As I stepped out of the car, I adjusted my suit. It wasn't just any suit—it was my old one from the yakuza. It felt right, like it always did. The school uniform I'd been wearing earlier didn't fit me, not in the literal sense, but in a way that made me feel out of place. But this suit? This was familiar. This was the world I knew how to handle.
The man who had been waiting outside the school pointed to a run-down apartment complex, the place where the debtor had been hiding. "That's the one," he said before quickly making himself scarce. He knew better than to stick around for what was coming next.
I straightened my collar, walked up to the door, and knocked. My knock was firm, deliberate. There was no need for subtlety here.
The door cracked open, revealing a middle-aged man with dark circles under his eyes. He looked me up and down, confused by the sight of me in a suit, as if he had been expecting someone else. Before he could even ask who I was, I shoved the door open, stepping inside with purpose.
As I burst into the room, the man's confusion quickly turned to anger. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he shouted, his voice rising. He stepped toward me, fists clenched, clearly not realizing the situation he was in. "Who the hell are you, barging into my home like this? You got no respect, no manners! What, were you raised by no mom or dad? Freakin' delinquent piece of shit."
I scanned the room quickly. It was a modest place, clearly not meant for much more than getting by. A small altar caught my attention in the corner of the room, adorned with a photo of his wife, who had passed away. Next to it was a family photo—him, his son, and his wife smiling together.
I paused, letting my eyes linger on the photo for a moment. Then, without thinking, a smirk crept onto my face. There was something darkly satisfying about this. The man noticed my smirk and his anger returned, the confusion replaced by indignation.
I stood still, letting him vent, watching as his anger bubbled over. He wasn't thinking straight, that much was obvious.
I cut him off with a heavy sigh, not bothering to raise my voice. "You thought you could run away from your debt, huh?" My words were slow, deliberate, and laced with cold finality.
The man froze. It was like the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. His bravado evaporated in an instant, and his eyes widened as the realization hit him. He knew who I was, or at least what I represented.
"Please," he stammered, his tone suddenly desperate. "I—I can explain, I just—"
I glanced at the altar again, my smirk fading into something darker. "What happened to that tone of yours from earlier?" I asked, letting my voice drop into something more dangerous. "Weren't you just calling me a delinquent piece of shit, saying I had no manners and must've been raised by no mom or dad? Where's that courage now?"
I didn't wait for him to respond. Instead, I casually reached over to a shelf nearby and knocked a framed picture to the floor. The glass shattered on impact, and the man's face twisted in panic. "Please! I—I didn't mean what I said! I was just angry!"
"Angry?" I muttered, grabbing a nearby vase and tossing it aside. It crashed against the wall, sending shards everywhere. "You don't get to be angry. You're the one who ran, remember?"
The man's breath hitched as I continued breaking things around the room, smashing anything that looked remotely valuable. A vase shattered against the wall, and I could hear him panicking, his hands trembling as he reached out toward me.
"Please, stop!" he begged, his voice cracking. "I swear, I'll get the money soon! Just give me a little more time!"
I paused for a moment, my gaze shifting toward the altar in the corner of the room. My eyes landed on a small urn, a delicate jar, the kind used to hold someone's ashes. His wife, no doubt. Slowly, I walked over to it and picked it up, turning it in my hands.
"Is this your wife?" I asked, my voice cold and distant.
The man froze, his eyes wide with terror as he saw what I was holding. "No… no, please, not that. Don't touch that."
I lifted the urn slightly, tilting it, as if I was about to smash it to the ground like everything else in the room. "You should've thought about that before you ran away," I said, my voice steady. "Everyone thinks they can talk their way out of this."
"Please! I'll pay, I'll do anything—just don't!" His voice broke as he fell to his knees, hands outstretched in pure desperation.
I watched him for a moment, my grip still firm on the jar, feeling the weight of his words, his pleading. But I didn't move.
The door creaked open, and the boy froze in the doorway, his eyes wide as he saw the wreckage—broken frames, shattered glass, and his father backed into a corner. His eyes then landed on me, standing there amidst the chaos, and it took him a second to piece things together.
"You?" he said, his voice filled with shock. "The guy from school?"
His surprise quickly shifted into anger, but not fear—just overblown confidence. He stared at me, narrowing his eyes as if he couldn't believe I was here. "What, you think you can come here and trash my place just 'cause I roughed you up earlier?"
The boy—his son—stepped further into the room, his fists already clenched. "What the hell are you doing to my dad?!" he demanded, his voice filled with anger.
He stepped forward, cocky as ever, like he still thought I was some weakling he could take down. He had no clue what he was walking into.
His father, too frozen in fear to speak, tried to reach out, his hands trembling. "Don't—" he whispered, but it was too late. The boy didn't know what he was dealing with.
I raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the sudden shift. "You're here," I said, my voice calm, almost casual. "You're the one who punched me earlier."
His eyes narrowed, and he took another step toward me, clearly intent on doing something he'd regret. "Yeah, I'm not gonna let you trash our house like this! I don't care what you think you are outside of school, you're still just the same weak little shrimp I knocked out earlier!"
He lunged at me, fists swinging wildly, but I sidestepped easily, grabbing his wrist mid-swing and twisting it behind his back. He let out a sharp gasp of pain as I held him in place.
"That was at school," I said quietly, my voice a low growl. "This is different."
The boy tried to fight back, but he was no match for me. I grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking him forward. His father screamed, but I barely heard it. The only thing that mattered now was making him understand the cost of running.
With one swift motion, I slammed the boy's head against the wall. The impact echoed through the room, and his face was crushed into the plaster, his cheek scraping against the rough surface. He groaned in pain, trying to push me away, but I tightened my grip on his hair, forcing his face harder against the wall.
"Please! Stop!" the father cried, scrambling to his feet, his hands shaking. "I'll get the money, I swear! Just don't hurt him!"
"Shut up and watch," I ordered, glaring at the father.
The man whimpered, his hands shaking as he reached out toward his son. "Please! Please, don't hurt him! He doesn't deserve this!"
I leaned in close to the father, my voice a low, dangerous whisper. "That's where you're wrong. You brought this on him." I straightened up and gave a subtle nod to the boy. "Now, he's the one who'll pay for your mistakes."
I dragged the boy by his hair, his feet scraping against the floor as I pulled him across the room. He gasped for air, trying to claw at my hand, but I was too strong for him. Without a word, I shoved his head into the bathroom, slamming it down toward the toilet.
"NO!" the father screamed as I dunked the boy's head into the water. He thrashed violently, gasping for air, his body jerking as he tried to lift his head out of the water. His panicked splashes only made it worse, and I held him there, watching as he struggled to breathe, bubbles rising to the surface.
The father stumbled into the bathroom, reaching for his son, but I shot him a warning look. "You want this to stop?" I said coldly, my hand still gripping the boy's soaked hair. "Get the money."
"I—I'll get it!" he begged, tears streaming down his face. "Just stop!"
"That's the thing," I said quietly, tightening my grip on the boy's head, pushing him just to the brink of drowning. "Everyone says they'll do anything at the last moment. But you should've thought about that before you decided to run."
I pulled the boy's head out of the water, his gasps for air sharp and desperate. He coughed and sputtered, water dripping from his hair and face. His eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling.
But I wasn't done yet.
With one swift movement, I dragged him toward the stove in the corner of the kitchen. His father watched in horror as I held the boy's wet face close to the burner. The stove wasn't lit, but the threat was clear. I turned the knob, letting the gas click as the burner sparked to life.
The heat rose quickly, and the boy's breath hitched, his skin already feeling the warmth as I pressed his face closer.
"No! Please! Don't do this!" the father cried, falling to his knees in desperation. "I'll get the money! Just don't hurt him anymore! Please!"
I held the boy there for another moment, letting the heat grow unbearable, then finally pulled him back. His face was red and drenched, his body limp as he collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.
I stood up, stepping back from them both, my voice calm but final. "You've got four days. I'm being generous here." I glanced down at the boy, his face still wet and pale, then back to the father. "I don't care what you have to do. Sell your soul to the devil for all I care. But get the money."
With that, I turned and walked out, leaving the father cradling his son, sobbing and broken. They had four days. After that, there wouldn't be any more chances.
I stepped out of the house, leaving the sound of the father's desperate sobs behind me. The door swung shut with a dull thud, but their cries and pleas echoed in my mind. My hand was still wet from the boy's hair, and I wiped it on my suit, feeling the familiar chill of the evening settle around me.
For a moment, I stood outside, breathing in the cold air, trying to shake the tension from my shoulders. This wasn't the first time I'd had to do something like this, and it wouldn't be the last. But no matter how many times I carried out these orders, there was always that lingering emptiness afterward.
I wasn't like them—these scared, desperate people. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. They were the ones who made the mistakes, who ran, who thought they could escape. All I did was deliver the consequences.
Still, a part of me wondered, every time, how far I could go before I became just like the monsters I'd been forced to work for.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. A quick glance at the screen told me I had a message from Yanagi. Without thinking, I dialed the number, and it barely rang once before his voice came through the line.
"Is it done?" Yanagi asked, his voice sharp, all business.
"Yeah," I replied, keeping my tone flat. "I gave them four days."
There was a pause on the other end, and then Yanagi chuckled softly. "Four days? You're getting soft, Yuki. Tokyo already got you soft?"
I didn't answer right away, my eyes still lingering on the house behind me. The father was probably holding his son right now, shaking, wondering if they'd survive the week. The thought didn't sit as well as it used to.
"They'll get the money," I said, my voice colder than I intended. "And if they don't, I'll finish the job."
"Good," Yanagi said, his voice approving. "That's what I like to hear. We've got no time for second chances, Yuki. You know that better than anyone."
I didn't respond. He wasn't wrong, but that didn't mean I had to like it.
"Go back to your hotel," Yanagi continued, his tone dismissive. "We've got more to discuss soon. I'm sure you're enjoying your time living as a student, but don't forget where your real business lies."
I hung up without saying anything, sliding the phone back into my pocket. The last thing I wanted to hear was more about the "business" Yanagi had planned. It was already enough to deal with.
As I walked down the dimly lit street, every step away from that house felt heavier than the last. The boy's desperate gasps, the father's sobs—those sounds stuck with me, like echoes I couldn't escape. The weight of what I had done pressed down on me, tightening in my chest. I shook my head, trying to push it away.
I did what I had to. They'd get the money. They always do.
But there was always that chance. The chance they wouldn't.
The streets were quieter as I made my way toward the station. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, the cool night air biting at my skin. Even with the cold, I couldn't shake the heat from the stove, the boy's wet hair against my hands, or the terrified look on his father's face.
Yanagi had put me up in a hotel—a surprisingly nice place, considering the life I was living. It was his way of showing me that, while I was here, I was still under his watch. Comfort came with a price.
Four days… please make it…