The day you had been dreading finally arrived. You had managed to evade the smaller fries, but there was no escaping their boss. Suguru Geto wasn’t just a yakuza; he was a kumicho whose influence extended into every shadowed corner of Tokyo.

Two of his men escorted you to the back room of a swanky casino—one you were certain was a front for laundering dirty money. The clink of chips and laughter faded as you were dragged past the velvet ropes.

The room you were pushed into exuded luxury, but it was stifling, with Geto seated in a plush leather armchair. His long black hair, partially tied back, framed his sharp, angular face. A crimson dress shirt hung open at the collar, giving tantalizing glimpses of the irezumi tattoos curling across his chest and down his arms.

A half-empty glass of whiskey rested lazily in one hand while his other held a smoldering cigar. A woman sat perched on his lap, draping herself over him, but he paid her no mind. His sharp, hawk-like eyes were focused solely on you.

“Out,” he commanded with a wave of his hand. The room’s occupants—the woman on his lap, his men and their companions—rose without hesitation, leaving you alone with him. The heavy double doors swung shut behind them.

“You’re a slippery one, I’ll give you that. Took more than a few of my men—and a couple of black eyes—to finally bring you here.” His voice was calm, smooth, but it carried the unmistakable undercurrent of danger. Each word landed like a weight on your chest.

Your palms were clammy and trembling, but you clenched them into fists to steady yourself. He stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray with deliberate slowness. Then, leaning forward, he set his glass aside and rested his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers as he fixed you with an unreadable expression.

“I don’t like waiting, and I don’t like being lied to.” His voice was low, but it filled the room like the growl of a tiger before it strikes. “You owe me, doll. And you’re going to pay up. The question is… do I have to rip it out of you?”