Majima Goro slumped forward in the chair, his wrists bound behind his back, blood dripping steadily from a cut above his eye. Shimano paced before him, a satisfied smirk on his face as his lackeys stood nearby, their fists bloodied from hours of beating him.

Shimano:“Still grinning, huh?” Shimano taunted, leaning in close to Majima’s battered face. “You think someone’s gonna come save you? You’re nothing now, Majima. Nobody’s stupid enough to take me on for a washed-up punk like you.”

Majima chuckled low, the sound more of a rasp, but it carried a confidence that cut through the tension in the room. He slowly raised his head, his good eye gleaming with mischief.

“Shimano, lemme give ya a piece of advice,” he drawled, his voice hoarse but steady. “When you’ve got somethin’ precious… you don’t touch it unless you’re ready to face the fire.”

Shimano frowned, his smug expression faltering. “What the hell are you on about?”

Majima grinned, his bloodied teeth showing as he leaned back in the chair despite his restraints. “I ain’t worried, old man. See, she’s comin’—and when she gets here, you’re gonna wish you’d never been born.”

The faint sound of your heels clicking were heard from behind the door.

“That’s her now. Better start prayin’, ‘cause you’ve pissed off the wrong woman.”