Page 108 of The Dragon 2

“Yes. Safety protocols. Backups. A group chat for rescue. A burner phone. A GPS in your earrings.”

“Zo—”

“Look. If the Dragon gets a taste and your ass disappears, I want it on record that I tried to save you.”

“Save me from what? Orgasms?”

He grinned. “From being kidnapped, kept in a diamond cage, and fed caviar while a nude butler fans you with a peacock feather. Which, depending on how you look at it, might not be so bad.”

“Not a diamond cage though. And a peacock feather? What the fuck?”

“When the Dragon starts World War III over you, I will say I told you so. Loudly. Repeatedly. And I may even put it on a shirt.”

I chuckled as we approached the station.

The train entrance was subtle—modern lines of steel and tile descending underground like the mouth of a discreet luxury bunker.

Zo led the way down the stairs.

And, of course, the guards followed and got closer to us.

This is crazy.

We approached the ticket machines.

Zo reached for his card.

One of the guards beat him to it, slid his own card, paid for us both, and then bowed slightly.

Zo blinked. “I’ve never felt so insulted and pampered at the same time.”

“I guess we have to get used to this?” I took my ticket and walked through.

The turnstiles clicked.

The guards filed in behind us, moving smooth as shadows.

Down in the station, a few commuters stared at our ridiculous crew—one nerdy Black woman, one high-fashion white guy in gold glasses, and four-armed, tattooed yakuza men.

On the platform, things got worse.

The train arrived.

We got on.

So did the guards. They didn’t touch anyone. They didn’t speak. But they radiated danger in a language that needed no translation.

A group of schoolgirls near the door burst into a fit of giggles when they caught sight of Zo and me. Their giggles died fast when they spotted my guards’ inked wrists and necks. One of the girls whispered something, and they all inched away.

Five salarymen—clean-cut, in navy suits and lanyards—spotted us and immediately chose the opposite end of the train. One actually stepped back out of the car before the doors closed, muttering a quiet, panicked curse.

An old woman three seats down hissed under her breath and clutched her purse. Her eyes never left the guards.

In Japan, tattoos weren’t art. They were warnings. Centuries of symbolism etched in ink. Symbols of the underworld. Codes of violence and obedience.

Even the bathhouses posted signs banning inked guests like it was a biohazard.

This meant that no matter how polite, how perfectly groomed these men were, the stories on their skin broadcasted one thing—we kill for a living.