"What a morning to wake to."
The words escaped as a tired sigh.
I lifted my cup and watched steam curl upward before taking another drink. The warmth lingered briefly on my tongue before fading.
Outside, winter had settled over the city like a silent occupation.
The sky was pale.
The light weak.
The cold persistent.
Inside my study, the heater worked faithfully, yet the room still felt smaller than it had yesterday.
Or perhaps I was simply becoming more aware of its walls.
My gaze drifted across the shelves.
Books.
Ledgers.
Documents.
A lifetime of transactions arranged neatly into rows and columns.
A lifetime spent ensuring that problems remained someone else's concern.
The telephone sat quietly on the desk.
For now.
I already knew that peace would not last.
"Wakagashira, Morisan's brothel has been raided by the police."
The memory replayed itself as clearly as if the call had happened moments ago.
I could still hear the uncertainty in the man's voice.
Still remember the pause that followed.
"I understand."
That had been all I said.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
I looked out the window.
Men moved through the estate grounds.
Armed.
Alert.
Rifles slung over shoulders.
Boots crunching across frost-covered earth.
They looked tense enough to fight the weather itself.
Or maybe something worse.
I settled deeper into my chair.
The leather creaked beneath my weight.
A book rested nearby.
Crime and Punishment.
I had only begun reading it yesterday.
The title alone felt strangely amusing now.
A bitter smile appeared.
Maybe I could actually finish—
The telephone rang.
Sharp.
Demanding.
My smile vanished.
I reached over and lifted the receiver.
"Niisan, the police just raided Morisan's shop."
Heavy breathing.
Panic.
Fear.
"The workers have been detained. What do we do?"
I closed my eyes briefly.
"Nothing."
The answer came immediately.
"Lie low."
Silence.
Then a reluctant acknowledgment.
The line died.
I placed the receiver back down.
The room remained quiet for exactly three seconds.
Then the phone rang again.
I stared at it.
The sound continued.
Patient.
Persistent.
Like rain against a roof.
Eventually I picked it up.
"Good day, Wakagashira-san."
Another voice.
Another problem.
"Morisan really overdid it."
The caller chuckled nervously.
"Even his associates have been apprehended."
A pause followed.
"One died attempting to escape."
I leaned back.
My cup rested untouched.
Outside, one of the guards crossed the courtyard.
The man on the line lowered his voice.
"I'm leaving town."
The statement lingered.
Waiting.
Expecting.
"I see."
I looked toward the window.
"Safe journey."
The caller laughed softly.
"I won't say it directly, but you are a fine leader."
The line went dead.
I set the receiver down once more.
The room felt quieter than before.
Perhaps because every call removed another familiar voice from the city.
One less man.
One less connection.
One less piece of the machine.
"Morisan is too prideful."
I remembered hearing those words years ago.
The speaker had been right.
I knew it even then.
Yet my answer had always been the same.
"But he works just fine."
I sighed.
The sake tasted dull now.
The telephone rang again.
This time I almost laughed.
The sound had become part of the room.
Part of the morning.
Part of the punishment.
I picked it up.
"I did inform you I was the safer option."
A familiar voice.
One I recognized immediately.
"Haruto-san."
I rubbed my temple.
Irritation began climbing steadily upward.
Not anger.
Just exhaustion.
"Is this simply the police?"
The question was pointless.
I already knew better.
"No."
The answer came instantly.
"The Concord is moving."
A pause.
"And I would say they are being surprisingly lenient."
That earned my attention.
Outside, two guards exchanged words near the gate.
Neither appeared relaxed.
"Have you relocated your family?"
My eyes drifted toward the framed photograph on my desk.
A simple photograph.
Nothing special.
Yet it held more value than anything else in the room.
"They are safe."
I took another drink.
Only then did I realize I had been looking at the photograph for several seconds.
"So the girl died."
The question redirected the conversation.
Haruto sighed.
"Four to six stab wounds."
His tone remained matter-of-fact.
"Enough to keep her alive for a while."
A pause.
"She died shortly afterwards."
The silence that followed stretched.
Neither of us seemed interested in filling it.
"Even now," he finally said, "you refuse to mix family and work despite spending your entire life in business that thrives on exactly that."
I said nothing.
There was no point.
Some conversations ended better unfinished.
"Your organization—"
I started.
He interrupted.
"Morisan's actions."
A brief pause.
"The woman acted from personal grief."
Another pause followed.
"But I'm just a foot soldier. Whatever exists above my head stays above my head."
The answer told me very little.
Possibly because that was its purpose.
"I see."
I swirled the remaining sake.
"It was a pleasure doing business."
The line disconnected.
This time I hung up first.
The study fell silent again.
No ringing.
No voices.
Only the ticking of the clock.
I sat there for several seconds before reaching toward the telephone once more.
This call mattered.
The others had merely been consequences.
This one was duty.
The line connected.
Immediately I stood.
"Oyabun-sama."
The familiar habit remained stronger than reason.
Straight back.
Head lowered.
Respect given even through a telephone.
"I fulfilled my purpose."
I looked toward the photograph.
"I acted my role."
The words felt heavy.
Heavier than they should have.
"Move to safety."
My hand tightened around the receiver.
"Honor my final effort even after I have failed you."
Gunfire erupted outside.
The sharp cracks shattered the morning.
I turned toward the window.
Men ran across the grounds.
One of the guards disappeared behind a wall.
Another raised his rifle.
More shots followed.
The gate had become a battlefield.
Not unexpected.
Still unpleasant to hear.
"Daichi."
The voice from the receiver stopped me.
I straightened instinctively.
The gunfire continued outside.
The Oyabun said nothing else.
Seconds passed.
Long seconds.
Then the line went dead.
I lowered the receiver slowly.
Carefully.
The shooting continued for another moment.
Then stopped.
Silence rushed back in.
The sudden absence felt louder than the gunfire.
I sat down.
The sake remained unfinished.
The photograph remained where it had always been.
The study remained exactly the same.
Yet everything had changed.
Or perhaps it had changed long before this morning and I was only noticing now.
The door opened.
Five men stood beyond it.
Dark suits.
Calm expressions.
Professional.
Only one entered.
The others remained outside.
Waiting.
Watching.
The man who entered crossed the room at an unhurried pace.
I studied him.
He studied the room.
"Are you with the Concord?"
The question left my mouth automatically.
Habit.
Routine.
The final remnants of conversation.
The man raised an eyebrow.
"Force of habit," I added.
Something shifted in his expression.
Not amusement.
Not quite.
"Yori."
A revolver rested comfortably in his hand.
Not threatening.
Not yet.
Simply present.
I nodded.
"A businessman."
My fingers wrapped around the cup.
"One who happened to bargain in the underworld."
The statement sounded inadequate now.
I almost laughed.
A lifetime summarized in one sentence.
Not a very good sentence, either.
He glanced toward the photograph on my desk.
His eyes lingered there briefly.
Neither of us commented.
There was nothing to say.
I lifted the cup.
Took another sip.
The sake no longer tasted of anything.
Across the desk, Yori raised his revolver.
There was no speech.
No declaration.
No dramatic accusation.
Only action.
The first shot came like a hammer.
Boom.
The impact slammed into my chest.
The cup slipped from my fingers.
Ceramic shattered against the floor.
Warm liquid spread across the carpet.
A second shot followed immediately.
Boom.
Pain exploded through my body.
The chair shifted beneath me.
The room tilted.
I looked down.
Blood soaked through my clothing.
Dark.
Spreading.
Hot.
Then cooling.
My gaze lifted toward Yori.
The revolver remained steady.
Unwavering.
Professional.
He pulled the trigger again.
Boom.