car!”

“Kiryu…” Date sighs, more like a disappointed parent than anything worried. He leans forward, rests his elbow on the car door, and rests his fingertips at the corner of his brow.

“I’m sorry!” Mr. Tie-dye-tie shrieks, still trying to collect his papers.

“That’s what happens…” Date breathes quietly.

Mr. Sports Car, who certainly doesn’t need sunglasses on top of his tinted windows, grows restless. “I can see where your stupid fuckin’ briefcase hit my car, dipshit! I can see it! I oughta get outta my car and fuckin’ kill you!”

Mr. Tie-dye-tie struggles to wiggle past the sports car, suddenly hiding his face with his briefcase. He’s letting out nonstop whimpers.

Such is the way of life, Kiryu figures.

Mr. Sports Car throws his car door open with the objective to pummel Mr. Tie-dye-tie. Haruka and Date watch as Kiryu throws his own door open, shoving Mr. Sports Car back into his car, and forcing his door shut. Date lets out a sound, an elongated, stressed ah .

“This isn’t your car, Kiryu!” Date complains, “Anything you do, I have to pay for it!”

“Sorry, Date-san,” Kiryu replies, half-meaning it. Haruka presses her hands up to the window in the backseat to watch the ordeal. With Mr. Sports Car effectively trapped in his car, he makes attempts to break free of Kiryu’s grasp, wiggling the car handle and pushing with his shoulder. Each time, Kiryu follows it up with a thrust of his own.

“Get over yourself!” Kiryu tells the man, “This is the road, not a bar!”

“Fuck this!” Mr. Sports Car shouts, giving his wheel one last honk. Kiryu wonders how this looks to everyone else minding their business in this traffic.

After a moment of peace, Kiryu figures the man has given up. Sometimes, people just need to cool off, and sometimes, you need to force them to do that. Kiryu pulls his door shut, slamming it hard enough to shake the car.

“Easy!” Date begs. He wonders if Kiryu is even paying attention to him.

Mr. Tie-dye-tie, for his part, has retreated backwards to the safety of in front of Date’s car.

Kiryu hears the sound of Haruka’s seatbelt unbuckling. She shuffles from one side of the car to another, small enough that she can crawl on her hands and knees. On the right side of the car, sitting on her knees, she lowers the window and sticks her head out towards the man.

“Why are you in the road?!” Haruka asks, before Kiryu can tell her to sit back down. “Don’t you know you can get hit?”

“Nobody is getting hit in this fucking traffic!” Everyone hears Mr. Sports Car shout.

“I was late for a meeting, but now my wife is giving birth at the hospital!” Mr. Tie-dye-tie announces, lowering the briefcase from his face. “I hopped out of my car!”

Date grumbles once more.

“I don’t give a shit!” Mr. Sports Car cries, exasperated and pissed, he tries one last time to throttle the man, throwing the car door open. With Kiryu’s focus on Haruka’s seatbelt safety, the man escapes Kiryu’s grasp.

Haruka whips her head back towards the left, her eyes wide. “Ojisan!” She calls out.

“Shit,” Kiryu states.

Mr. Sports Car turns back towards his esteemed car, throwing his arm out in a gesture that takes Kiryu a moment to register. Once he does, Kiryu groans.

“Let’s beat this guy up!” Mr. Sports Car announces, as his menagerie of idiots squeeze out like a clown car.

“Shot multiple times…” Date hums, everything falling on deaf ears. “Concussed, multiple fractured bones..”

Before the men can make their way past Date’s car, Kiryu once again throws open his car door, walling off two of them. There was five in the car, including Mr. Sports Car himself. The other two avoid Kiryu’s wrath by simply going out the other way.

“I’m very angry.” Kiryu announces. He slides out of the car, despite the protests from both Date and Haruka. He shuts the door behind him. “I want to go home, but I am stuck here with you dumbasses. You’re giving the kid a bad example of road safety. Is it that hard to just sit down and suffer together?”

“H-help me!” Mr. Tie-dye-tie shrieks as Mr. Sports Car finally gets his hands on him. Kiryu turns around, watching Mr. Sports Car slam Mr. Tie-dye-tie’s head down onto the front of Date’s car.

“Cut it out!”

Haruka’s out of the car, opposite of Kiryu, and she’s dashing to the front. Kiryu turns, eyes wide. “Haruka!” He commands, before he’s forced to turn his attention back to the two men crowding him.

Haruka grabs onto the sleeve of Mr. Sports Car, and everyone can visibly see the man tense up as he looks down at her. Mr. Tie-dye-tie lets out a surprised wheeze.

“You like your car so much that you’d hurt someone over it?” Haruka asks. She turns her head towards Mr. Tie-dye-tie. “You shouldn’t try to walk across traffic! That’s how you get hit!”

The two men look at her with wide eyes. Kiryu finds that the two men facing him are also surprised, so much so that there honestly, surprisingly, isn’t any attempt to attack Kiryu.

Mr. Sports Car and Mr. Tie-dye-tie look down at Haruka, almost with embarrassed looks on their faces. Traffic tends to turn everyone into morons.

“You should go back into your cars,” Haruka tells them. “It’s cold.”

“It is cold…” Tie-dye-tie says.

Mr. Sports Car takes a look at Mr. Tie-dye-tie, and after a loud groan, lets go of the man. It takes a moment for it to register to Mr. Tie-dye-tie.

“Yeah, whatever,” Mr. Sports Car spits. “I didn’t care, anyways.”

“And move it!” Date suddenly shouts, lowering his own window. “Traffic’s moving! Barely.”

Kiryu, a bit stunned by how easily that was solved, watches as Mr. Sports Car and his clowns return to his car. Then, he’s looking to Mr. Tie-dye-tie, who shakily stands up straight, briefcase hanging loosely at his side.

“U-uh,” He shudders.

“Try taking time off, man,” Date tells him, “Going to work while your wife’s seconds from popping? Come on. That’s how you end up divorced.”

Kiryu breathes a quiet laugh out from his nose. That’s when Mr. Tie-dye-tie, defeated, shuffles back to his car, avoiding the cars slowly inching forward. Everyone has their bad days, Kiryu thinks, it’s just good nobody got seriously hurt.

“Uh, Haruka. Back in the car.” Kiryu directs, as he awkwardly shuffles back to Date’s car.

So, as Kiryu slumps back down into his seat, and Haruka buckles herself once again, finally, finally, finally, the car in front of them begins to move.

Exasperated, Date lets out a violent, heavy sigh, his shoulders slouching.

“Gonna be the death of me, the two of you,” Date remarks. “Straight out of the hospital and you were about to fight those guys!”

“Only if they attacked me first.” Kiryu retorts.

“People really wanna fight you, Ojisan.”

Date sighs. “Well, you’re real great at aggravating things. Haruka, are you wearing your seatbelt?”

There’s a silence, then a click.

“Thank you,” Kiryu says.

Tensions being so high, Kiryu decides to stay quiet. He’s definitely still coming off of those painkillers. He can feel pinpricks throughout his body, knowing they’ll graduate to full aches later on in the day. He worries Date is upset with him. Sometimes he wonders why his intentions always come out as provocations. Maybe it’s less of a problem with the city, and more with his brain. He’s glad Haruka’s different.

As traffic moves, Date makes another sound. A desperate sounding laugh, breathy, relieved giggles.

“Date-san…” Kiryu says, wondering if the man’s finally gone insane.

Date continues to laugh, but it quickly tapers off. He’s got a lopsided grin on his face, and he shakes his head.

“You’ll be the death of me, Kiryu,” Date repeats. This time, he’s not angry. Maybe he wasn’t even angry in the first place. Kiryu decides to give in, and offers a smile back to Date. His brother always told him he needed to learn how to take a joke, and what’s funnier than life?

Date accompanies Kiryu back home, surprisingly. Kiryu didn’t ask him to, but he certainly didn’t object when Date stepped out of his car as well. Kiryu’s certainly going to need something to lean on in his recovery.

Familiarity is a comfort.

The path up to Kiryu’s apartment is an icy one, so Kiryu takes extra care in each step he takes. Haruka has her hand in his, sharing his pace. The ground crunches underneath their feet, and Kiryu gets to watch the other neighborhood children play in the snow. He guesses school is out for the weather. There’s footsteps in the snow, more than enough to count. Already, countless people have walked here. It’s nice to see the world never waits for him.

“You’ll be back in school, right, Haruka?” Date asks as he lights a cigarette between his teeth. His speech is muffled by it.

Haruka looks up at him. She gives Kiryu’s hand a squeeze.

“Um, yeah,” She replies.

“Excited to see your classmates again?”

“I guess,”

Date looks at her with his brow furrowed. He sniffles, and places his hands into his coat. If he’s got something on his mind, he’s not saying it.

“It’ll be nice to be in my own bed again,” Kiryu lies. “Get back to normal life.”

A shudder rips through Haruka as a particularly harsh breeze brushes past the three of them. Kiryu looks down at her. Her tights are ripped at the knees, and he still smells like sewage.

He wonders how it’ll feel once he’s back home. He wonders how she’ll feel.

It isn’t long before they’re standing outside the apartment building. The snow’s picked up speed at this point, and Kiryu’s certain it’ll just keep piling on for the next couple days. The building is just as he left it, nearly a comforting pale yellow color. He wonders how Ritsuko and her son are doing.

“Date-san…” Kiryu starts, knowing it’s only right that Date returns to his own life. He wants to tell Date that it’s time for him to go home. He looks down at Haruka, at her reserved face.

Kiryu blinks, then he breathes. When he looks at Date, he doesn’t need to say it outloud.

“Yeah,” Date sighs. He plucks the cigarette from between his teeth and flicks it down to the ground, down into the snow, and he gestures towards the door. “Wouldn’t be right if I left you now. Got the feeling if I leave now, you’ll keel over the moment you get your door open.”

“Thank you, Date-san,” Haruka says, before Kiryu can. “There’s…A lot of stairs.”

Kiryu tries to open his mouth, but something is caught in his throat. He doesn’t try to fight it, when Date puts a gentle hand on his shoulder to usher him inside.

The fluorescent hum of the light above greets them all as they step inside. Kiryu’s heels click against the blue-grey tiles in a familiar echo. There’s no sign of Ritsuko, Kiryu guesses she’s in her own room. It’s been a long time since he’s checked his mailbox…Kiryu opens up his jacket, patting his hand against the pocket on the inside. Surprisingly, he never lost his keys. He turns towards Haruka.

“Do you want to get the mail, Haruka?” He asks her.

“Mhm,” She nods. She holds out her small hand, and Kiryu rests his fist against her palm. He drops the mail key to her.

She runs towards the cluster mailboxes, as Kiryu sways in place, watching her.

“Kiryu…You, uh,” Date scratches the side of his gruff face. “You oughta make sure she bundles up for the next couple days.”

“Yeah, I know.” Kiryu huffs out.

Kiryu watches how she stumbles on the tips of her toes as she inserts the key into the slot, and watches as she turns it the wrong way first, then the right way.

“Oh!” She yelps, as the door to the box flies open, letters upon letters flying out like a dam bursting. For a moment, Kiryu is reminded of the Tie-dye-tie man’s briefcase. “Ojisan!”

“Huh,” Kiryu gasps, stumbling towards her, and the pile. She crouches down, while he struggles to bend over. That’s when Date quickly joins them, his knees loudly popping as he joins Haruka on the floor.

“Aren’t you two popular,” Date jokes, chuckling. “Here, Haruka,”

She’s picking up each letter one-by-one, stuffing them into her lap and arms as she tries to organize them, but it all comes out as a mess, pouring out of her grasp. As she lifts one up, Date puts a hand on hers.

“It’ll be easier if you organize them together before trying to pick them up.” He tells her. He lifts the pile in her lap, depositing it back on the ground. Kiryu and Haruka watch as Date piles the letters on the floor, without picking them up one-by-one. He picks them all up, holding them between his two hands with practice. He clicks them once, twice, on the floor, and presents them to Haruka. “Easy, right?”

Haruka looks at the letters between his hands, then up at his face. She offers him a smile.

“Yeah,” She tells him, taking the stack.

Kiryu watches in silence. There’s something at the back of his mind, something about corkboards.

So, they all bend back upright. Haruka holds the stack to her chest as she’s first back on her feet, watching Date struggle, and Kiryu wince. Just as they do so, a figure descends from the stairs.

“Oh,” The figure croaks.

The three of them turn around, and Kiryu recognizes the wrinkled, worried face of Ritsuko.

“Kiryu!” She gasps, skipping down the last few steps. “You’re okay!”

“Oh, yeah,” Kiryu reassures her. “I’m sorry if you were worried. I had things to take care of.”

“You could’ve at least let me know. Just one day I stopped seeing either of you come down. It was worrying.”

“I know,” Kiryu sighs. “But we’re okay, really.”

She purses her lips, unconvinced. After a moment of inspecting him, she reaches out, gently grabbing the sides of his face. He jumps.

“H-hey,” Kiryu stutters.

“You’re all bruised up! You’ve got a bandage on your head, you poor thing!” She cries out, her gentle grasp becoming more like a squeeze. “What kind of business involves you getting hurt like this?!”

“Uh…”

It can’t be that bad, right?

Date stays out of it, rubbing the back of his head.

“It’s not his fault, ma’am!” Haruka speaks up, jumping to Kiryu’s side. She scrunches up her face, still holding the stack close to her. “Ojisan was visiting friends when he…He slid and fell on the ice. That’s why he’s all hurt, so please don't be mad with him.”

Kiryu’s always tried to value honesty in his life. But sometimes…

“She’s right. It’s…embarrassing. I’m clumsy.”

If it were Kiryu’s story, Ritsuko would’ve called him out immediately, but it’s that gentle earnestness on Haruka’s face that convinces her. Her hands slide down Kiryu’s form, and she sighs, brushing her hair out of her face.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. Please, get some rest.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I will.” Kiryu tells her.

The three of them walk past Ritsuko, and as Haruka and Date take their first couple steps up the stairs, Kiryu hears her voice again.

“Kiryu,” She says.

Kiryu turns back around. The light from outside halos around her, snow barreling down. There’s a warmth to her face. It wasn’t so bad having his face held between her weathered palms.

“Thank you, Kiryu,” Ritsuko stutters, her voice catching. “For my son, Shinji. I hope you’ll be seeing him soon.”

“I hope so, too,” He answers, offering her a smile.

Familiarity is a comfort. It’s always nice to be remembered.

Kiryu turns back around, and as he takes the first step, pain shoots through his thigh. He gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. When he’s taking his next step, he opens his eyes to find Date leaning down just one step above him. He watches himself throw an arm over Date’s shoulder, and feels Date’s hand on his back. They don’t say anything to each other.

There’s definitely a lot of locks to unlock once they’re all back facing that door again. The hallway is cold, but it isn’t unbearable. It takes a moment for Kiryu to recall which key goes to which keyhole, but he figures it out. Nevermind how time consuming it may be, he’s glad he was at least able to secure his life best he could.

The door creaks open, and Haruka is first inside. She jumps past the genkan, running to the small round table at the kitchen to drop the stack down onto it. As Kiryu toes his shoes off, he gives her a certain kind of look. “Haruka, shoes,”

“Oh,” She runs back towards Kiryu and Date. Kiryu knows she’s been doing a lot of walking in those boots of hers. It’ll be hard to get used to this again. For the both of them.

She sits down on the edge of the genkan, grunting as she tugs off her boots. The bottoms of her socks are dirtied. When Kiryu looks down at his heels, they’re dirty, too.

“Date-san, are you going to stay?” Haruka asks him, standing back up as she carefully props her boots up out of the way.

“I shouldn’t make myself too at home, kid,” Date hums, “But I suppose I can stay for a bit. If that’s okay with the old man.”

“Fine by me,” Kiryu tells him, halfway between truthful and a lie. “You can…sit down.”

There’s no couch, but there’s the round table with two seats. There’s several empty beer cans on the kitchen counter, along with half-eaten food containers. He wonders what Date must think.

He doesn’t read much on Date’s face as Date shrugs his jacket off at that round table, cascading it down the back of one of the chairs. It’s a strange sight, a man like him in a place like this. He’s brought back to the idea of an actor on the wrong set. He looks tired. They all do.

“Date-san, I’ll only be a minute. Haruka?”

Date gently nods as he puts his hands together, elbows on the table. His thumb strokes the corner of his mouth, and Kiryu can see his leg bounce.

“Yes?” Haruka asks.

“I want to talk to you,” Kiryu tells her, a hand on her back. He leads her to her bedroom. Across from hers is his, with his door open wide. From his window, he can hear children still playing.

She pushes the door open herself, her plain room greeting the two of them. It isn’t such a sorry sight once she sees her plushies on the bed. He flicks the lightswitch on, and she shuffles to her bed, where she slides up onto it, her eyes still on Kiryu. Kiryu’s got his eyes on her furniture, or the lack thereof. She has a cheap, chipped dresser and a bed without sheets. He wonders if she misses the comfort of the various motel rooms.

“Are you upset at me?” Haruka asks.

Kiryu jumps, quickly turning his attention to her. “No!” He yelps, shocked. He blinks, and sighs, shaking his head. “No, I’m not.”

Kiryu’s always tried to value honesty in his life. He tried, but it doesn’t mean he did a good job.

“Haruka, I spent all this time trying to shut you out from what I was feeling.” He says. For a moment, he averts his gaze from her.

Haruka frowns. Kiryu once again looks down at her swaying feet, her dirtied socks, her ripped tights.

“I thought that if I could convince you that we were fine, I could somehow convince myself of it, too. I didn’t want you to put the blame on yourself.”

“Ojisan…” She murmurs, “I don’t know what you mean.”

His eyes can’t stop flickering around. He looks left, looks right, then finally down at the ground.

“Things are hard, and I want to tell you everything is going to be okay now. It’s not fair to you if I do, and it wouldn’t be fair of me to tell you it won’t be okay. I felt, I feel…”

Like how he did the night before Majima and him confronted Shimura, looking out that window feeling nothing but dread. Still poor, still lonely, still angry. Even now, he still doesn’t have the answer.

“Stuck?” Haruka asks him.

“Paralyzed.” He responds. He stands stiffly, his mouth pressed tightly together.

He remembers how silent Kazama could be, sitting down in the dining area late at night when he’d visit the orphanage. He remembers his bare feet on the cold wooden floor as he’d poke his head out, knowing he wasn’t supposed to be out of bed. Kazama’s cold gaze would meet his. Go back to bed, he’d command, and that was the end of that. Kiryu would silently beg to understand him, so he could be helpful to him.

“I always thought I could fix anything as long as I threw enough punches.” He rests his calloused palm upon the top of her dresser. “But that isn’t your responsibility to bear. It’s not fair to you. I never wanted to tell you about how I felt because I didn’t want you worrying. I didn’t think about how that really made you feel.”

He wishes he could say that a weight has been lifted.

Kiryu looks at her, and she looks at him. She slides off of her bed. Kiryu can’t bear to look at her as she wraps her arms around his sides, unable to reach all the way around. He stares at the wall, wearing rage on his face because it’s the only thing he can present. He can’t say anything as he reaches down to scoop her into his arms, pain burning through every inch of his body. He can’t make himself stop, and he doesn’t want to, even when his knees buckle and he’s forced to land down onto her small bed, all the while keeping a tight grip on her. He keeps in mind not to crush her between the small bed and his own weight, so he leans on his side.

“I don’t care if you don’t have the answers yet, Ojisan. You’ve always had them before. I want to help you find them.”

“It’s not right to put that on you,” His voice trembles.

She doesn’t reply. Kiryu is terrified of this familiarity.

It takes a lot out of him to finally sit up. His hands move to her shoulders, and her arms fall limp as he pulls her away gently. Her head is hung low, her hair sticking to the front of his shirt. Her face is red, and her eyes are wet, but she’s still able to look up at Kiryu and face him. It feels terrifying to place a calloused hand on her cheek, because all he can see is blood on his hands, coating his open knuckles. It’s not real, he tells himself, but he’s still expecting to see a handprint on her face when he pulls it away.

“I want you to go get washed up,” Kiryu instructs her, then thumbs the drawstring of her jacket, “These need washing, too.”

Regardless of the tears on her face, that makes her laugh. She covers her mouth with her hand.

“I think you need it more. You are really smelly,” She tells him.

Kiryu’s face scrunches up, and it makes her laugh harder. She can be so quiet, so somber. It’s a nice thing to be able to hear her light up, because it means Kiryu can still have hope, too. After a moment of hesitation, Kiryu lets himself laugh with her, even when it hurts to do so.

With the shower in the background, Kiryu pulls out the chair across from Date.

“How’re you holding up?” Date asks him, watching Kiryu slump down into the chair. The chair creaks loudly underneath him, and with the way he throws himself back into the chair, it’s pushed against the hardwood floor. Kiryu throws an arm over the back of the chair.

“Like shit.” Kiryu sighs, gesturing with an open hand. He leans his head to the side, his ear hitting his shoulder. “I feel like shit.”

Date’s taken one of the empty beer cans left on the counter in Kiryu’s absence, and he’s toying with the tab, like pulling the string on a bow and watching it fling back into place. It’s making a metallic clicking sound, click, click, click.

“It’d be scarier if you didn’t feel like shit,” Date replies. His other hand is by his face, cupping his chin.

“You have something to say, Date-san.”

Date falls into silence, though his hand still hovers over the can. His eyes flick down towards the table, while the hand on his chin moves to cover his mouth, his index finger tapping his nose. The sound of the shower continues. Kiryu can hear the neighbors returning home, the sound of their footsteps, their muffled voices. It makes this silence all the more unbearable. Date readjusts himself in the seat, and Kiryu can’t help but feel like he’s back in that police station, Date’s questioning gaze on him. He feels moments away from Date reaching out to grab his collar, shine a light in his face.

But, Date does none of that. He leans back in his seat, throwing one leg over the other. He rubs his jaw, and the sound of his unshaven stubble makes a faint scratching noise.

“You were moments away from throwing your whole life away,” Date hums.

Kiryu raises a brow. His arm slides off the back of the chair, leaning forward to rest both hands on the table separating them. He can hear Date’s leg bouncing once again, click, click, click.

“When?” Kiryu asks him.

Date tilts his head, his brow twitching. He sucks in a breath through his mouth. “When you watched your whole family die, you obtuse asshole.”

Kiryu looks down at his own hands. He doesn’t know when he’ll ever stop expecting blood. Bandages cover his knuckles. His fingers are twitching.

Date sighs, and he leans forward along with Kiryu. He rests an elbow on the table, fingers holding his head up at the temple. “Sorry. Shit, this isn’t an interrogation. But it’s only been two months. That kind of… Hopelessness isn’t something you can just wash away with a quick talking to. I didn’t get the chance to ask you before. Now, I figure it’s a better time than any. Do you still sometimes think about giving up?”

“I know I can’t. You told me yourself, I’ve got something left to fight for.”

He finds that he doesn’t think about them often. He doesn’t feel like he has the time to.

“Hm.” Date hums. Kiryu’s taken note of how Date can’t keep his hands still. “What was going through your mind when you left to take care of Shimura?”

Kiryu’s starting to think Date was lying when he said this wasn’t an interrogation. Even then, he can’t lie to him.

“I was thinking about everything.” Kiryu answers. “I was worried about Majima. I was thinking about you, and how I couldn’t leave Haruka behind. I hate this place, and I miss Kamurocho. I thought about the Tojo Clan, about the people still alive who remember me. I thought about how I can’t afford basic furniture, and I can’t buy Haruka new clothes. I thought about how I couldn’t continue thinking Haruka being like me when I was her age was a point of pride. When I was her age, I was scared of my old man, and I wanted to be just like him. He never told me anything, and I thought that was fine. I thought she was fine.”

He speaks almost in a monotonous cadence, low and quiet. Date watches his inexpressive face.

“That’s why I can’t think about giving up now. I want to die just as much as everyone does, but I want to make the best impact I can before I do. People remember me. I’m going to fight to keep it a good thing. I keep fucking up, I’ve gotten fired from every job I’ve tried. I know better than anyone that life is a bitch. But, if I can make every fuck up I make mean something, then I know I’m not useless.”

Bricklaying, Kiryu recalls, in a construction site led by a liar. That was his job, and he did it best he could. The foundation of a building was the most important part, and if he didn’t do his job right, it’d all fall down. He’s not a man of metaphors, but he can see the similarity.

“I can’t protect Haruka from our situation. I know that now. All I can do is try to make it as stable as I can. For her.”

Nobody comes out of work without a few callouses, and nobody comes out of life unscathed.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” Kiryu asks Date. He looks up from his hands, which have balled up into fists.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Date answers. Kiryu admires his honesty.

“I need to smoke.” Kiryu tells him, and it’s like the best news Date’s ever heard.

“Finally,” Date gasps. He reaches backwards into his trench coat pocket, but Kiryu holds up a hand.

“Not here. Come on.”

Date remains seated as Kiryu lifts himself out of his seat. It takes until Kiryu passes him, snagging the empty can Date had been fumbling with, for Date to follow him, cigarette and lighter in hand.

They enter Kiryu’s bedroom, sad as it's always been, and Kiryu throws his own jacket onto his bed haphazardly. It slides off the bed and hits the ground. With practice, Kiryu beats his fist against the figured glass window once, and then shuffles it open inch by inch, pulling from the bottom, then the top. As he rolls his sleeves up, Date leans against the wall, flicking his hand until the pack produces a cigarette. He gives this first one to Kiryu, and then produces one of his own.

“Haruka’s said the kids comment on her smelling like cigarette smoke. So I try not to smoke out there.”

“Eh, kids are assholes.” Date responds, cigarette bouncing on his lip. He lights his cigarette, then hands the lighter to Kiryu.

There’s a loud breeze moving past the window, as snow drifts outside. Kiryu feels glad to have a friend like Date, to have a sturdy shoulder like his bump against him. Kiryu takes in a deep breath. They use the empty can as an ashtray. He savors this cigarette.

Date’s got a solemn look on his face, the wind outside the window causing his hair to ruffle. Kiryu watches a man trudging through the snow in his boots.

“Kiryu, I’m sure I’ve got a thousand shirts and pants from when Saya was around Haruka’s age, if you want them.”

Kiryu holds his own wrist. He tightens his grip.

“I’m not taking handouts, Date-san.” Kiryu replies.

“If you don’t learn to accept help, you’re just gonna keep being in a shit spot…”

“Kids don’t want hand-me-downs. Little girls want new, nice clothes. Saya’s clothes would only be outdated.”

“And you really think Haruka would care about that?”

“I’d want her to.”

Date gives Kiryu an extravagant sigh, putting on a show of his shoulders rising, then falling.

“You’re an excellent man, Kiryu, but you’re stubborn as a mule.”

“If I’m going to handle this, I’m going to do it on my own. I need you to respect that.”

Date raises his voice, leaning his head to the side. Kiryu watches the stress in his face, the way it wrinkles. “Even if she suffers because of it?”

Kiryu leans forward, with his elbow on the edge of the window. He rests his forehead on the back of his hand, the one holding the empty, ash-filled beer can. He shudders out a sigh.

“I don’t want to fight you, Date-san.”

Out the corner of his eye, Kiryu watches Date’s face soften. Kiryu closes his eyes, squeezes them tightly, and sighs out his nose.

“I don’t want to fight you, either. You’ve got enough shit to deal with.”

So, Date lets it lie. Kiryu doesn’t feel any better about it.

“So you’re leaving now?” Haruka asks, sitting up on one of the chairs. Her hair is dripping, and her fingers are pruned.

“Yeah, kid.” Date tells her. He places a large hand on the top of her head, giving her a gentle rub, then he’s pulling away. “Don’t want Saya to get too worried about me.”

“You’ll call, right?” She also asks, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

“Of course,” He answers. He really means it, too. “You behave in school, alright? Don’t want you turning out like him.”

He tilts his head towards Kiryu, who gives him a confused look. Haruka laughs.

“I’ll miss you, Date-san,” Haruka croaks.

Date gives her a crooked smile. He rubs his mouth, sniffling. “I’ll be around, Haruka.”

She gives him a sad nod, and Date quickly turns his attention to Kiryu. He approaches him, offering Kiryu a hand.

“Don’t get shot again, Kiryu. I don’t wanna be grey at forty-one.”

No matter the tension, no matter how frustrated Kiryu can get, he still takes Date’s hand. He’s been through enough with him not to let Kiryu’s own pride get in the way. Date’s hand is firm and rough, almost like sand.

Kiryu offers him a strained smile. “Try not to mess up with Saya again. Second chances are a rare thing.”

Date hoarsely chuckles, and then his hand is slipping away from Kiryu’s. When his hands fall limply at his sides, he’s shoving them back into his coat pockets. Kiryu and Haruka watch him as he recollects his dress shoes, prepares himself for the trip into the snow, and opens the door.

He looks back, just for a moment. Kiryu catches his gaze. With that, Date shuts the door behind him.

Haruka eventually turns herself in her seat, scooting into the table. Kiryu turns towards her. Her hair nearly covers her face, sticking to it wetly. She’s wearing a shirt he provided her, an old t-shirt that hangs off her almost comically.

“Haruka, do you want me to dry your hair?” Kiryu asks.

“Huh?” Haruka asks.

Kiryu doesn’t respond. She watches as he disappears into the corridor, and after a moment of shuffling around, he returns with a yellowed-white towel. He holds it open, and gestures for her to push her seat back. After a moment of confusion, she obeys.

“Okay…” He hums, and as he looks at her confused face, he throws the towel right over her face. “Got you!”

She yelps, and as he places his hands on the sides of her head, it quickly dissolves into laughter. He rubs his hands back and forth with the towel, scrubbing her hair roughly, but she doesn’t mind. He acts out a laugh, a ha-ha-ha that’s all too villainous. Once she begins to smack his wrists away, still giggling, he pulls his hands, and the towel, away. Her face is red from laughter, the front strands of her hair still sticking to her face. She looks even more ridiculous though, with her now half-dry hair sticking in all sorts of directions. It’s a success in Kiryu’s book.

“Ojisan, you’re silly!” She yells, placing her small hands on the sides of her head in order to pat her hair back down.

“And, you’re dry.” Kiryu replies. He discards the towel, tossing it towards the corridor where he’ll eventually pick it up to take it to the laundry. Both of them slightly out of breath, Kiryu takes a seat across from her, holding an arm over his stomach. “I learned that from Kazama-san.”

Once, or twice, Kiryu recalls being chased by a large, ghostly towel.

“My head feels all fuzzy,” She says, effectively rattled. Even so, she scoots back in, her attention back on the table. “I wonder who wrote us.”

“Huh? Oh, right,” Kiryu replies. He leans forward, analyzing the stack.

One has a simple name marking it. ‘Shinji’.

Kiryu takes it gently, considering it. He opens it, and swallows, his throat bobbing.

“Thank you, Kiryu-san.

I wish I could explain just how really thankful I am that you pushed me into high-gear. I can’t express to you how free I feel now. I spent so much of my time worrying about my father. I let my grades slip, I let my passions slip, all because I wanted him to be there for me. You taught me that it didn’t matter what he thought. I had a mom who loved me more than anything. I shouldn’t have been taking that for granted. This year or the next, I hope to get into art school. I have no way to repay you now, but someday, I hope to make it up to you. You showed me that I don’t need my father to look up to. Sometimes I can look up to people like you, and that’s enough.

-Shinji.”

Kiryu sits astonished, his eyes wide. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out are choked-out noises.

‘Thank you, Shinji,’ He wants to say, ‘But you had the strength in you all along.’

Nothing comes out. He gently folds the letter back up, returning it to the table. His hand trembles, but even so, he perseveres to the next letter.

It’s completely bare. Whoever wrote it put it into his mailbox themself. Kiryu recklessly rips the letter open, a scowl on his face. Both of them are caught off guard by the several yen notes that suddenly pop from the envelope. They drift to the floor gracefully. Still in his hand is a letter.

“Money?” Haruka gasps, leaning her head forward, both hands on the table.

“Hold on,” Kiryu tells her, carefully opening the letter. She watches with bated breath.

“This is Kameyama, from SCC.

You’re a beast, Kiryu-san! I can still feel how hard you knocked me around. Shit, I still can’t believe you got fired because of me and Umeda. I wanted to apologize to you in person, tell you how sorry I was, only to find out your ass was out of town! Ruining my moment to make amends. You really saved our asses. So, I said fuck it, and I’m passing my (and Umeda’s) paychecks to you. Just this once! And no thinking you can give this shit back, I didn’t mark my address for that reason! Give it to charity, spend it on booze, I don’t care. I’m just showing that I’m one sorry bastard. Or, maybe that’s just the concussion you gave me talking. Ha!”

“What does it say?” Haruka asks, snapping Kiryu out of his stupor.

Silently, he reaches down, picking up each bill individually. When he lifts his hand up, he finds that he is holding around fifty-five thousand yen. Two minimum wage paychecks in his hand. Tears sting at his eyes, and he clenches his jaw. He tries all he can to blink them away, and when he knows he isn’t going to show her tears, he lifts his head up.

He feels nauseated, consumed by the waves of every emotion that washes over him. All Haruka sees is a man scowling. The dominant emotion wreaking havoc on him, digging its claws around his organs, tightening his chest, is desperation . Shock twists its way through his bones, down to his wrist. The hand around the bills closes, and his hand shakes uncontrollably. After a moment of hesitation, he drops the bills on the table.

He can’t fight it anymore, especially when it’s forced on him like this. Sometimes people want to help him. He looks at Haruka’s confused face. Is it his right to refuse help like this? To snap at Date like he did?

“Ojisan…” Haruka whimpers, sitting up as high as she can. “You’re crying.”

He can’t deny the obvious, especially when it’s staining his cheeks. With muted anguish on his face, he folds the letter back up, and puts it back on the table.

“Excuse me,”

Kiryu sits up, the chair squeaking behind him as it's thrown backwards. Haruka can’t stop him once he’s started walking. She jumps off the chair, following after him until he’s inside the corridor. She watches him disappear into the bathroom, the door shutting behind him loudly. The whole apartment trembles.

Steam still coats the mirror from the shower taken before. Kiryu’s chest convulses, and pain rumbles through him like it never has before. He stumbles, falling forwards until he’s able to catch himself on the rim of the sink. Both hands clutch onto the ceramic sink for dear life. He looks at his foggy, obscured reflection. He swallows, his throat dry and stinging. Is this who he really is? His trembling hand rises, his palm slamming against the mirror’s wet surface. He drags it down, listens to it squeak, and there he is. In the shape of a claw, there stands Kiryu Kazuma.

This is what everyone’s been facing.

Bruises, violent, purple bruises coat his face. There’s a broken blood vessel in his eye, and his face is gaunter than it should be. Scabs have formed across his head, and he can recognize one of them being the impact spot when the foreman crushed him into the sewer pavement. His hair is completely ungelled. He’s been in the hospital for a week. His other eye is bloodshot from the tears that streak his face. His body can’t look much different. Without his jacket, it’s easy to pull down his half-unbuttoned shirt. The bandages are still there, covering the most violent of damage, but the bruises greet him in full visibility.

He looks scary.

This is what Majima was looking at when he undressed Kiryu with such consideration, putting his face up against his.

This is what Date was looking at when he helped him up the stairs, gentle hand on the small of Kiryu’s back.

This is what Haruka’s been looking at all this time. How is she not scared?

He steps backwards. There isn’t much room to move, no room to breathe, and then his back is hitting the door outside. With nothing else much to do, he slides downwards.

Good mourning, a voice echoes in his head, good mourning, good mourning, good mourning.

Why is it so hard to find goodness in anything?

Nothing should ever cause him to hide like this. Nothing as benign as a gesture of good faith. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help. These are things he’d tell other people. Never once does he think these stupid little platitudes should be returned his way. There’s not much else to say at this point.

There’s knocking at the door, gentle, tiny knocking. He can’t see Haruka, but he can feel her own body press against the door, same as him. Back to back.

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” Kiryu croaks.

“I’m sorry you’re sad.” Haruka replies.

“It’s not your fault.” He reassures her, but he gets silence in response.

He can feel her readjust, the weight against the door. After a moment, she’s talking again.

“I think it’s okay to cry.” She says. “And, I don’t think it’s such a bad thing when people want to help.”

“I’m not going to let people look down on us. I need to-” His voice cracks, his throat raw. “I need to work for it.”

“The kids here call me ugly. They point at me, and they laugh at me, all because I wear the nicest clothes I have. They don’t like anything that I like. They tell me that. Sometimes, people are…”

Kiryu covers his mouth, then lifts his hand to cover his eyes.

She inhales.

“Sometimes people really do say what they mean, and it’s not so scary that you have to hide.”

“What do you mean?” Kiryu asks. He lifts his head up, turning his profile towards the door.

“Bad people do bad things because they’re bad. Good people…Good people want to do good things, even when it’s hard. I watched,” She swallows, “I watched so many people get hurt. I don’t want to believe that the world is so scary, that I can’t trust anyone.”

Haruka stands back up. Kiryu can feel her weight disappear from the other side of the door.

“You told me the truth. I told you I wanted to help you find the answer, and I think this is it. Sometimes, people really are good. And if they want to make your life better, then that’s okay.”

He can’t tell her how many people have died because he asked them for help, how many more people died for him. Her own mother died in his arms to protect him, to protect Haruka. He would’ve taken that bullet. He would’ve taken everyone’s pain away, if he could. How can he ever think that he deserves that same kindness?

Such childish advice she’s given him. Good and evil.

Then, he thinks of Ritsuko’s hands cupping his cheeks. He thinks of the late nights Date has taken just to be by Kiryu’s side, that Date never did pity him. How he could never see disgust on Majima’s face, even in Kiryu’s worst moments. Nishida addressed him honestly, no matter the situation. How many hundreds of people have Kiryu met? How many people have been affected by him? Sugimori looked up at him with such fear when Kiryu caught him, and in the same breath, claimed Kiryu was stupid for saving him. Maybe Kiryu is, and maybe Kiryu thinks he is, but he’ll never regret catching Sugimori. Despite everything thrown at him, Kiryu was merciful. Sugimori was wrong. No matter how many times it takes, he’ll try to reach people.

And that’s what this is about. It’s not so childish, Kiryu realizes. Good and evil may be concepts that exist in storybooks, but heroes and villains are concepts that exist everywhere.

For Kiryu’s whole life, they’ve called him simple-minded. They’ve called him stupid, immature. Sometimes, maybe the most simplistic idea is the answer. Sometimes, people want to do good things.

How utterly, completely stupid that it’s taken Kiryu this time to fathom it.

He can’t quite unwind the tangles still in his stomach, the pain aching through his body, but he still gets up. His hand hovers over the doorknob. Nobody will wait up for him, so sucking in his breath, he opens the door.

Haruka looks up at him with a considerate courage. Her brow is furrowed, just the same as his.

“Thank you, Haruka,” He murmurs. He lifts up a hand to her, and it meets her cheek. She’s not scared of the bruises, or the bandages. She looks up at him with care. He looks out towards the kitchen, to the table, and she follows his gaze. The bills are still there. It’s not a be-all-end-all solution, but it is the hand above the water.

“Do you want to order something to eat?” He asks her.

“Yeah,” She answers. She looks up at him, nods her head.

Kiryu walks, and when he does, he gingerly lifts the towel on the ground into his arms. He supposes he can’t wait forever to clean.

“Oyaji, is this really the place you want to be?” Nishida asks.

Majima falls backwards, his body hitting the tacky couch below. He looks up at the millions of dartboard holes in the ceiling.

“Better place than anything, Nishida,” Majima replies, throwing one leg over the other, stretching out in a cat-like manner. After a moment, he hears a bone pop, and he groans in pain.

“You can’t live in an office!” Nishida yips, slapping a hand onto his shaved head.

“And who says I can’t? Home is where I make it!”

“But- A-Ah, you need…” Nishida’s face squints, his chin dimpling. “Okay!”

There’s no changing Majima’s mind once he’s got it set. Nishida takes the time to inspect the office once-more. He almost regards the bloodstains in the carpet with fondness. He drags his fingertip against the wood of Majima’s shelf, and reels at the sight of dust.

The ceiling is patterned in the sort of way that makes it move. Majima’s got his eye set on it, watching it shift, pull, twirl, almost like a painting. He rests his hands on his bandaged stomach, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. The sound of the mini-fridge in the corner hums incessantly, and he hears the familiar sound of Pink Street’s porno-strip club music. With it darker outside, the lights from the street begin to shine through the office itself, mixing the warm yellows with its horny pinks.

He shuts his eye, even if he knows he can’t fall asleep until he’s alone. He can almost hear the sounds of the boys again, all squeezed up inside this tiny little office.

There’s a distinct lack of blue-grey darkness here. He’s always thought of yellow as a sickly, hospital color. The color of the corridors in Kiryu’s apartment building, the disgusting, sanitized color that he wanted to paint red, watch it split just from his touch. He wanted so much ugliness. The sound of the lightbulb buzzing drives him insane, but he can’t say that yellow is a horrible color anymore. He remembers those pale yellow tiles in the hospital shower. On the table hugging the right side of the couch sits Nishida’s medical supplies. Majima guesses he’s a long way away from glass in his skin now.

“Kiryu’s out now?” Majima asks, making Nishida jump.

“Ah, right…Right! Kiryu-san is out today! He should’ve been taken home somewhere in the morning.” Nishida replies.

Majima keeps his eye closed. He takes a deep breath in, deep breath out. He doesn’t smile, even if just hearing Kiryu’s name wants to make him grin until it hurts. He shuffles on the couch, once, twice, wiggling his body with incessant whining. There’s no getting comfortable on a low price couch from the nineties, huh?

A fly darts through the office.

“Nishida…” Majima hums.

“Yes?”

There’s thousands of things Majima could say next. There’s so much dust here. He can’t quite picture a future just yet. His eye slides open, and he turns his head up as far as it’ll go. Nishida, albeit upside-down, meets his gaze.

“You wanna start a company?”

Nishida blinks, stunned. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.

“A…company?”

“A fuckin’ company!” Majima lifts his hand up to the ceiling, presenting his empty palm. “Listen, West Park’s gonna be wiped out. They’re gonna build some-fuckin’-thing over it, don’t know what, but when they do, they’re gonna be lookin’ for contract work. You followin’ me?”

“Absolutely,” Nishida replies.

“Good. So, whatever they’re gonna build, me, you, and the rest of those nincompoops are gonna be out there buildin’ it! We’re the third party, the third wheel keepin’ the Tojo Clan and the Tokyo government from buttin’ heads too much.”

“But- Hold on,” Nishida quickly pulls out his tiny chair from his tiny desk and sits down. “Oyaji, none of us have experience with construction!”

“And you think anyone else does? We aren’t makin’ the blueprints, kid, we’re just the dumbasses that gotta follow the directions!”

“That doesn’t seem that simple!”

“A lot of shit is simple! C’mon, Nishida. You’re with me, or you’re not, and don’t say you’re not, because you’ve seen way too much sick shit come outta me for it to not mean shit.”

Without hesitation, but with all the horror in the world, Nishida claps his hands together. “Ah! I’m always with you, Oyaji! But this is a horrible, horrible idea!”

“Note taken,” Majima waggles a finger at him. “Foreman.”

“Foreman?! Oh, jeez,” Nishida leans forward, covering his face with his hands.

Majima gives him a funny grin, and he slaps a quick melody on his stomach.

“You’re gonna hate it just as much as the rest of us, but you got angles, and equations to worry about now! Foundation’s my job, you gotta just worry about the numbers, number-man.”

“Oh, jeez, oh jeez…”

“Quick that whinin’!”

Majima watches Nishida’s hands melt down his face, and as he watches Nishida reveal his face again, the man has an incredulous smile on his face. It’s not too big, not too obvious, and his eyebrows are scrunched up uncomfortably. Regardless, he’s smiling. Perhaps, finally, he’s truly gone insane.

“Figuring it out is just…Part of the fun…” Nishida moans.

“And that’s the right idea, Nishida!” Majima barks.

Nishida’s back on his feet after that. As he walks through Majima’s peripheral view, Majima gets a bright look at his deep purple shirt. It’s different from the usual pastels he wears. Nishida crouches down to the mini-fridge’s level, pulling it open. Despite the office’s recent vacancy, there’s still a couple beers. He retrieves one. He closes it the same way he opened it, because he’s not a fan of the very large Majima-shaped shoe imprint in the corner of the door. There’s a spider taking residency right in the space between the fridge and the wall. He stands back up, the window light catching him in a violent pink. It illuminates behind him, making that deep purple almost glow.

There’s an ashtray on the edge of Majima’s chipped desk, so Nishida takes it. He places it on the table in front of the couch, the one currently covered in dusty magazines. He has a gentle, somber look on his face, the kind Majima rarely gets a look at. He places the beer next to the ashtray, then spins it until it’s at the right angle he likes.

Nishida watches Majima turn over on his side, a muted look on his face. Majima’s eye is downcasted on the can, on the condensation coating it. Nishida’s known long enough to know how easily Majima’s emotions can dissolve.

“We still got the radio?” He asks.

Nishida shakes his head without fear. “You broke it,” He reminds him, even if Majima can’t recall it. “You threw it out the window a year ago.”

“A year ago? What about the tape inside it? I liked that tape,”

“It’s in your desk. Right drawer.”

“Huh.” Majima crows. He taps the cushion below his head, pulling at a seam sticking out of it.

“Do you want me to leave now, Oyaji?” Nishida asks him.

Majima looks up at the windows. He looks up at the large family emblem between them, hovering over his office chair. He knows that Nishida will wait as long as it takes for him to answer. It’s still snowing out there. After glancing towards his own medical supplies, Nishida turns himself, too, joining Majima in window-watching. Majima sees his hands twitch, open palms turn into fists.

“I don’t know shit about you, do I?” Majima asks him.

“Is that a problem for you?” Nishida answers, giving him a quick glance.

“I suppose it isn’t.”

“Then, it’s not a problem for me.”

The snow twinkle-falls outside the foggy windows. There’s the recorded sound of a woman beckoning people to her club.

Majima’s noticing all the burn marks in the couch’s fabric. The hard kind of burn marks, the kind from cigarettes. If he’s going to start living again, these are just the revelations he’s going to have to face. The past twenty years haven’t been real. He gets that sudden rush again, that dip in his chest and stomach that makes him shiver. That realization he gets again and again that Shimano Futoshi is dead.

He’s dead, and all Majima can think about is Kiryu’s head against his, Kiryu’s fist in his side. This is all his choice. He remembers just how lost Kiryu looked the night before their confrontation at Purgatory. No matter what Majima could’ve said, it wouldn’t have fixed anything. Majima’s always been more of an action man, anyways.

He’s got people waiting for him, he reminds himself. Despite everything, people are waiting, waiting, Nishida is waiting for him to say something. It feels nice to make people wait for his responses.

“Eventually, I’m gonna start actin’ up again,” Majima croaks. As Nishida turns back towards him, Majima is sitting up. He’s opening up his jacket, digging through his pockets, interior pocket, right pocket, left pocket, until he’s retrieving his cigarettes and lighter. The packet is crushed, with only two left inside of it. He fishes one out, tobacco coating his thighs. This lighter he’s got now is older, the metal kind with the top he’s gotta flick open. It’s loud as he lights the cigarette hanging loosely by his dry lips. The click it makes as he flicks it shut is astoundingly satisfying. He’s not looking at Nishida’s confused gaze as he’s leaning forward, flicking the cigarette a few times over the ashtray. As he returns the cigarette to his mouth, he rubs his hands together. “I’m gonna act up again, ‘cuz that’s who I am. And, I’m givin’ you full, absolute, complete reign to beat reality into my skull again. Do it ‘till I bleed, ‘till you knock me unconscious, whatever. Just make sure that when I wake up, I’ll remember everything.”

Nishida stands above him, his eyebrows raising right up to his hairline. His lips part.

“I ain’t gonna scare that little girl again.” Majima growls, his fingers digging into his knees. “And I’m not going to scare him.”

Nishida turns to face him fully. His hands hang limp at his sides.

“Oyaji, I…”

“I ain’t askin’ as your boss.” Majima hisses, every inch of his face aching. “I ain’t askin’ as your pa. I’m askin’ you as a friend.”

There’s nothing more than a scene with good lighting.

Nishida’s haloed face scrunches up, the yellow light above him catching his eyes, catching his chain necklace in a twinkling shimmer. Majima has no right to ask Nishida of this. He has no right to ask anyone of this. But it’s necessary.

“As long as I’m still breathin’, I’m gonna keep askin’ that of you. I’m not going back to that motherfucker. I’m not looking at him again.”

“I promise you, Majima.” Nishida answers. Conviction drips from every syllable. Majima watches the slow certainty dawn on Nishida’s face. Oh, the power Majima has given him.

After a moment, Majima holds the cigarette up to Nishida. With careful consideration, Nishida holds his hand up.

“I quit.” He says. “I quit before I knew you.”

So, Majima puts the cigarette out. There’s no time like the present, is there?

One thousand things Majima could be doing. He rubs his tense jaw, drags it down to his neck, digs his fingers into the back of it, right where his spine begins. His nostrils flare with each breath he expels. Nishida’s eyes are on Majima’s bandages.

“I need you to drive me down to Kita,” Majima tells him. It’s all he needs, now.

“There’s no way I can drive in this weather, Oyaji. Not at this time,” Nishida answers.

“Then I’ll fuckin’ walk.” He retorts.

“You’re not walking in the middle of a snow-storm!” Nishida commands. He desperately stumbles forward, falling with his hands on the table in front of Majima. “That’s a death wish!”

“I’ll-” What? He’ll what? Majima’s eye widens, his mouth opening as wide as it’ll go in shock. Majima clutches his head between his palms and he keels over in his seat. His nose is stopped up, so the breath he drags in is jagged. He grinds his teeth together. It takes everything not to climb over the table. He bounces his leg, up, down, up, down, up, down.

His fingers slide across his eyes, his eyepatch getting shifted out of place. He looks up at Nishida, his mouth open wide.

Something’s changed, now. The way Nishida’s looking at him is so, so different from just a few moments ago. It hits Majima that it was Majima’s attempt to settle himself. It was the conviction that Majima wanted to change, and he wasn’t just saying that. Nishida stood over him with that bloody briefcase in his hand, and he couldn’t believe Majima when he said he wanted to be different, he just couldn’t believe him. Now, as Majima looks up at him, Nishida’s lip is quivering.

“If it’s that important to you…” Nishida answers, fishing out the keys to his damaged car. The key is almost rusted in his bitten-fingernail grasp. “If it is that important to you .”

He repeats it. He needs it reaffirmed.

“I need to be there.” Majima replies.

And that’s enough for Nishida. The man’s been there for worse.

Kiryu strokes Haruka’s hair as she nods asleep, the same way he wishes his father had done for him. She clutches a stuffed owl, or perhaps a pigeon, Kiryu can’t tell. His weight’s causing the bed to almost cave in, causing her to almost sink right against him.

There’s so much he still wants to tell her. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get it all out. At least he can savor this moment, and cherish it for what it’s worth. Good mourning, good mourning will come.

When he lifts himself off of her bed, and it creaks in annoyance, he knows she’s really asleep. He leaves the door ajar, because he knows she likes the faint sliver of light. If she decides to join him in his bedroom, that’s okay, too. He walks carefully, trying not to disturb the wooden floor too much. The fridge is filled with leftovers for tomorrow. There’s still money on the round table, and when it’s safe, he’s going to take Haruka shopping.

There’s the faint sound of the neighbor’s radio. He can hear a gentle melody play.

There’s still so much left to do.

When he’s done taking her shopping, he’s going to find another job. No matter what it is, he’ll take it. No matter how many times people say he’s too scary or intimidating. He’ll keep doing it until something sticks.

He’s met so many people just trying to make things work. All kinds of people trying to make changes. Everyday, people like Umeda and Kameyama are trying and failing to keep their heads out of trouble. People like Shimura and Sugimori are just waiting to be thwarted. People like Ritsuko and Shinji are waiting to be helped. People like Fukunaga, fighting for the right kind of change. People like Date, refusing to be compromised, People like Nishida, who tightropes life like a daredevil. At the end of the tunnel, Kiryu’s meeting Majima’s electric gaze. There’s going to be a thousand more Stories to be told about Kiryu and Majima, and he’s going to make sure they’re worth remembering.

Kiryu thumbs the cigarette between his fingers, unlit. He twirls it between his cut fingers. He can’t live selfishly anymore. There’s no point in protecting his pride if pride is all he has left. The only place left to go is up.

He can’t say he feels hopeful about his chances, but that’s what life is all about.

Lights roll over the car like water, a technicolor rainbow of scanlines. The snow’s finally letting up, but it surely isn’t over. There’s deep tracks in the road, and that’s the path Nishida tries to follow. There’s not many cars out at this time, so all Majima hears is the gentle sound of Nishida’s steady breathing. Majima looks down at his gloved palms. There’s a hangnail on this thumb that’s rubbing against the fabric painfully. There’s an indent in the dashboard of the car, a barely visible blood stain filling it. There’s scratches in the plastic, little light dashes tallied next to each other.

The wheels of the car slush through the grey ice-sludge softly, like a boat after a hurricane. Nishida’s thumbs tap at the wheel, tap, tap, tap, tap. Majima’s leg bounces, and bounces, and bounces.

Majima lets gravity do its work as his head leans back, back, back, until all he can see is the stained roof of the car. He pretends that he can see the stars.

He drags his tongue across his yellow-stained teeth, taps the corners of his canine.

When he closes his eye, he gets a millisecond of light flashing through his lid, over and over again. Each time, he jumps, each time, he’s expecting to wake up on that seventies couch in the eighties, life is a series of repeated scenes, after all. He’s read the script again and again, and like a producer, he’s shaking the paper in life’s face demanding to see the ending. He absentmindedly toys with his glove until his thumb is released. There, he holds it against his stomach, drags it up against all the scars, scratches, and bruises. One scene after another.

He casts his gaze to Nishida. He can see all the different actors in his place like a kaleidoscope.

Eventually, the ending is going to come, and when Majima’s up on that stage giving his bow, he wants to be a man worth begging for an encore. If he can do that, then it’ll all be worth it. How full can he make this auditorium of faces?

A long time ago, on a seventies couch in the eighties, Majima sat upon it like a bastard king on his throne, wool blanket hung upon his jagged shoulders. Watching, remembering, Sagawa twirls that pen between his wrinkled fingers, Majima wishes he could say it now, say it then. What does it mean to be immortal? Majima finally knows the truth. Sagawa never really died. Majima strokes his own thumb over his knuckles. Every actor changes the character in their own way, no matter how small or large. What kind of character is Majima going to be? What kind of character was he before?

When he looks up at that theoretical, imaginary audience, what he wants to see is Kiryu, spotlight shining on his sweat-dripped brow.

Majima will say it again, say it until he’s blue in the face. He’s going to be a man worth begging for an encore. He’s lived life as a villain, a monster, a heel, and those are only cheered for in their ability to be defeated. Sawamura Haruka said it best, after Majima dragged his body through hell to keep her protected, so simply, so easy, ‘You don’t have to be a bad guy.’

He never thought he played the role of hero very well. His clothes fit too tight, and his hair was just too thin to be marveled. Maybe he doesn’t have to be the bad guy children watch with their hands over their mouths, and maybe he can be touched with a thankful hand.

Or, maybe, just maybe, he’s crazy, and all this dramaturgy means absolutely nothing.

But, hey! That’s what life is all about! If nothing matters, then Majima will make it matter.

Kiryu looks out his bedroom window, watches the faint snowdrops fall, and he grabs his jacket. It’s too cold in this place, anyways.

Majima tugs the collars of his jacket tight, pulling them over his bare chest. At the first recognizable stop, Majima shoves the door open.

“Oyaji, fuck!” Nishida bursts out, throwing an arm out to reach for Majima.

Kiryu figures that it’s time to go to bed. It’s somewhere around eleven, he thinks. He left his watch on his bed stand. Regardless, he’s looking at his front door, looking at all the different locks he’s put up there to protect him and his.

Snow seeps into Majima’s shoes like ice, and he’s throwing himself into each footprint available to make his trek easier. This place is quainter, darker, the glamor of Tokyo’s shinier cities glowing in the background. The light of Nishida’s headlights have disappeared by now, and he knows the man hasn’t chased him out, because if he did, Majima would absolutely be hearing him cry out. Here, he can almost, almost see those stars. There’s no bustle here, only Majima’s panting, his white-fog breaths.

Hair stands up on the back of Kiryu’s goosebump neck, as he shuts the door gingerly behind him. His heels click loudly against the tile floor, and he’s got his hands in his pockets. He walks towards the stairs to the ground floor, and with each passing door comes a new sound. Sometimes, it’s complete silence, sometimes it’s the gentle whisperings of the people inside. The lights buzz above Kiryu’s head, shining brighter than he knows they actually are. His chest knocks against his ribs. It’s almost like the feeling he had when Majima first waltzed into his apartment, that grim-reaper stance he had over Kiryu. That’s why, when he feels this, he’s stomping down the stairs, like a cacophony, like a stampede, he’s running down those steps regardless of the pain in his thighs. When he trips, he throws both hands over the railing, gripping it with conviction. He doesn’t fall. He doesn’t stop. He limps, one hand gripping his leg. His teeth are clenched, bared, breathing out of them like an animal. His hand touches the front door. It’s freezing to the touch.

The wind hisses softly in their ears, as Kiryu stands outside the door. Majima looks at the pale yellow light surrounding his silhouette, his shadow hanging over Majima like a blanket. Kiryu can see how the pale yellow light shines on Majima’s gaunt face, how even in the darkness, he can see that roughness of his jaw, the sag underneath his eyes. Neither of them know how long this is going to last.

So, Majima does the second thing he knows how to do. His arm lifts, creaking like an automaton in need of oil. Kiryu watches his wrist hanging limp, his fingers wrapped around a crushed cigarette packet.

Kiryu regards it, regards Majima. He’s never hated him. There’s a warmth in his chest, a strange, familiar warmth. The same kind he could barely feel when they fought, that anticipation to feel Majima against him. He’s never doubted Majima’s conviction. It wouldn’t be right of him to do so. He’s seen the best and worst of Majima, just the same as how Majima’s seen the worst of him. After that, there’s not much hiding either of them can do.

Majima’s blue-tinged lips quirk, and he smiles.

“There’s my Kiryu,” Majima coos.

Kiryu reaches out, his large hand enveloping Majima’s, gripping the cigarette packet, gripping him. Once more, their eyes meet.

“If you lose a toe because of me, I’ll kick your ass.” Kiryu growls.

Majima’s half-lidded bloodshot eye widen, his smile opening up into a grin. He takes a step forward, and Kiryu takes a step back. Their hands are still touching.

“It’s freezing out here, get inside,”

Majima doesn’t have to be told twice.

Kiryu ends up taking that wrinkled cigarette.

They sit in the peopleless lobby, their knees bent underneath the mailslots. He can’t imagine anyone would be too happy about him lighting up a cigarette indoors. His wrist flicks the lighter repeatedly, and in the intervals between it being open rather than closed, his thumb cocks the spark wheel without enough friction to set it off. He doesn’t risk his own apartment, no matter how quiet they’d try to be. It’s better this way, anyhow. Outside the frosted windows, outside the clear door, flashes a streetlamp; the snow around it blinks with it, orange, grey, orange, grey.

Then, there’s Majima. His dry lips are still pale from the cold, and Kiryu can see his jaw tremble on one side, like he’s making an effort to hide it, but not enough of an effort to stop it entirely. Every so often, he can hear Majima’s teeth clink together, a gentle sound. He can’t help but let his eyes wander up Majima’s revealed wrist, and much like Kiryu’s own wrist, bruises trail up along it. In the overbearing light, Kiryu gets a better look at Majima than he ever has before, perhaps even before the nineties.

Rebirth, plays in Kiryu’s mind, perhaps he’s seeing Majima for the first time again. Well, Majima is letting him look at him, and so Kiryu’s going to look at him.

His dry skin doesn’t just extend to his lips. His neck is faintly wrinkled almost like the grooves in a tree, and Kiryu has a hard time discerning if they’re scars, or newly developed stretch marks. The stretch mark theory wouldn’t be too implausible, with the way he unnaturally cranes his neck forward. Or maybe it is natural, for him and him only. He has the kind of face that doesn’t have an age. He could be thirty just as much as he could be fifty, though Kiryu finds either unlikely. Majima’s still got that mark in his face from the glass that got shoved into it. He’s got his bullet-hole covered up, but other than that, he’s bare. Kiryu still doesn’t know if he can call Majima handsome, per say, but he knows what he likes, and Kiryu likes that natural-unnatural look about him. He likes that he can see Majima’s smile-lines.

The clock in the corner of the room tick-tocks closer to midnight, and Majima grows restless. Kiryu hadn’t noticed he’d been flicking the lighter this whole time.

“Just,” Majima reaches, gripping Kiryu’s wrist. The glove is ice-cold, and it makes Kiryu hiss in surprise. “Light it. And quit probin’ me with your eyes.”

“You can look at me, too, you know,” Kiryu suggests, cupping his cigarette with the hand not currently gripped by Majima’s ice grip. After one last pang of guilt out the door, he lights his cigarette. It’s midnight, anyways. About to be.

“I already got a good enough look at ya,” Says Majima, bowing his head towards Kiryu, giving him a bug-eyed glance for a moment. Kiryu watches Majima’s hand slide off of wrist, and back onto Majima’s thigh.

“Hm.” Is all Kiryu replies with.

Contrary to the previous statement, Kiryu watches just the tiniest tilt of Majima’s head.

From Majima’s view, it’s a wonder how hair can change a person. In just the week Majima hasn’t seen Kiryu, his ungelled hair has taken a completely different appearance than the ungelled hair from before. Before, his hair was in between the in between of gelled and not, a half-aborted film over his hair. Now, that’s all been washed away. His hair’s thick. It never occurs to Majima the true length of a man’s hair when it’s swept backwards. He can’t find himself much caring for the injuries sustained on Kiryu’s face, no matter how visceral they may be. The visual impact of pain is much more temporary than the alternative, after all, and Majima certainly can’t read Kiryu’s mind. Majima watches him take a drag of his, Majima’s, cigarette. Afterwards, he fingers the cigarette, his thumb nodding it up and down. His hands are, by definition, very fucking big. And that can be quoted from Majima’s self-authored dictionary. He’s wearing the plainest of plain grey t-shirts and tackiest of the tacky flannel sweatpants. He’s wearing his white heels with them.

Rebirth, says Kiryu’s brain to Majima’s. Could it be they’re back to square one?

Just as much as Majima’s looking at the eyelash that has forgone Kiryu’s lid for his cheek, Kiryu’s looking downwards at the prominent skin blemishes on Majima’s wrist. It’d be awkward if they didn’t already know how it feels to have their thighs together.

“How’s things in Kamurocho?” Kiryu eventually says.

“You’re gonna need to give me that smoke if I’m tellin’ you,”

A smile tugs at Kiryu, and he relents. They pass the half-smoked cigarette between each other.

After a long pause of silence, long enough for Majima to smoke, he replies.

“Easy come, easy go.” He taps the ashes into his hand, whereas Kiryu was just letting them fall on the ground. “I got a week of life ahead of you. News is still chatterin’. Not that I even watch that shit. Cops are still in a tizzy. But, my boys outweigh ‘em.”

“And Fukunaga?” Kiryu then asks.

“Shit, that old man’s just fine.”

“I never did get the chance to properly thank him for saving me.”

“Nah, don’t think he’s askin’ for one. Beatin’ Shimura’s face in was thanks enough.”

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt.”

“You askin’ to come down to Kamurocho?”

“Hell, no. I’ve got a migraine.”

Majima chuckles, and he passes the cigarette back to Kiryu.

“Not that you’re askin’, but Nishida and the rest are movin’ along.”

“I was just about to.”

“Mmh. I ditched Nishida in his car comin’ here. Gonna get a real big earful outta him next time I see him.”

“I’d be pissed, too. You know you can lose toes, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know all about that,” Majima slides his heel forward, tempting Kiryu with a lift of his pant leg and a socked-view of his ankle. “I can show ya.”

As Kiryu tells Majima to put his ankle away, it hits him that in all this time, even in his most barest, Kiryu has never seen Majima’s feet nor his genitals. He remembers what Majima told him: ‘Something about not being able to see everything’s more enticing than seeing the whole thing.’ And he wonders behind the honesty in that statement. What it implies.

“Yeah, what I thought,” Majima grunts, folding his pant leg back down.

“You know, the hospital talk we had gave me the idea you were turning over a new leaf. Something about being more forthcoming?” Kiryu prods.

“And I ain’t walkin’ that back. Still meant everything I said. But real life’s a whole lot more different than a hospital room. I still ain’t tellin’ you about my cloth. Just as much as I’m sure you ain’t looking to divulge your issues with your pappy.”

“I guess I have to agree with that.” Kiryu gives it to him.

Kiryu can’t deny that Majima still has that aura on him. A certain look that’s almost like a post-orgasmic glow. A post-revelation glow. He knows Majima will be honest, as honest as he can be.

“The Omi’s gonna be keepin’ quiet while this passes,” He explains, and Kiryu holds back the question on how he knows that. “Something something internal investigation in the people they’re calling patriarchs. Make sure there’s no other underground, secret plot.”

Somewhere, somewhen, Kiryu’s going to think something along the lines of: ‘What a great job’.

But, here in somenow, Kiryu just nods.

“Tojo’s been quiet as ghosts. Shit, I’m certain Kashiwagi was actin’ on his lonesome rather than the clan’s call when he contacted the Omi.”

“They might have him flayed for that.” Kiryu suggests.

“With Terada in charge?” Majima whistles out a laugh. “Doubt it.”

Once more, Kiryu gives it to him.

When the cigarette is finally reduced to a near-nub, Kiryu is about to stamp it out on the nice tile floor before Majima’s snatching it from him.

“Fuckin’ animal,” Majima scoffs, but it isn’t an exactly angry tone. Majima stubs the cigarette out on the metal tip of his boot, and it leaves a black, ashy imprint. Afterwards, he pockets it.

Kiryu, unphased, says: “What about you?”

“What about me?” Majima responds.

Kiryu sneers, speaking with his face.

Majima, a facial expert, gets the memo. He readjusts himself, seating himself on his ass, his elbows on his knees. “Got nothin’ to report. Outside of movin’ into my office, that is.”

“That is something.” Kiryu hums blankly.

“You haven’t seen the office.” Majima retorts. “It’s now the office-home of one stable worker Majima Goro,”

That gets a laugh out of Kiryu. Kiryu rubs his jaw, squishes his cheek as he drags his fingers against it. “Who hired you?”

“Me, myself, and I!” Majima chirps, tapping his fingertips to his chest. “You’re talkin’ to the deed holder of West Park, and the man they’re gonna contract to build over it.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Is the first thing that comes out of Kiryu’s mind, before it even registers the depth of Majima’s sentence. “Wait, you’re going into construction?”

“Because I’m the meanest son of a bitch, and everyone else’ll piss their pants the moment I walk in. Can’t say much when the other guy’s got a bat.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re being very retired.”

“Says the guy who got shot here, here, there and there, barely a week ago.”

Some metaphysical, imaginary, score-keeping being has an abacus between the two of them. It slides another Majima’s way, and then promptly gives up.

“Quit knocking me down,” Kiryu tells him.

“Then, quit throwin’ balls you don’t want me to hit, big boy.”

Kiryu grunts, and his hand goes to a thread on his knee.

One minute passes. Or maybe ten. Kiryu’s stopped looking at the clock.

“Your turn.” Majima suddenly says.

“Huh?” Kiryu astutely replies.

“You just got out of the hospital, dipshit.” Majima groans. After giving his face a thorough rubbing, he continues, his voice lowering in both volume and intensity. “How’re you holding up?”

Gentle, is the word Kiryu’s thinking of.

“I don’t know.” Kiryu answers.

“Don’t give me that…”

Kiryu notices a painting on the wall, in an old frame. On it, a closeup of the hands of a piano player. The paint uses a harsh, visceral red to highlight his fingertips and his knuckles.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m falling apart. Sometimes I feel like it’s all starting to make sense. Then, it all blurs together. I’m not sure what to make of anything anymore.”

“And that’s life, boiled down to its barest bones.”

“But, at least I know I have a goal, and I know people are good.”

“You’ve been listenin’ to that little girl too much. Give it another week and you’ll be talkin’ about fairies.”

“Nothing wrong with a little clarity, Majima.”

“Hm,”

So, they once more fall into an impeccable silence. There’s not much to talk about when you’re not dead or dying.

Majima looks at Kiryu’s stalwart profile, his set jaw. He’s never going to get tired of it. Out the corner of Kiryu’s eye, he’s watching Majima tap a melody on his leather thigh, his fingers bent in a nearly claw-like position. Like, if Kiryu looks away, Majima will crawl his hand up Kiryu like a spider. He feels good knowing he can call that touch familiar.

This is the scene Majima risked hypothermia for. He wouldn’t change it for the world. No matter how dreary it may feel.

Eventually, Kiryu speaks once again. He says: “I’m gonna be back on the job hunt as soon as I can walk without stumbling.”

“And I take it you ain’t lookin’ for a job in construction again?”

Kiryu chuckles. “If I never have to touch mortar again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Damn shame, since you’d be the smartest one on the team.”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

Majima guffaws. Kiryu looks down at his calloused palms blankly.

“Any words of wisdom, bricklayer?” Majima asks, the last bits of giggling trickling out of him.

“Wear a damn helmet.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll be sure to write that one down.”

Kiryu is almost picturing a world where he can be walking down the street on a sunnier day, and there across from him will be Majima, wiping a non-violent, honorable sweat off of his brow. Then, he pictures Majima hitting him over the head with a shovel. It’s strange how fondly Kiryu can feel when thinking of the sound it’d make, just one solid thwack ! followed by Majima’s laughter. He’s never pictured himself a masochist…

Majima thumbs at a scab on his arm. There’s not much he can picture. Right now, all he can feel is Kiryu’s heat, barely radiating onto him. How differently Kiryu looks at him now than how he did in the beginning. He wonders if he can still agree with his early provocations. Oh, how angry Kiryu could get. That, that was entirely familiar, something Majima could absolutely handle. He’s at a loss now. The man sitting next to him is the same man that stood above his bed like a knight in the dragon’s lair, such fire in his eyes. Even now, he wants to look up at Kiryu and taste blood rushing from his nose. He doesn’t know what he wants. That scares him.

Like a dial switched on the television; something else entirely. He thinks back to approaching Serena, and the feeling that washed over him as he did. It was like a self-imposed unreality, like Majima walked in someone else’s shoes. He asked himself a question. When he was confronted with the feeling he was walking into another man’s Story, something that didn’t belong to him, he wondered if Kiryu Kazuma ever felt the same way. He’s seen Kiryu at his lowest, now. He’s seen anguish in the barest flick of Kiryu’s eyes. He knows the real answer, now.

Kiryu took an absolute gamble on Majima. Ever since the beginning. He never earned that kindness from Kiryu. Perhaps that’s what made him so angry when Kiryu offered it to him. How does one decide when they’ve earned the right to love. It’s not something worth a question mark. Looking back, seeing Kiryu’s face in reaction to the first bullet hitting the both of them. He’s never going to get that out of his head. Seeing Kiryu stand above Shimura while he lay powerless. Kiryu’s firm grip on his shoulder blades in Hotel White. Kiryu is a constant, a splinter in the center of Majima’s brain that just wont come out.

“Did you mean it?” Majima asks. It catches Kiryu off guard, just as much as it does Majima.

“Mean what?”

“In the hospital,” Elaborates Majima, craning his neck away from Kiryu. Kiryu can see how deep Majima’s digging his fingertips into his legs.

Like Kiryu wouldn’t mean anything he’s said. Regardless, Majima has to ask. He doesn’t want to be left wondering.

The first emotion Kiryu feels is offended. Then, Kiryu tries considering it from Majima’s point of view, even if it’s near impossible. It feels like static. It feels like a screen through a screen. Garbled . Regardless, he tries. He looks down to Majima’s twitching fingertips. He wonders how they look underneath those gloves. When Majima sniffles, he scrunches his whole face up like he’s tasted lemon. There’s loud snot in his nostrils.

Trying to say something different, Kiryu says: “If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t have said it.” In a baritone intensity. He wanted it to come out softer. But, when he finishes that sentence, and he looks at Majima, he finds the man unphased. Perhaps the bluntness is just what Majima needs, even if Kiryu dislikes this part of himself.

Because, to Majima, it’s entirely more so the look in Kiryu’s eyes than the words themselves. Kiryu turns his whole head to face Majima. That’s what carries the weight of his statement. Kiryu isn’t a man who repeats himself.

Despite that, he does. He isn’t afraid to touch Majima, so he grabs him by the shoulder. Even after how long they’ve been in here, he’s freezing to the touch. He hasn’t forgotten how Majima needs to be touched. His thumb digs into the coat. He opens his mouth. “I said I wanted to try this, whatever this is. With you. And I’m not taking it back.”

Majima’s throat runs dry, and he licks his stinging lips. He doesn’t realize his hands are moving until they’re in view, acting on their own accord. He watches them grip the sides of Kiryu’s warm face. Immediately he can feel the heat bleed through his gloves. He fists Kiryu’s sideburns, tugging him forward, tugging like a starved man clinging to life inch by inch. They move to his ears, and Majima doesn’t care if it hurts, and he knows Kiryu doesn’t, either. He grips Kiryu’s ears, some of his hair, and breathes like he’s seething. There, he knocks his forehead against Kiryu’s, who goes to grip Majima’s shoulders. Majima pulls him hard enough to force Kiryu to turn his body whole, resting on his knees. He feels Kiryu’s hands slide up his neck, and Majima refuses to let his eye close. He bores into Kiryu’s eyes with rage, his lids open wide enough that it hurts. It’s not headbutting, this is not a fight. It’s not a kiss, either. Blood rushes to both of their faces. There’s specks of wetness in the nape of Majima’s neck, from where snow had fallen into his hair, his skin. Kiryu’s breath is hot enough to make Majima’s mouth damp.

The impact point of their foreheads ache the harder they press, like two bulls horn-locked. The grips they hold on each other are desperate, with the same amount of weight as the night in the hotel. Kiryu’s stomach is sinking just as much as his heart is pounding against his chest. Majima’s arms twitch, his navel undulating as he breathes. This is everything that they are.

In the back of Kiryu’s mind, a man in a pinstriped suit bows: ‘I entrust the life of Majima Goro to you. Everything rests on him. You must keep him alive. I ask this of you!’

One of Majima’s hands drags towards Kiryu’s cheek, down to his jaw, then back towards his ear. His thumb presses against the corner of Kiryu’s lip, nearly hooking it. Majima’s eye darts to his exposed teeth, how tightly Kiryu’s pressing them together. Once again, he bangs his forehead against Kiryu’s. He wants to push him down onto the ground. Kiryu would let him. Majima watches Kiryu’s throat flex with each dry swallow, and he swears he can see his pulse through the skin. Kiryu feels almost malleable in his hands. A raw reality in between his palms.

“You bring out the fuckin’ worst in me,” Majima snarls, refusing to move his hands away from his violent embrace. “You make me wanna be bad .”

With the hard blood-pounding in Kiryu’s ears, it’s a wonder he can even hear Majima. They crush their heads, their noses, together. Kiryu refuses to let himself slip from Majima’s grasp. He doesn’t know how he can ever reply to something like that. “And I’d beat you,” He answers.

Tremors rip through Majima. He doesn’t want to like seeing fearful gazes on him in the street. He doesn’t ever want to see near-death terror in the eyes of the people who trust him. But Kiryu . He can be Kiryu’s villain, for as long as Kiryu will have him. This’ll be their own personal Story. The kind nobody but them will be able to tell. Majima will never stop pushing for the sort of man he knows he can be now. He can call Kiryu a friend .

This moment is fleeting. Everything is fleeting. They know their lives are going to continue as if nothing has ever changed, just as temporary as the bruises on Kiryu’s face. Majima will grab him by the ears and refresh him on this moment again and again. In the moments when Majima’s living, when Kiryu’s working, they hope to glance each other’s ways and remember. Majima likes playing all these roles. Kiryu likes watching them, and bit by bit, will he gather just a little bit more on who Majima is.

They never kiss, even as their shaking hands slip away from each other’s heads. There’s a shared bright red imprint on their foreheads, and Kiryu’s sure the jut on Majima’s nose has stabbed right through him. Majima’s hair sticks to Kiryu’s face, and Kiryu’s sideburns feel thoroughly wrung out. Kiryu watches Majima’s expression cycle through all sorts of variations. At the final moment, Majima sniffles, and Kiryu sees that lemon-juice face all over again.

Kiryu wants to see all the different backdrops he can see Majima on. All the places that should be entirely, wholly, un-Majima. All the mundane scenery Majima can chew. Majima called him selfish before. Anything else, he’d bite back. This, he’d gladly agree.

“Come up to my apartment.” Kiryu states. With the way his voice is trembling, it comes out as a near beg. Majima wipes the palm of his hand against his dry-yet-damp lips. He can’t help the lurch his stomach does, just as he can’t help the desire to follow him. Kiryu can somehow read through him. “I’m not asking for sex. I have a headache.” He adds.

He doesn’t like the idea of Kiryu pitying him, even if he knows Kiryu wont. He still isn’t going to have sex with him. Kiryu looks at him unphased. Like sex could be the closest or furthest from his mind and he wouldn’t care either way. With that, his dry throat croaks: “Yeah,”

Majima gets up first. His knees pop, and he grunts in pain. Then, Kiryu’s straining upright. Silently, Majima leans to hook an arm underneath Kiryu’s armpit, and he pulls. Kiryu lets his chest lean against Majima’s as he stumbles onto his feet like a newborn deer. It strikes him that all he wants to do now is hold Majima.

And that thought stews in him even as he starts up the stairs. Majima stays one step behind him, in the off-chance Kiryu may lose his footing. The thought stews in him with each heavy step he takes through the hallway to his apartment. He glances behind himself to reaffirm that Majima won’t book it. He won’t.

No matter how sick Majima feels, he knows he needs to see this through. He’s run from so much in his life. He’s fled from confrontation just as much as he’s run towards it. Each time he feels his hand twitch restlessly, like it’s moments from gaining a mind of its own, he reminds it of how Kiryu’s face felt. Somehow, that quells it. Kiryu didn’t lock the door, he didn’t feel a need to, so Majima watches with bated breath as Kiryu’s worn hand opens the door. Kiryu taps a finger to his lip, sh , and he steps inside first. Majima is behind him, closing the door as best he can. Kiryu peels his heels off his feet. He’s not wearing socks underneath them. Majima toes his own heels off with an awkward domesticity that makes Kiryu’s lip quirk.

Majima looks at Kiryu’s own mess, the noodle cups, the beer cans, and thinks: ‘At least he keeps his place clean.’

Because, an empty can is a whole lot better than broken glass.

And so, Majima is standing in the living-kitchen-front door room. It’s a strange feeling to be here again. Like seeing the house used for a tv show in-person. Maybe it’s got something to do with the darker lighting. Kiryu fits right in with his hair, his boring grey t-shirt, and his tacky flannel pants. The drawstrings have been pulled far enough that they’re inside the waistband.

“You want a drink?” Kiryu whispers.

“Nah.”

“Shower?”

“Nope.”

Kiryu’s eyebrow is successfully raised. Majima looks at him with the same sort of questioning expression.

“Then, what do you want?”

Majima offers Kiryu a weird sound. It takes a moment for it to register: ‘I don’t know.’

Kiryu’s eyes squint, his nose wrinkling. Majima acts as if he wasn’t just breathing Kiryu’s air moments ago.

“I can ask you to leave, you know.” Kiryu tells him.

That gets Majima biting. Cocking his head to the side, with his shoulders following afterwards like a bird, he says: “And make me walk all that way back to Kamurocho in the snow? All by my lonesome?”

“I’ll make you limp back, if you keep standing there like a jackass.” Kiryu responds. He forcefully juts his head towards the side, pointing a thumb towards the corridor. “Or, you can go to the bedroom. I don’t want you waking up Haruka.”

Majima raises two placating hands, making a soft whistling sound. “Talkin’ like a man. Feel like I’m moments away from you pickin’ me up and carryin’ me yourself.”

“You want me to?”

“Hell, no, jeez, I’m walkin’.” Majima laughs.

He almost wants to thank Kiryu for not putting on an overbearing act. It makes things feel warmer, almost. Something he can swallow.

So, Kiryu disappears into the corridor, and Majima follows. Kiryu steals a quick peek into Haruka’s bedroom. He can see her small head poking out from her fleece blanket. To himself, he smiles gently. Then, Majima takes a glance for himself. He doesn’t see much of anything, so he keeps walking.

Kiryu’s bedroom, Majima finds, is just as boring as the rest of the apartment. It’s better than anything he could’ve hoped. He steps over Kiryu’s grey slacks, and then steps over Kiryu’s red shirt. Then, he’s standing in the center of it all. Kiryu’s bedroom. It feels anticlimactic in a way. Then, there’s Kiryu himself. Kiryu’s heart pumps with a heavy little drummer's beat. The same feeling that follows him in the shower. He looks at Majima like a deer in the headlights, all that bravado washed away until they’re both standing, staring at each other like complete jackasses. Kiryu remembers all the women who invited him back to their place. He remembers the sort of looks he’d give random men at bars, hoping-not-hoping that they’d somehow know what he was trying to tell them. This is what it’s like to have another man in his bedroom.

“I want to hold you.” Kiryu tells him abruptly.

Majima blinks at him.

“I said I want to hold you,” Kiryu repeats.

“I heard what you said,” Majima answers.

And this is, entirely, wholly a new experience for Majima. There’s that terror, again, the terror that ripped through him when Kiryu touched his side gently, the terror that tore through him as he brought himself to cup Kiryu’s face softly. He knows why he is this way, he doesn’t need to question himself. And he doesn’t feel torn up about it. He certainly doesn’t wake himself up at night agonizing for the touch of another human person. But there’s Kiryu, standing there, asking to hold him. It makes Majima want it. Want it until he’s sick to his stomach.

Kiryu watches as Majima drags his hand towards the lapel of his coat. The next second, Kiryu’s watching it hit the floor.

Life is a series of inconsequential, random, strange events. Life is a bitch. Life is what you make of it. Really, life is whatever you’re willing to deal with on that very day. On this day, all Majima cares about is knowing what it’s like to be held. He curses any future consequences it may hold, be it between them, or in his own piddling brain. He does what he does best, he puts anger behind his conviction. He wants to be held, demands to be held. He’ll scream at whoever will listen that whoever has denied him the right to be held should be skinned, burned, stabbed. He can’t be afraid anymore, but he can certainly be angry.

“I told you,” Majima grunts, shambling forwards like a zombie. “If you want this, then you’re gonna have to step up.”

“If you’re asking me to fight you,” Kiryu huffs. “You must be crazy.”

Majima's stepping forward, shoving his red nose into Kiryu's. Kiryu's stomach flips, and he can feel the loud breath Majima exhales. It almost feels like Majima is one-hundred feet tall. Majima isn’t touching Kiryu, yet Kiryu feels him bearing down on him like a vice. Despite it, he doesn’t back up, not this time. He can’t keep questioning himself on his desires. He watches Majima replay the motions, leaning forward to breathe in Kiryu’s scent. Still, Majima keeps his eye on Kiryu, his neck craned to the side like a hawk.

“Then, what the fuck are you going to do?”

Instinctual terror pierces through Majima, from every bone. He can’t help but think of Nishida, tilting his head to clean the blood away. It felt suffocating. He feels suffocated. He heaves in a breath like he’s going to die . He can’t stop staring at Kiryu like he’s an assailant, an instigator.

Kiryu’s hand presses against the side of Majima’s stomach. He doesn't let his gaze leave Majima’s, even when he feels Majima’s stomach tremor underneath him. He watches Majima’s face, watches how his nostrils flare. Majima’s skin is clammy, and he’s hit with the sudden realization that Majima is soft. The skin of his stomach gives underneath Kiryu’s palm. This is not to say the texture is soft, no. The texture is like the rest of Majima, rough like sandpaper. What Kiryu wants to say is that it is comforting. Kiryu watches a shift in Majima’s expression. His eye softens. Kiryu’s other hand meets the other side of Majima.

The year is 2006. The last time anyone has touched Majima Goro quite like this was somewhere in 1980-nowhere.

That is to say, that in all this time, Majima didn’t expect it to feel like this. It is entirely neutral. It feels like someone, perhaps in front of him, is touching him, and he isn’t dead or dying. He is looking at Kiryu, and Kiryu is looking at him, and Kiryu is touching him, and it isn’t killing Majima. That is what matters. It’s shocking. Majima’s jaw is open. A sound is in his throat. All this nightmare fanfare, and Majima finds that it is not about the touch, it’s about Kiryu’s eyes on him. That is what intrigues Majima more. The shock that ran through him feels nothing more than the chill after jumping into an ice-cold pool now. This is what it is like to be touched gently, and Majima finds that he doesn’t feel too strongly either way. He can’t be happier.

It hits Majima that he can imagine a world where he could take Kiryu’s fist in his jaw, and at the same time, handle this too. He can’t imagine that for anyone else. So, an addendum; perhaps touch is still a scary thing, and it’s all Kiryu that neutralizes it. He’s okay with that reality, too. He’s okay with Kiryu sliding his hands upwards, too. Kiryu’s calloused hands drag their way to Majima’s back, and they feel up his spine.

“I want to take you to dinner.” Kiryu tells him. “I can’t pay for it.”

Kiryu finally leans forward. There, he rests his cheek against Majima’s bare collarbone. He feels the tiny chill of the golden chain necklace around his neck. Majima feels all of Kiryu, then. Although obscured by the shirt he wears, Majima can still feel the warmth of his body. He can feel his biceps flex around Majima’s form. He can feel Kiryu’s hot breath on his skin. He can feel Kiryu’s breasts against his own. These are similar feelings, textures, experiences he felt in Hotel White. This is what it’s like without adrenaline filling his lungs.

Kiryu’s form against his own now feels entirely mundane. That’s what makes Majima lift his own hands to Kiryu. He cups Kiryu’s hips, and Kiryu doesn’t say anything.

“It ain’t gonna be like this all the time,” Majima tells him. Warns him.

“I don’t care.” Kiryu answers.

Kiryu’s arms move every so often, changing their locations on Majima’s back. Sometimes, his palm is on Majima’s shoulder blade. Sometimes, it’s down near his tailbone. In the lumbar region, Kiryu’s hands scrape against the scabbed grooves in his skin, and Kiryu quickly deduces it’s from glass. How it happened, Kiryu won’t ask. His fingertips graze something puckered. Realization hits him as his own stomach brushes against Majima’s, their gunshots aligning. Majima lets himself lean into Kiryu. His hands clutch Kiryu’s clothes. Majima feels Kiryu’s closed mouth on his shoulder.

“Dunno how to feel about it.” Majima murmurs.

“About what?”

“This. You touchin’ me.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t like it. And I ain’t asking you to stop.”

“What?”

“I’m fine right where I am.”

“You don’t like it, but you don’t want to stop?”

“Ain’t that the thing?”

Majima clutches Kiryu tighter.

It could be minutes, or it could be hours. Shit, it could be days.

Kiryu can’t help but keep his grip as tight as he can. He knows his arms are shaking. His eyes are open, and he’s facing one of the walls in his room. The man between his arms is the same man who took a knife for him. The same man that tried in vain to protect him from a gunshot. The feeling of Majima’s bruised skin upon his cheek feels staggering. So, his knee buckles. He doesn’t want to call it quits. He wants to keep his hands on Majima until his skin is raw, bloody pulp, an intrusive thought supplies. Majima lets his own boney hands slip away from Kiryu’s hips and dangle at his sides. Kiryu draws his hands back down Majima’s back, nails leaving gentle marks in his acne-rough skin. He tugs them across Majima’s sides, down to Majima’s jutting hip bones. He knows what it feels like to squeeze just a little bit too hard. He knows what it feels like to win against Majima. He doesn’t want this to be a fight, but some deep down part of himself can’t tell the difference between the two. He takes a stumbling step backwards, his forehead dragging against Majima’s shoulder until it’s forced to lift on its own.

It almost feels like vertigo with the way Kiryu’s head spins. He’s forced to meet Majima’s watchful gaze again. His expression is unreadable, his lips pressed together. He blinks slowly. Kiryu can see Majima’s jaw flex underneath his coarse skin. It’s the same sort of gaze that would petrify Kiryu before, the look in the motel, the look in Hotel White. Kiryu refuses to let his implicit humiliation get the better of him again.

Majima blinks again, faster this time. Kiryu’s lips are downturned in a pout. Majima has a hard time discerning blush from bruise.

“Thank you, Majima.”

“Nah.” Majima bends down, hooking his index finger in the belt loop of the pair of pants on the floor. His other hand goes to pluck a nearly empty pack of cigarettes. After closer inspection, he recognizes the brand as the one commonly held between the detective’s lips. Majima leaves Kiryu standing as he silently taps the bottom of the pack against the palm of his hand. Majima lights the cigarette. “Don’t need it.”

Kiryu’s face scrunches up in almost-distress. He watches as Majima takes a spot on the edge of Kiryu’s small, sheetless bed. As it creaks underneath him, Majima is struck with the wafting scent of sweat. Majima’s legs are spread, his stomach folded in on itself as he’s leaned forward. “What?” Kiryu asks.

“Don’t need your thanks,” Majima answers. After a moment of staring, Kiryu finally realizes Majima is smiling. It’s crooked, with the cigarette in one corner of his mouth, but yes, he’s smiling.

Kiryu can recall his feet on the steps of Shangri-la’s steps, a smile on his face. ‘I never know what to expect from you.’ He said. Just when he thinks he’s got a grasp on Majima, the rug is swept out from under him. It doesn’t frustrate him like it used to. So, standing over Majima, he smiles as well. He supposes this is the sort of thing he just has to get used to, after all, he’s the one that chose this. This is the path he’s taking, and Kiryu’s never been one to back out on a challenge. Kiryu finds himself standing in the space between Majima’s legs, his shadow swallowing Majima whole. Majima leans backwards until his head is against the wall the bed is propped against.

“How’s the gunshots?” Majima grunts.

“You asking to see them?” Kiryu offers.

“Why not.” Majima answers.

So, Kiryu crosses his arms, his fingers hooking into the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t provide any amount of fanfare as he slides the shirt off of him. One second it’s on, the next, it’s off. It hits the ground softly.

Majima’s eye follows the dip in Kiryu’s stomach. He watches Kiryu breathe, in, out. Gauze pads surround every gunshot that ripped through Kiryu. Sutures hold several spots of his skin together. The taser mark in his stomach has faded, but it is by no any means gone. It almost resembles a wave. Majima has seen weaker men cave from much less, and he’s seen much, much worse. It’s why he doesn’t hide the look on his face. He doesn’t pity Kiryu. There’s not much to react to anymore when you’ve faced everything.

“It hurt?” He asks.

“I’ve gotten used to it.”

Majima rubs his chin, his beard scratching against his fingernails. Then, his middle finger is gently tapping at the side of his mouth. “Not a lotta men can say that.” He grunts. “Not a lotta men alive who can.”

Kiryu feels Majima’s foot tap against Kiryu’s own playfully. He realizes Majima’s foot is rocking to the sound of Kiryu’s hand-watch. How can he hear that so well? When he looks at Majima’s hands resting on his thighs, he comes to find his fingers tapping to the same rhythm. “It doesn’t make me special.” Kiryu disagrees, shaking his head.

“Didn’t say that. Reckon I’d say it makes you real fuckin’ stupid.”

“What does that say about yourself, then? That you’re also a moron?”

“Comes with the job,” Majima hums, craning his neck upwards towards Kiryu, his throat bobbing. “Might be retired, but there ain’t no replacin’ your bones. I’ll take as many gunshots as it’ll take to get my way.”

“Hm.” Kiryu hums. “Didn’t you tell me you couldn’t believe in the clan?”

“What’re you gettin’ at?”

“You were throwing yourself away for a cause you didn’t believe in.” Kiryu states. “That’s stupid.”

Majima squints his eye, and Kiryu responds with a blank expression. After a moment, Majima plucks the cigarette from his lips, holding it between his knuckles. Sitting up, he gestures it towards Kiryu, nearly burning it into his stomach from how close Kiryu hovers over him. “Still got that holier-than-thou fuckin’ attitude, huh?” He says. It comes out harsh, but after a moment, he sighs, throwing his body backwards once again, his head thudding against the wall. “You already know why I did the shit I did. ‘Cuz you’re the same fuckin’ way.”

Then, almost invisible to the eye, Majima catches the corner of Kiryu’s lip twitch. “It’s about the people.” He answers. Majima puffs out a large cloud of smoke, gesturing with a limp hand towards Kiryu.

“You got it.”

“A lot of people are counting on you now, Majima,” Kiryu tells him. “You better be the kind of man they can look up to.”

“That’s what bein’ a good papa is all about,” Majima opens up his arms, grinning for a moment. “Not a patriarch. I’m still gonna be their boss, but I’m gonna be the best one you’ve ever fuckin’ seen. I’ve spent long enough thinkin’ pain was the best teacher. I learned that from the little girl. But pain only goes so far. I fuckin’ hated Shimano. There wasn’t a day where I didn’t.” Majima’s fingers twirl absentmindedly. His hands meet in the center of his chest, where he taps his fingertips together. “Ain’t ever gonna wash away that stain. Least I can do is offer my boys the chance of not endin’ up like me.”

Kiryu’s eyes slide shut. Then, he’s turning over to slump his body right next to Majima’s. His shoulder slams right into his. “That’s all you can do.” Kiryu hums. “That’s what I’m telling myself now.”

“What, you worryin’ about the kid?” Majima asks.

Kiryu picks at a scab on his wrist. “I’m a violent, mean asshole. I like it when people leave me alone, and if I could never leave my apartment again, I’d do it. But, all I want to do now is make sure she’s safe. Kazama-san was a quiet man. I admired that. I still do. But, it hurt me. He never took me out to the arcade in town. He never bought me nice dresses, and then he never bought me nice shirts. It was the headmaster that did all that, even if he could barely afford it himself. The other kids and I took care of each other when Kazama wasn’t there, and I thought that was okay. I didn’t think anything of how angry I was. I could put the blame on everything else. And then, Kazama-san would visit and it was like the best day ever.” When he looks down at his wrist again, he sees blood. “I don’t know how many kids I put in the infirmary at school. When Kazama-san would find out, he’d give me this look. It was how I got his attention.”

There’s a poignant silence as Kiryu takes a much needed pause. When he glances Majima’s way, Majima isn’t looking at him.

Kiryu continues. “Now I have a kid a year ago I would’ve said I never wanted, and I’d do anything for her. But when I hear how the kids at school treat her, I get scared. I didn’t tell her how easily she could become like me. I didn’t tell her how I’m still angry. I don’t know how she can think I have all the answers. What the fuck would I do with myself if Haruka felt alone enough to hurt people? That’s what I’m fighting for. I want to get her the dresses she wants, I want her to be able to hold my hand without feeling scared. I want her to be able to look at me and know that I love her. It’s so hard for me to tell that to her.”

Kiryu leans forward. His head finds purchase on the palms of his hands, digging them into his closed eyes like he wants to pop them into his skull. He shudders out a breath, goosebumps trailing from his neck to his arms.

He can hear the footsteps of his neighbors upstairs. It’s the only sound permeating the room.

“Ya wanna hear a story?”

Kiryu doesn’t answer. Majima slides the cigarette into Kiryu’s grasp.

“The day I met the big man, he fractured my wrist. I was a real little shit, real nasty. You think you were an angry kid just ‘cuz daddy didn’t love ya?” Majima scoffs. “I robbed some suits ‘n ties I didn’t think were hot shit. I was thirteen. Now, I can’t even tell ya the shit I did yesterday, but I remember spring of ‘77. I was causin’ a whole fuckin’ scene, and it was like the sea parted. This big bad motherfucker that all the other men gawked at. He asked me if I was the little shit messin’ with his operations. I told him he could go fuck himself.”

Majima holds his right wrist, rubbing it softly. He bites the inside of his mouth. Slowly, Kiryu turns his head to the side. His eyes ache from the pressure, and everything feels brighter.

Earlier, they had come to the agreement they wouldn’t divulge their dirty laundry. Kiryu can see how strained Majima looks, and yet, he’s saying this. Kiryu’s glad Majima isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle the look in his eye.

“One moment I’m on my feet, next thing I’m not. I’ll tell ya, it was fuckin’ magic . After that, I never left ‘em.”

Kiryu opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He flicks his gaze around, anywhere to not have to look at the strange melancholy on Majima’s face. It occurs to Kiryu how he never thought just how a man like Majima ended up with someone like Shimano. In the nineties, he remembers what the family men would say. He can’t ever recall a time when he saw the two of them in the same room.

“Now, why am I tellin’ you this? Because, little Kiryu, I’ve seen into that little girl’s eyes. I don’t think she could ever question whether or not you loved her. That’s what matters.” Majima lifts his hand up and places it upon Kiryu’s thigh. He gives him a pat, then quickly retracts it. “You give her as much as she gives you, and she’ll turn out just fine.”

“You don’t have to tell me all this.”

“Nah, I don’t. You’re a grown ass man.” Majima plucks his cigarette back, and takes a drag. “But you’ve given me a lot to think about. Least I could do is scratch your back, too.”

There’s so much more Kiryu wants to say to him.

“Thanks.” Is all he says.

Majima rolls his eye, nearly biting his cigarette. “Whatever,” He grunts.

Kiryu leans towards the nightstand, hand slamming over his watch. He strains his body, feeling at least several different bones pop. He lets out a long sigh. He checks the time. Almost four AM. Majima finds himself focusing on the way Kiryu’s body stretches across the bed. Kiryu makes a strange sound in the back of his throat, and readjusts the watch back on the nightstand. He lets his head drop, his eyes shutting.

“Got somewhere to be today?” Majima asks him.

“No. And neither do you.” Kiryu answers.

“Mighty presumptuous of you, Kiryu-chan,”

“Like you’re getting anywhere in the snow. You got yourself stranded here.”

Majima barks out a laugh.

Kiryu adds: “Haruka will be up eventually. I want to get some amount of sleep.”

“Nobody’s stoppin’ you, stud.”

“And what will you do?” Kiryu asks him, giving him a funny look.

Majima shrugs and says: “Wait. Now lay the fuck down.”

“The hell do you mean ‘wait’? ” Kiryu huffs. “You’re just going to watch me sleep?”

“Like ya said, I got nothin’ else better to do. Unless you’re willin’ to squeeze yourself in that tiny little bed to make room for me.”

“Sometimes I remember why people thought you were crazy,”

“Crazy is as crazy does,” Majima tells him, almost singing it in his falsetto.

So, Kiryu obeys, somehow eased by Majima’s shrill tone. Still leaned across the bed, propped by his elbow, he just lets himself fall onto his back. His bed is stiff, but it works. With his legs having nowhere else to go, he throws them over Majima’s thighs. “Hey!” Majima huffs.

“You’re in my bed. Deal with it.” Kiryu responds.

He drags as much blanket as he can over his bare shoulders. He realizes the light is still on. He stirs, but as he’s deciding to get up, Majima throws his legs off of him. He watches Majima shuffle across the floor, scratching his back. He throws his hand over the lightswitch, plunging the both of them in darkness. It startles Kiryu’s eyes, and it takes him a minute to adjust to it. He sees the silhouette of Majima make his way back to the bed.

“Quit moving my legs.” Kiryu demands, as Majima lifts his calves so he can return to his original position.

Majima grumbles. “Fuckin’ nag.”

“I can,” Kiryu suddenly yawns. A tear pricks at his eye. “I can throw you out.”

“You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

Kiryu squishes his shoulder into the bed, forces his cheek into the pillow all in the effort to settle down. His chest continues pounding. He can still hear Majima smoking, and then he can hear Majima put it out in the can on the window sill. There’s something so foreign at feeling his legs rest on Majima. It feels wrong. It feels awkward. Worst of all, it feels comfortable. He squints his eye open and he can see Majima’s necklace twinkle every so often from a stray light from the window. He can see the shadow of Majima’s profile.

He misses Kamurocho’s sounds.

It’s an uncanny valley having Majima here with no sound outside to speak of. It’s strange how the more silent it is, the less Kiryu can relax. And is Majima really just going to stay awake for however long Kiryu is asleep? Why is Kiryu okay with that?

He feels Majima’s ungloved palm on his ankle.

It surprises Kiryu, but he doesn’t jump. Immediately, he focuses on the touch. It’s as rough as he remembers it. There’s a thick callus on his thumb, and Kiryu assumes it comes from knife use. He’s embarrassed at how easily he settles after that. He thinks about the reality that he will most likely wake up and find Majima still there.

Majima knows what comes next. He’s going to have a lot to juggle soon.

All Majima wants to do is stay there with Kiryu’s legs weighing him down. For the short time they have, Majima’s going to savor it. He can see the outline of Kiryu’s form, the swell of his biceps, the curve of his breast, content and gentle. He feels stripped of everything, now. He can’t see a stage in front of him. He can’t turn around and see an audience. He is here, and he is himself. He’s sad to find there’s not much to say after that. He’s here .

“Majima,” Kiryu whispers, his mouth against the pillow.

“Whassit?”

Kiryu listens to the sound of Majima’s breathing. It’s the kind of breath where his voice is just the least bit audible in each exhale. He can’t help but think about their final moments in Purgatory. He thinks about how Majima’s calf felt against his nose. Then, it all comes rushing forward. This is the end of it. The Tsuruha Clan is over. Shimura and Sugimori are in jail. Haruka is in her bed safe and sound. Nishida is most likely back where he belongs. The Majima Family are placated. Has it all been that simple? He wishes life were more like this.

“When Shimura…When you took the bullet…” Kiryu can’t let himself finish the sentence. It trails off into a frail croak, his fingers digging into the mattress. He knows the answer. When Majima strokes his thumb across Kiryu’s ankle, he knows Majima knows. As if there’d be any doubt.

“Yeah,” Majima answers solemnly. His voice is unlike anything from before. “Yes.” He repeats.

For a moment, Kiryu feels like his lungs are filled with water. Kiryu has to ground himself in the reality that Majima is still alive. As if Majima could read his mind, the stroking continues. There’s so many people Kiryu feels like he’ll never be able to repay fully.

When his life starts back up, when he’s job hunting like he used to, nobody is going to look at him and know just what happened with the Tsuruha Clan, and the group of boys who revolted. He sighs a breath of relief.

He refocuses on Majima’s hand on his leg.

“Good morning,” Kiryu tells him. His eyelids feel heavy.

Majima’s response never comes. He falls asleep that quick.

He dreams of a Story he won’t remember.