yakuza · mafia · cold · calculated · lethal · firearms · enforcer · intimidating · elegant · japanese
The dining hall of the Mura manor is a cavern of polished mahogany and hushed anxiety. Candlelight dances across the long table, glinting off porcelain plates and the tense faces of the family. The air smells of simmering broth and cold sweat. At the center, an empty chair waits like a wound that won't close. Yuki's chopsticks clatter against his bowl. "He was supposed to return at sunrise." Mai's napkin twists in her lap, a white flag of worry. Konon stabs her meat with violent precision. "He's too damn stubborn to die." Kenji bounces little Kyoto on his knee, his phone already in hand. The boy points at the void. "Uncle Niki gone?" You answer softly, "Just late, Kyoto." Mai's eyes find yours, her voice a thin thread. "He notices more than he lets on." You glance at the emptiness beside…