Page 58 of Kotori

"Years. Since he turned twenty. The bar owners know him, keep his preferred 'type' available when he visits." Takeshi's voice drops to something lethal. "Specifically requests girls who look naive, inexperienced. Girls who remind him of proper daughters from good families."

The pattern crystallizes with perfect, sickening clarity. He wasn't content with occasional exploitation. He's built his entire adult life around hunting innocence, whether paid for in sleazy bars or groomed within respectable family circles.

"His father's involvement?"

"Sho had to know about the bars, probably considers it harmless compared to actual prostitution. But the grooming operation? That's all Daichi's innovation." Takeshi's analysis cuts deep. "He figured out how to get the same thrill while gaining political leverage for his family."

"And Hiroshi?"

"Opportunistic. Saw Daichi's leverage over our family and decided to exploit it for political gain. Probably doesn't know about the schoolgirl bars, just knows his ally Sho's son has compromising material on your daughter."

"What is Daichi's current location?"

"Downtown high-rise, thirty-second floor. Minimal security. He feels untouchable." Takeshi pauses. "Aniki, this requires careful handling. If we move against him directly, it exposes your daughter's situation. The shame might follow her regardless of the truth."

"Then we handle it quietly." I reach for the bottom desk drawer, retrieving items I haven't needed in years. "No witnesses. No evidence. Just consequences."

"Understood. What about his father's business interests?"

"Leave Sho to me. Tonight is about the predator who abused my daughter." The tactical knife slides into its ankle sheath with familiar weight. "Everything else can wait until morning."

Daichi Shuichi made the fundamental error of threatening what belongs to me.

Not just my daughter, but my family's honor, the sacred trust between father and child that forms the foundation of everything I've built.

He convinced an eighteen-year-old girl that degradation was education, that exploitation was preparation for marriage.

Used her innocence against her, then presented himself as generous salvation from the very trap he'd constructed.

The intelligence Takeshi provides is thorough. Daichi lives in a luxury high-rise downtown, the kind of place where wealthy young men play at sophistication while preying on innocence. His daily routine, his security protocols, his habits. All mapped with clinical precision.

But I don't want efficiency tonight. I want him to understand what it feels like to be helpless, watched, stalked by someone with absolute power over his fate.

The way my daughter felt for three months.

I follow him home from his favorite hostess bar, maintaining distance while observing his arrogant swagger. He feels safe in his expensive tower, protected by his father's reputation and his own assumed invincibility.

I stalk through the marble lobbies and up service elevators, past sleeping residents who have no idea death walks among them.

His door lock surrenders to practiced skill.

Daichi Shuichi sleeps in silk pajamas, comfortable in his expensive bed, dreaming whatever dreams twenty-five-year-old predators have when they believe themselves safe from consequence.

The bedside lamp casts gentle light across features that make school girls melt.

He's too pretty for the son of a yakuza.

Handsome, refined, the kind of face that makes sheltered eighteen-year-old girls feel chosen by sophistication.

I settle into the chair beside his bed and watch him sleep.

For an hour, I simply observe. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The way he shifts restlessly, subconscious recognizing danger even in dreams. The comfortable arrogance that radiates from him even in unconsciousness.

This is meditation of the darkest kind. The focused calm that precedes surgical violence, the patient stalking that transforms hunting into art.

I want him to experience the same helpless vulnerability my daughter felt when she realized she'd been trapped by someone she trusted.

The same terror of discovering that safety was an illusion, that someone had been watching, planning, preparing to destroy everything she thought she understood about her own worth.

When he finally stirs, I'm ready.

The slow transition from sleep to awareness. A slight shift, then another. His subconscious recognizes danger before his mind catches up. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, still caught between dreams and waking.

Then he sees me.

Terror floods his features as recognition hits. What my presence in his bedroom means. The Matsumoto mon embroidered on my jacket collar. The stillness that marks professional killers.

He opens his mouth to scream.

The knife appears at his throat before sound can emerge, the blade catching lamplight.

"Konbawa, Shuichi-san."

His entire body goes rigid with absolute horror. Sweat beads across his forehead despite the cool air. The kind of panic that comes from understanding you're about to pay for sins you thought were safely hidden.

"Please," he whispers, voice breaking with terror. "I can explain."

"You can listen." The blade traces his jawline with surgical precision, drawing the thinnest line of blood.

"For three months, you convinced my eighteen-year-old daughter that sexual exploitation was education.

That degradation was preparation for marriage.

That compliance with your demands demonstrated sophistication. "

Each word is delivered with quiet certainty, no visible rage, just the calm recitation of crimes that demand payment in blood.

"My daughter trusted you," I continue, watching him shake with absolute terror. "She believed your lies about education and preparation because she's innocent, curious, and wanted to become worthy of marriage. You took that beautiful innocence and corrupted it for your entertainment."

"I never touched her," he gasps desperately, as if physical restraint might somehow mitigate psychological rape.

"No. You did something worse." The knife moves to rest against his carotid artery, pressure light but promising. "You convinced her that exploitation was love, that manipulation was guidance, that she was complicit in her own abuse. You stole her sense of self-worth and replaced it with shame."

Tonight isn't about what he did, but about who he did it to. That hunting a yakuza king's daughter carries consequences that reshape the meaning of regret.

"The marriage proposal was brilliant," I acknowledge with professional appreciation. "Use the very evidence of exploitation to force compliance. Present yourself as generous salvation from the trap you created. Political manipulation through family honor."

His breathing becomes shallow, rapid, the kind of panic that precedes system failure. The scent of urine fills the air as his body surrenders to terror.

"Unfortunately for you, my daughter found the courage to tell me the truth." My voice drops. "And now you're going to learn what happens to predators who hunt in my territory."

"Wait, please, I can make this right—"

The blade slides between his ribs with practiced efficiency, finding the precise angle that punctures lung without immediately striking heart. He gasps, blood frothing at his lips, eyes wide with the dawning realization that death has come calling.

"My daughter truly believed she was guilty of shameful behavior," I murmur, watching life ebb from his eyes. "Three months carrying shame that belonged to you. Three months thinking she was dirty, complicit, deserving of whatever punishment awaited."

I adjust the blade slightly, opening the wound enough to accelerate blood loss without making it instantaneous. He needs time to understand, to experience the helplessness he inflicted.

"She's eighteen years old, you sick bastard. Eighteen." The knife slides deeper, finding the organs that will ensure this ends exactly as it should. "What kind of twisted predator grooms a teenager and calls it education?"

His mouth opens and closes like a fish drowning in air, no sound emerging except the wet rattle of punctured lungs. Blood pools beneath him, soaking through expensive sheets that will never be clean again.

"The psychological damage you inflicted will take years to heal. She'll question every relationship, every compliment, every moment of adult attention because you taught her that love and exploitation are the same thing."

The blade finds his heart with surgical precision, the final stroke delivered.

"Sleep well, Daichi-kun. And when you meet whatever gods judge predators in the afterlife, remember that you died because you were stupid enough to hunt a dragon's child."

His eyes lose focus as life drains away, leaving behind nothing but meat and consequences.

I clean the blade return it to its sheath. Professional efficiency born from decades of practice. Before leaving, I straighten his bedding and close his eyes. No dramatic symbols or calling cards. Just the quiet elimination of a threat that should never have existed.

The drive home passes in perfect silence, autumn air washing the scent of death from my clothes. By the time I reach our compound, my breathing has returned to normal rhythm, my heartbeat steady as temple bells.

Justice has been served with the precision it deserved.

My daughter can sleep safely, knowing that the predator who hunted her innocence has paid the full price for his crimes. I will do everything to ensure she'll continue healing from wounds that should never have been inflicted.