Chapter 17: The Interrogation
The silence in Hiroki’s office was a physical presence, thick and heavy as wet cloth. The only light came from a single brass desk lamp, pooling on the polished ebony surface and leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow. The framed photographs of stern men on the walls seemed to lean in, watching.
Hiroki poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a heavy crystal tumbler, then another. The clink of the decanter’s stopper was unnaturally loud. He slid one glass across the desk toward Shouma, who stood before him, his hands loose at his sides.
“Sit,” Hiroki said, not a request.
Shouma sat, the leather chair groaning softly. He didn’t touch the drink.
Hiroki settled into his own chair, swirling the liquid in his glass, watching the legs form and dissolve. “Tell me, son,” he began, his voice deceptively calm. “Why would our little doctor vanish right after her father’s death?” He took a slow sip, his eyes, sharp and dark, tracking every minute shift in Shouma’s expression over the rim of the glass. “It’s an odd time to take a trip. No word to friends.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air between them, mingling with the scent of old leather and expensive whiskey. “Unless she took something that didn’t belong to her.”
Shouma kept his breathing even, his gaze steady. He could feel the unblinking eye of the security camera mounted high in the corner, a tiny red light winking in the dimness. Every twitch was being recorded, studied. He reached for the whiskey, the cool crystal a familiar anchor. He took a sip, the burn a welcome distraction from the cold knot in his gut.
“People grieve in strange ways,” Shouma said, his tone carefully neutral. “Maybe she just couldn’t face the empty apartment. All the memories.”
“Memories.” Hiroki repeated the word as if tasting it, then dismissed it. “Kitsuhara was a sentimental man. Kept everything. Diaries. Old receipts. Meticulous records.” He placed his glass down on the desk with a definitive click. “A man like that, he might keep records of things that aren’t his business. Conversations he overheard. Numbers that didn’t add up.”
The ledger. He was talking about the ledger without ever saying the word. Shouma took another, longer drink, the whiskey failing to warm the ice forming in his veins. He thought of Romi, probably hiding in some garishly themed love hotel room, clutching that book like a lifeline. He thought of her kiss in the alley, a brand of desperate hope.
“If he had something like that,” Shouma said, meeting his father’s gaze directly, “wouldn’t he have used it?”
Hiroki’s smile was a thin, bloodless line. “Perhaps he was waiting for the right moment. Or perhaps he was a coward. But a daughter… a grieving daughter, feeling wronged, looking for someone to blame…” He let the sentence trail off, his meaning clear. “She might be reckless. She might not understand the value of what she has. Or the danger it brings.”
The office felt smaller, the walls pressing in. The faces in the photographs seemed to frown in unison. Shouma’s thumb traced the path of his scar, a nervous habit from childhood he’d never broken.
“I’ve asked around,” Shouma offered, shifting into the role of the dutiful son on a mission. “Her friends from university haven’t seen her. I checked the usual travel hubs. Nothing so far.”
“Try harder.” Hiroki’s voice lost its conversational pretense, hardening into command. “She is a liability. A flickering candle in a room full of gunpowder. I want that candle snuffed out. Do you understand me? Find her. Recover what is ours. However you have to.”
The words ‘however you have to’ echoed in the silent room. They meant intimidation. They meant coercion. They could mean a shallow grave in a forest. Shouma felt a surge of nausea, so potent he had to clamp his jaw shut against it. He saw Romi’s face, not as it was now, scared and determined, but as it was when they were fifteen, laughing as she stole a french fry from his plate at a summer festival.
He drained the rest of his whiskey, the alcohol a futile defense against the moral vertigo. He stood up, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll find her.”
Hiroki gave a slow, approving nod. “I know you will. You’re my son. Loyalty is your nature.”
The word ‘loyalty’ felt like a slap. Shouma gave a curt bow and turned to leave, his father’s gaze a physical weight between his shoulder blades.
He didn’t breathe fully until he was outside, the night air cool on his skin. He walked, his footsteps echoing on the pavement, with no destination in mind. The city’s lights were a smear of color through the faint tremor in his vision. His father hadn’t just given him an order; he had drawn a line in the sand and shoved Shouma to one side of it. The side with the liars and the killers.
He found himself on a bridge overlooking a dark canal, the water a slick, black ribbon below. He pulled out the burner phone, its cheap plastic casing a stark contrast to the heavy, custom-made device in his other pocket that connected him to his father’s world.
He typed a message to the only number stored in it. ‘The heat is intense. He knows it’s about a record. Are you safe?’
The reply came a few minutes later. ‘For now. Venetian Nightmare was booked. I’m in ‘Midnight in Paris’. It has a plastic Eiffel Tower. It’s… something.’
A faint, real smile touched his lips for a second. He could picture her there, sitting on a garish bedspread, the ridiculousness of her situation doing little to mask the terror.
His thumbs hovered over the screen. He needed to warn her, to tell her his father had all but declared war. But the words that came out were different, pulled from a place deeper than strategy or fear.
‘He asked me why you ran.’
He hit send. The confession hung in the digital space between them.
Her response was immediate. ‘And what did you say?’
Shouma stared at the dark water, the reflected lights twisting in the current. The choice was made. The line was crossed. He typed his reply, the words a final, silent renunciation of the man waiting in the office with the whiskey and the unblinking camera.
‘I told him I didn’t know.’
He leaned on the railing, the metal cold against his palms. The lie was now a tangible thing, a third person in their conversation. He was no longer just searching for her. He was hiding her. The hunter had become the accomplice. The son had chosen his own path. He stared into the dark water, waiting for the next move, a different kind of man than the one who had walked into his father’s office an hour before.
He stared into the dark water, waiting for the next move, a different kind of man than the one who had walked into his father’s office an hour before. The burner phone buzzed again, its vibration a sharp counter-rhythm to the gentle lapping of the canal below. He lifted it, the screen’s blue light washing over his knuckles.
‘There’s more in the ledger,’ Romi’s message began, the words appearing one after another like rapid heartbeats. ‘Pages of transactions. Your father’s been feeding information to the Takagi-gumi. To someone they call Viper.’
Shouma’s grip on the phone tightened, the plastic casing creaking in protest. Viper wasn’t just a name; he was a rumor given flesh, a Takagi enforcer known for leaving scenes that required closed caskets. The cold from the railing seeped through his jacket, but it was nothing compared to the chill settling in his bones.
‘I know who he is,’ Shouma typed back, his thumbs moving with a stiff, deliberate pace. ‘He’s not someone you talk to. He’s someone you avoid.’
‘I don’t have that luxury,’ Romi replied instantly. ‘The notes are detailed. Dates, amounts, specific clan movements that got leaked. It’s all here in your father’s own hand.’ A pause, then another message flashed. ‘I’m going to meet him. I have to.’
The air left Shouma’s lungs in a sharp exhale that fogged in the night air. He could almost see her, huddled in that ridiculous hotel room, the plastic Eiffel Tower a mocking symbol of a world she’d never see. This wasn’t a plan; it was a surrender wrapped in desperation.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he sent, the words harsher than he intended. ‘Viper doesn’t make deals. He makes examples. Tell me where you are. Now.’
‘It’s already set,’ her message came, final and terrifying. ‘Tomorrow. A bar called The Asphalt Garden, in Shinjuku. I sent him a message from a payphone. He agreed.’
Shouma pushed away from the railing, the city’s lights blurring into streaks of orange and white. Every instinct screamed at him to find her, to drag her out of that room and away from this suicide mission. The ledger wasn’t a shield; it was a target painted on her back.
‘Do not go,’ he typed, each word a plea. ‘Stay in your room. Do not move. I’m coming to you.’
He didn’t wait for a reply. Shoving the phone into his pocket, he turned and walked, his footsteps quick and heavy on the pavement. The game had changed again, and the only move left was to intercept her before she walked into the dark.
The game had changed again, and the only move left was to intercept her before she walked into the dark. Shouma was no stranger to love hotels. The garish facade of the ‘Amore Plaza’ was a familiar beacon of transient intimacy and shame.
He bypassed the awkward front desk interaction with a practiced swipe of his card at the automated kiosk. The screen flickered, assigning him a generic keycode for a room he wouldn't stay in. He took the stairs two at a time, the muffled thump of bass from another room vibrating through the walls.
Room 312, ‘Midnight in Paris’. He didn’t knock. He punched the code into the keypad, the electronic lock buzzing open. He stepped inside and closed the door, the mechanism clicking shut with a sound like a final verdict.
Romi jolted up from the edge of the round bed, her face pale against the deep red velvet headboard. A cheap plastic Eiffel Tower, illuminated with tiny orange bulbs, cast a kitsch glow over the scene. Her eyes were wide, red-rimmed from crying, but held a new, frightening resolve.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“Neither should you.” He scanned the room, noting the single bag by the door, the ledger sitting openly on the faux-marble console table. “We have forty-five minutes. Then I have to be seen somewhere else, asking about you.”
He moved to the table, flipping the ledger open. The entries were worse than he’d imagined. His father’ handwriting was unmistakable, detailing payoffs and betrayals that stretched back years. The name ‘Viper’ appeared again and again.
“You can’t go to that bar, Romi.”
“I have to. It’s the only move I have.”
“It’s a suicide move.” He grabbed her shoulders, his grip firm. “Listen to me. You do not negotiate with this man. You do not try to be clever. You give him the book the moment he asks.”
“But it’s our only leverage—”
“It’s not leverage, it’s a death sentence if you try to use it.” He forced her to look at him. “You say nothing except ‘This is what you asked for.’ Then you turn and you walk out. You don’t look back.”
“What if he doesn’t let me leave?”
“That’s why I’ll be there.” The plan crystallized in his mind, desperate and flawed. “I can’t be seen with you, but I can be in the same room. If he makes a move, I’ll make a bigger one.”
The reality of what tomorrow held descended upon them, a shroud smothering the dim, tinted light. This could likely end very badly for both of them.
The air grew thick with the scent of stale perfume and their own rising fear. He wanted to taste her as if it was their last time together alive. To feel something real before the world exploded.
He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I need you to understand how this works. There are no rules with a man like Viper.”
“I understand,” she said, but her voice was a fragile thread.
He silenced her with a kiss, not like the desperate clash in the alley, but something slower, deeper, a tasting and a memorization. He poured a decade of lost time into it, all the fear and the want, a final, aching claim.
He poured a decade of lost time into it, all the fear and the want, a final, aching claim. His hands moved to cradle her face, thumbs tracing the line of her jaw with a tenderness that felt foreign to his calloused fingers. He was afraid she might dissolve into memory again if he moved too fast, another ten-year absence carved from a single misstep.
Romi felt the fragility in his touch, the unspoken dread humming beneath his skin. She broke the kiss, her eyes searching his, and found the boy from the ramen shop summers staring back through the man’s hardened gaze. “Stop thinking,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Just feel.”
She took his wrists, her grip firm, and guided his hands to her hips before pulling him with her onto the garish red velvet bed. The plastic Eiffel Tower wobbled, its orange bulbs casting long, dancing shadows across the ceiling. She lay back, drawing him down until his weight settled over her, a solid anchor in the storm.
“No matter what happens,” she said, her words a fierce, quiet vow against his mouth, “I’ve always loved you. Since we were kids stealing fries, through every damn day since.”
His control shattered. He crushed his mouth to hers, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as his hands tore at her clothes. “I need to feel you, all of you,” he growled, yanking her jeans down her thighs. “Now.”
She arched against him, fumbling with his belt buckle, her fingers clumsy with urgency. “Then stop talking and fuck me, Shouma. I want your cock inside me so deep I forget my own name.”
He shoved her panties aside, his fingers sliding through her wetness, making her gasp. “You’re so fucking ready for me,” he muttered, positioning himself at her entrance. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want every fucking inch,” she panted, spreading her legs wider. “Don’t hold back.”
He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her nails digging into his back, her body clenching around him. “God, yes,” she moaned, her hips rising to meet his. “Just like that.”
He set a relentless pace, each thrust a raw, physical promise against the looming threat. The bedframe slammed against the wall in time with their ragged breathing. Sweat-slicked skin slid together, the air thick with the scent of sex and cheap perfume. “You feel so good,” he grunted, his mouth on her neck, sucking a mark into her skin.
“Harder,” she begged, her legs locking around his waist. “Make me come.”
He obeyed, pounding into her with a ferocity that bordered on violence, each movement erasing another second of their lost years. Her climax built, a tight coil unraveling deep in her belly. “I’m close,” she gasped, her back arching off the bed.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper. “Let me feel you.”
She shattered around him, a broken cry tearing from her throat as her body convulsed. The sensation pushed him over the edge; with a final, guttural groan, he spilled inside her, his own release shuddering through him. They collapsed together, spent and breathless, limbs tangled in the damp sheets.
For a long moment, the only sound was their labored breathing and the distant hum of the city. The plastic Eiffel Tower had stopped wobbling. Shouma’s hand found the scar on his eyebrow, a nervous tic from another life. Romi traced the path of it with her finger, her touch feather-light.
Romi traced the path of it with her finger, her touch feather-light. The sweat was cooling on their skin, the frantic energy of their coupling ebbing into something quieter and more profound. The plastic Eiffel Tower’s glow seemed softer now, a ridiculous sentinel in the silence.
“I forgot how you feel,” she whispered into the hollow of his throat. “The exact weight of you.”
He didn’t answer with words. He just tightened his arm around her, his hand splayed across the small of her back, holding her as if the city itself was trying to pull her away. For a few stolen minutes, the only world was this room, this bed, the rhythm of their breathing synchronizing.
Then his body tensed. He shifted, his eyes cutting to the digital clock on the nightstand. The red numbers glowed: 23:17. He had arrived at 22:32.
His forty-five minutes were up.
“I have to go,” he said, the words rough. He disentangled himself from her limbs and the damp sheets, the movement practical and final. The room felt instantly colder without his heat.
She watched him dress, committing the lines of his body to memory all over again. He pulled on his dark jeans and shirt, the fabric hiding the man who had been inside her just moments before, replacing him with the yakuza. He tucked the burner phone into his pocket.
“You need to sleep,” he told her, his back to her as he fastened his watch. “However you can. You’ll need your wits tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Try.” He turned, his face already a mask of grim focus. “The Asphalt Garden. I’ll be there. In the shadows, watching. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there.”
He crossed the room in two strides and cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone once, a fleeting touch that held the ghost of everything they’d just done. Then he was at the door, not looking back. The electronic lock buzzed, the door opened, and he was gone.
The silence he left behind was absolute. Romi lay in the center of the round bed, the impression of his body still warm beside her. She pulled the sheet over her nose, inhaling the scent of him, of them, a temporary shield against the Venetian Nightmare waiting outside the door. She closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow, and prayed for the sun not to rise.
The sun rose anyway, its pale light filtering through the slats of the blinds and painting bars across the garish bedspread. Romi had not slept. She showered in the tiny, wet-room-style bathroom, the water barely washing away the memory of Shouma’s weight, the feel of him inside her. She dressed in the same clothes from the day before, the fabric carrying the faint, lingering scent of the ramen shop, a lifetime ago.
She picked up the ledger. Its weight was familiar now, a death sentence or a pardon she couldn’t yet read. She ran a hand over its worn cover, feeling the ghost of her father’s hands. Then she placed it carefully into her bag.
The Asphalt Garden was a dimly lit cave tucked beneath a railway arch, the air vibrating with the faint rumble of passing trains. It smelled of spilled beer and bleach. She chose a booth in the back, shadowed and with a clear view of the door. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.
At exactly 2:00 PM, the door opened. A man entered, his movement unnervingly fluid. He was lean, dressed in an impeccably tailored slate-grey suit, his hair slicked back. He didn’t scan the room; he seemed to know exactly where she was. He slid into the booth opposite her.
He didn’t speak. His eyes, dark and utterly devoid of warmth, scanned her from head to toe, lingering on her bag. He placed his hands on the table; they were perfectly still, the nails meticulously clean.
“You have something for me,” he stated. His voice was softer than she expected, a dry rustle that raised the hairs on her arms.
“You’re Viper.” Her own voice sounded thin, reedy.
A slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head acknowledged this. “And you are the doctor daughter. Where is it?”