Page 21 of Kotori

Kaito

I adjust my tie in the mirror, imagining her hands fumbling with the black dress I left for her. The simple elegance of fabric chosen for tonight—modest enough for family dinner, fitted enough to showcase what belongs to me.

She's had four hours to process the message. To understand that compliance brings reward, resistance brings consequence. The conservative teacher's clothes were lesson enough, but the dress—that's an invitation to accept her new reality willingly.

Wear this tonight.

Three words that will determine whether tonight ends in gentle guidance or firmer education. I've planned every detail of the evening: where she'll sit, what we'll discuss, how I'll touch her.

The anticipation has my blood humming. This morning something broke inside her. I saw it in her eyes at the shrine, the exact moment her defenses crumbled. Tonight, I will harvest what I've sown.

My phone buzzes.

Takeshi's name on the screen makes my jaw clench. He knows better than interrupt me during dinner preparations.

"This had better be important," I answer, voice cold.

"Sumimasen, Matsumoto-sama," Takeshi responds, using the formal apology. "I wanted to inform you that your little bird tried to escape the cage today. She's been returned to her room."

I pause, my grip tightening on the phone. Of course she tried to fly. I'd be disappointed if she didn't.

"And?"

"The situation is contained. However, we have another problem at the workshop in Arashiyama. Significant damage. Your immediate presence is required."

"How significant?"

"Property destruction. Threats to the elderly craftsmen. Someone's testing our protection." His tone holds controlled fury. "The kind of disrespect that requires a personal response."

My reflection stares back from the mirror—perfectly knotted tie, formal jacket, the image of a man prepared for domestic intimacy. Soon, she'll descend the stairs in black silk, looking like everything I've ever wanted to claim.

But duty calls. Honor demands response. The workshop represents generations of family heritage, and anyone who dares touch it has signed their death warrant.

"Have the car ready." I tell Takeshi, already loosening my tie.

I change into darker clothing—black suit, no jewelry, nothing that shows blood. The formal dinner jacket goes back in the wardrobe alongside my anticipation for tonight's seduction.

Business first. Always business first.

But God help whoever made this necessary.

The drive to Arashiyama takes fifteen minutes through mountain roads shrouded in evening mist. Takeshi briefs me while I watch familiar landscapes blur past windows, each mile taking me further from her submission and closer to someone's execution.

"Six males, late teens to early twenties. Street gang, not yakuza—calling themselves the 'Rising Dragons.' Amateur thugs testing established territory." His tablet displays security footage of the break-in. "They specifically targeted the workshop during evening closing."

I watch footage of these criminals destroying pottery that took master craftsmen weeks to create. Smashing ceramic pieces against workshop walls. Spray-painting gang symbols over tools passed down through generations.

Cold rage builds in my chest. This is a violation of families under my protection, disrespect to our authority.

"Where are they now?"

"Tracked to an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district. Six targets, minimal weapons, no backup plan. They think intimidating one old man makes them players." Takeshi's tone holds disgust. "Permission to handle this?"

"No." The word comes out flat, final. "This one's mine."

The warehouse squats in industrial shadows, corrugated metal and broken windows speaking of urban decay. Perfect place for street thugs to celebrate their moment of power, counting stolen cash while planning their next act of stupidity.

They have no idea what's walking through their door.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mizuki: Paige-sensei looks very pretty tonight. She seems nervous about dinner.

The message ignites my blood. She's wearing the dress. Standing in my family's dining room, looking beautiful and uncertain, waiting for approval that I'm not there to give.

The street punks inside this warehouse interrupted that moment. Stole that instant of her submission from both of us.

Their suffering will be exquisite.

"Aniki?" Takeshi studies my expression with concern. "Your orders?"

"Wait here. Anyone tries to leave, break their legs."

"And if they don't cooperate?"

I give him a look that makes even Takeshi—a man who's served me through rivers of blood—step back.

"They'll cooperate."

The warehouse door opens with a rusty groan that announces my arrival. Six young men freeze around makeshift furniture—stolen crates serving as chairs, cash scattered across a broken table, spray paint cans still dripping with evidence of their crimes.

The leader, maybe twenty-two, dressed in cheap leather and cheaper attitude, recovers first. Stands with the false bravado of someone who's never faced consequences.

"Oji-san, you lost? This ain't your neighborhood anymore."

Old man . The disrespect would be amusing if I wasn't already calculating which bones to break first.

"You damaged property under my protection." My voice carries no emotion, no threat. Simple statement of fact. "Explain."

"Your protection?" He laughs, a sound like breaking glass. "Some old pottery guy? You yakuza are all the same."

I move.

Years of martial arts training, a lifetime of violence, muscle memory that turns the human body into a weapon. My fist connects with his solar plexus, dropping him to his knees as his diaphragm spasms.

The other five scramble for weapons—knives, a crowbar, one pathetic pistol that probably hasn't been cleaned since purchase. Street fighting tools against someone trained to kill with bare hands.

This won't take long.

My phone buzzes. Another message from Mizuki: Should we wait for you to start dinner?

The question makes my vision go red. My eldest daughter is asking about family protocol while these rats keep me from witnessing my bird's submission.

The leader struggles to his feet, still wheezing. "You can't just—"

"Can't what?" I grab his throat, feeling the windpipe flex under pressure. "Protect what's mine? Honor commitments made? Punish disrespect?"

I apply pressure—not enough to crush, just enough to make breathing work. His eyes bulge as oxygen becomes precious.

"You cost me something tonight. Do you understand that?"

He shakes his head frantically.

"Time. Moments that can never be recovered." My grip tightens. "I was supposed to see her in the dress I chose. Watch her submission. Experience something beautiful."

The cartilage begins to compress.

"Instead, I'm here. Teaching insects about consequence."

His face turns purple. I release him just before unconsciousness, letting him collapse gasping on concrete while his friends watch in horror.

"Your turn." I point to the next one. He's younger, maybe nineteen, probably following because he had nowhere else to go. "Come here."

"Please, I didn't want to—"

"Come. Here."

He approaches on shaking legs. When I grab his wrist, the bones feel delicate. One quick twist—radius snaps clean. He screams and drops to his knees, cradling a useless arm.

The one with the gun thinks firepower makes him brave. The bullet grazes my shoulder—a burning line of pain that only fuels my rage. I disarm him with a strike to his wrist, then use his own weapon to shatter his kneecap. The crack echoes off warehouse walls, followed by his screams.

Blood seeps through my jacket where the bullet grazed me.

These chimpira drew blood. Their second mistake.

Their first was interrupting my evening with my bird.

Their last.

Methodically, efficiently, I work through the gang members. Not elaborate torture—quick, precise violence that disables without killing. Yet. Broken bones, shattered joints, permanent reminders of what happens when you test Matsumoto authority.

I can feel the wound on my shoulder throbbing. Bleeding. These vermin drew my blood—their death warrant is now sealed.

The leader watches his crew fall apart, finally understanding they've made a fatal mistake.

"Please," he gasps when I return attention to him. "We'll leave the territory, never come back."

"You're right." I grab his head in both hands, positioning carefully. "You'll never come back."

My hands snap to his face, fingers tight on his jaw, forcing his head back to bare the weak point I've trained to destroy.

Forty years of martial art discipline coil into a single, explosive palm-heel strike—my hand rockets up, smashing his nose with a wet, splintering crack.

Blood erupts as cartilage and bone collapse under my precision.

His scream dies in his throat, eyes glassy with shock.

I don't hesitate. My other hand clamps the back of his skull, slamming it down with ruthless force, the impact reverberating through his cranium.

I feel something give way beneath my grip—the subtle yield of fracturing bone.

His body folds, lifeless, slumping to the ground, eyes wide with final understanding.

"Get up," I tell the corpse, blood pooling beneath it. "Get up and apologize."

When it doesn't move, I kick it once, hard enough to crack ribs.

"You made me late for dinner."

The surviving gang members stare in horror, finally understanding what real power looks like. What real violence feels like. Not their pathetic street posturing, but the cold, calculated fury of a man who's spent decades perfecting the art of pain.

I turn to the youngest, the one with the broken arm. His face is white with shock, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Watch carefully," I tell him, moving toward his friend with the shattered knee. "This is what happens when you touch what belongs to me."