Page 53 of The Oyabun's Boy

I flexed my jaw, testing its mobility. Not broken. A small mercy in this symphony of hurt. I categorized my injuries with detached precision—three broken ribs on the left side, dislocated right shoulder, multiple lacerations across my torso, and what felt like a particularly enthusiastic attempt at facial reconstruction.

Amateur work, really. They'd left my fingers intact—a rookie mistake.

My vision adjusted to the dimness, revealing a nondescript chamber with cold stone floors and walls that had seen better decades. Water dripped somewhere behind me—the typical soundtrack to torture that lacked imagination.

Predictable.

The men surrounding me kept their faces obscured, though their body language screamed uncertainty. Three of them, each holding instruments designed for persuasion. None making eye contact. Fascinating how they could inflict such pain yet couldn't bear to face its architect.

"I must say," I drawled, my voice rougher than intended but steady, "your hospitality leaves something to be desired."

One of them—the tallest, clearly their idea of a leader—stepped forward and drove his fist into my already broken ribs. Iallowed myself a small grunt of acknowledgment. Denying them any reaction would only encourage creativity I didn't have time for.

"You'll talk eventually," he growled, the cliché so tired I nearly rolled my eyes.

"That's what I'm doing now," I replied. "Talking. Perhaps you should be more specific about what you want to hear."

Another blow, this time to my kidney. Unpleasant, but hardly innovative.

"You'll have to do better than that," I informed him, tasting copper as I spoke. "I've had paper cuts more threatening."

Their leader nodded to one of his colleagues, who approached with what appeared to be pliers. Now we were getting somewhere.

I closed my eyes briefly, not out of fear, but to center my thoughts. Immediately, Joy's face materialized behind my eyelids—those impossible green eyes wide with worry, freckles standing out against pale skin made paler by concern.

He would be frantic by now. Chen would have activated protocols, but Joy wouldn't understand the clinical necessity of procedure. He would pace, running those elegant fingers through his copper hair until it stood on end. He would demand answers no one could give him. He would feel helpless, and that thought—Joy in distress—cut deeper than any implement these amateurs could wield.

I opened my eyes, something shifting in my core. A cold, familiar clarity descended, sharper than before. No one kept me from what was mine. Not my uncle, not these hired thugs, not anyone.

The man with pliers hesitated, something in my expression giving him pause. Smart. He was the first to show a glimmer of intelligence. Too late to save him, of course, but I appreciated the moment of recognition.

"Your employer," I said conversationally, "severely underestimated me if he thought this would be sufficient."

"Shut up," the leader snapped, revealing his nerves. Weak men always shouted when they felt control slipping.

I rolled my shoulders slightly, testing the bonds at my wrists. Rope. Tight, but improperly knotted. The workmanship was almost offensive.

"Let me guess," I continued, as if we were discussing the weather rather than my imminent escape and their subsequent deaths. "My uncle sent you? Or perhaps the Triads? They lack this level of commitment to unpleasantness."

A flicker of surprise in the leader's eyes. Good. I was right. My uncle's handiwork, then. The old fool never learned.

I subtly tested the strength of the rope, feeling for give while keeping my expression neutral. There—a weakness in the binding. The knot was tied for appearance rather than security, a theatrical approximation of restraint rather than actual confinement.

These men weren't professional interrogators. Just muscle hired to soften me up before someone important arrived. The thought was almost insulting.

My dislocated shoulder would complicate matters, but I'd worked with worse. The pain could be compartmentalized, filed away with other unpleasant necessities.

"Your silence is telling," I observed when none responded to my provocation. "Did my uncle not pay you enough to engage in conversation? Or did he simply not trust you with information?"

The leader stepped forward again, this time with a knife. The blade caught what little light existed in the room, revealing notches along its edge. That would explain the particular pattern of lacerations across my chest. At least they were consistent in their mediocrity.

"You talk too much," he growled, pressing the tip of the blade under my chin.

I smiled, tasting blood. "A complaint I've heard before."

Joy had said something similar just yesterday, his eyes sparkling with amusement rather than malice. The memory sent a sharp pang through me that had nothing to do with physical injury.

I would return to him. I would hold him until the trembling that I knew would consume him subsided. I would kiss away the tears he would pretend he hadn't shed. This separation was temporary—an inconvenience, nothing more.