"Watch, Otou-san," she whispered. "Watch what your daughter does to traitors."
She turned to Jiro.
He was trying to stand. She put her hand on his good shoulder and pressed down. Not hard. Just enough. He stayed seated.
"Reina," Hanae said. "Bring me the tea set."
"Ooh." Reina clapped her blood-sticky hands. She skipped over, gathering the jade teapot and cups that had spilled across the desk. The porcelain clinked as she arranged them carefully in front of Jiro.
The water was still hot. Steam rose in lazy curls.
Hanae picked up the teapot. Felt the heat through her gloves. She poured carefully, the amber liquid filling one cup with the ritual precision her father had taught her when she was six years old.
"You wanted to serve tea," she said. "So serve it."
Jiro stared at the cup. "What?"
"Pick it up."
His good hand trembled as he reached for the jade cup. The liquid sloshed, spilling onto the desk.
"Now drink."
He raised it to his lips. Sipped. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.
Hanae watched him finish. Watched him set the cup down.
Then she picked up the teapot and hurled the contents into his face.
The scream was immediate. Primal. The sound of nerve endings reporting catastrophic damage to a brain that couldn't process it fast enough.
Jiro's hands flew to his face. His skin was already blistering, the top layer of epidermis separating from the dermis beneath, bubbles forming and popping, weeping clear fluid that mixed with his tears.
His left eyelid had taken the worst of it. The delicate skin was bright red, swelling as she watched, the eye beneath it squeezed shut by trauma.
"That's for my father's wine," Hanae said.
She nodded to Takeshi.
The giant grabbed Jiro's right hand—the good one, the one not currently bleeding from Reina's knife—and slammed it flat on the desk.
Jiro tried to pull away. Takeshi's grip was iron.
Hanae picked up a letter opener from the desk. Sterling silver, shaped like a miniature katana, monogrammed with her father's initials. She turned it in her hands, testing the weight.
"You signed documents with this hand," she said. "Sold my father's businesses. His properties. His honor."
She raised the letter opener.
"Hanae, please—"
The blade came down.
It punched through the meat of his palm, between the metacarpal bones, and into the mahogany desk beneath. The point sank a full inch into the wood.
Jiro's scream hit a higher register. His body convulsed, trying to yank the hand free, but the blade was lodged deep. Every movement just ground the metal against bone and nerve.
Blood pooled around the embedded letter opener. Dark red, arterial. It soaked into the papers on the desk, turning bearer bonds into abstract art.
Hanae released the handle. Let it stand upright, quivering slightly with each pulse of Jiro's racing heart.
"Don't remove it," she instructed. "You'll bleed faster."
She walked around the desk. Jiro was panting now, his scalded face twisted in agony, his pinned hand twitching with involuntary muscle spasms.
Hanae crouched beside him. Met his eyes—the one that could still open.
"Where is my father's sword?"
"F-fuck you," Jiro spat. Blood flecked his lips. He was going into shock, adrenaline making him stupid. "You think... you think you scare me? You're just a—"
Hanae grabbed the letter opener's handle.
Twisted it.
Ninety degrees clockwise.
The screaming became something else. Something that didn't sound human anymore. The blade carved through tendons, severed the flexor muscles that controlled his fingers. His hand spasmed open, fingers splaying at unnatural angles.
She twisted it back. Counterclockwise. Slow.
Jiro vomited. The contents of his stomach—expensive sushi, sake, pills—splattered across the desk, across his lap, across his gold silk robe.
"The sword," Hanae repeated.
"S-sold!" he gasped. Tears and snot ran down his burned face. "Sold it! Russian... Russian collector! Twenty million! Twenty million yen!"
Hanae stood up. Looked at Reina.
"Get the name. Get the location. Get my father's sword back."
"On it, Boss!" Reina pulled out her phone, already typing with thumbs slick with blood.
Hanae turned back to Jiro. He was slumped in the chair, his impaled hand keeping him upright like a specimen pinned to a board.
She pulled out another cigarette. Lit it. The flame from her lighter cast dancing shadows across Jiro's ruined face.
"You kept my father in that chair for six years," she said quietly. Took a drag. The cherry glowed bright. "You pumped him full of drugs. Stole his mind. Made him watch cartoons while you destroyed everything he built."
She exhaled smoke into Jiro's face. He coughed, wheezing.
"So now you watch."
She nodded to Takeshi.
Takeshi grabbed the wheelchair. Spun it around so her father was facing away from the carnage, facing the broken window and the storm beyond.
Then he grabbed Jiro's chair. Pulled it away from the desk.
The letter opener tore free.
Jiro shrieked. Fresh blood pumped from the wound, running down his wrist, dripping onto the leopard-print carpet.
Takeshi positioned the chair directly in front of the shattered window. The wind howled through the opening, forty stories of empty air beyond the jagged glass teeth.
Rain lashed Jiro's burned face. He screamed again as the water hit his blistered skin.
"Takeshi," Hanae said. "Break his legs. Both of them. Below the knee."
"Osu."
Takeshi knelt down. Grabbed Jiro's right ankle with both hands.
Jiro was babbling now. "Please please please I'm sorry I'm sorry I'll give it back I'll fix everything I'll—"
CRACK.
The fibula snapped first. The thinner bone, easier to break. It sounded like green wood splitting.
Jiro's scream was hoarse now. His vocal cords were shredding from overuse.
CRACK.
The tibia went next. Thicker, denser. Takeshi had to put his back into it. The bone broke at a forty-five degree angle, the sharp edge of the proximal fragment tearing through muscle.
The leg bent wrong. Completely wrong. The foot flopped at an angle that made Reina giggle.
Takeshi moved to the left leg.
"No no no no NO NO—"
CRACK. CRACK.
Both bones. Quick succession. Professional.
Jiro passed out.
Hanae sighed. Walked over. Slapped him across his burned face.
The pain brought him back. His good eye rolled, unfocused.
"Stay awake," Hanae commanded. "You don't get to sleep through this."
She crouched down. Put her face close to his.
"You wanted to modernize the clan. Make it like a corporation. Clean. Efficient. No honor. No tradition. Just profit."
She grabbed his broken hand. Squeezed.
He screamed through clenched teeth. Fresh blood oozed between her fingers.
"But you forgot something," she continued, voice soft. Almost gentle. "The old ways are old because they work. And the old way of dealing with traitors hasn't changed in four hundred years."
She released his hand. Stood up.
"Takeshi. Reina. Pick him up."
They each grabbed an arm. Hauled Jiro to his feet—or what would have been his feet if his legs still worked. They hung useless, flopping.
They dragged him to the window.
Jiro saw the drop. Forty stories of rain and darkness and certain death.
"No," he whispered. "No. Hanae. Niece. Family. Blood. We're blood."
Hanae stepped close. Put her lips next to his ear.
"My father is my blood," she whispered. "You're just trash I'm taking out."
She stepped back.
"But I'm not going to throw you out," she said.
Relief flickered in Jiro's eye.
"You're going to climb out yourself."
The relief died.
"What?"
Hanae pointed at the window ledge. The narrow strip of concrete, maybe thirty centimeters wide, that ran along the outside of the building.
"Climb out. Sit on the ledge. And think about what you've done."
"I... I can't! My legs!"
"Use your arms." Hanae's voice was flat. Final. "Or Takeshi throws you out headfirst right now. Your choice."
Jiro looked at the ledge. At the storm. At the impossible distance to the ground.
His survival instinct—that ancient, lizard-brain imperative—made the choice.
"Help me," he whimpered.
Takeshi and Reina lifted him. Positioned him at the window.
Jiro grabbed the frame with his good hand. The broken one was useless, fingers dangling. He pulled himself up, grunting, sobbing. His ruined legs dragged behind him like dead weight.
The wind hit him immediately. Tried to rip him off the building. Rain soaked him in seconds, making everything slippery.
He got one leg onto the ledge. Then the other. The broken bones ground together. He screamed but kept moving because the alternative was falling.
He turned around. Pressed his back against the glass. Sat on the ledge with his legs hanging over the void, broken at impossible angles.
The wind howled. The rain fell. Forty stories of nothing yawned beneath him.
Hanae stood inside, dry and warm, smoking her cigarette.
"Comfortable?" she asked.
Jiro couldn't answer. He was using both hands to grip the window frame, his burned face turned up to the rain, his broken body perched on thirty centimeters of wet concrete.
Hanae checked her watch. "It's 11:47 PM. I have a wedding reception to attend at midnight. That gives you thirteen minutes to think about your choices."
She turned away.
"Boss?" Reina asked. "What if he falls before then?"
Hanae shrugged. "Then he falls."
She walked to her father's wheelchair. Knelt down. Took his cold hand.
"It's over, Otou-san," she whispered. "The bad man is gone. You're safe now."
Her father mumbled something about rabbits.
Hanae stood. Straightened her tie. Brushed glass dust from her suit.
From outside, carried on the wind, she heard Jiro screaming. Not words. Just sound. The sound of a man realizing he was already dead, just waiting for gravity to make it official.
The screaming grew weaker. Desperation becoming exhaustion becoming acceptance.
At 11:58, the screaming stopped.
At 11:59, there was a wet sound from far below.
Hanae checked her watch. 12:00 AM exactly.
"Punctual," she noted.
She stubbed out her cigarette on the desk. The burn mark joined the others.
"Takeshi. Get my father to a hospital. The best neurologist in Tokyo. I want him clean and assessed by morning."
"Hai."
"Reina. The car."
"Yes, Boss!"
Hanae walked to the broken window. Looked down at the plaza. There were two dark shapes on the pavement now. Jiro had landed twenty meters from where Kenji's body had fallen.
She smiled.
"Poetic," she murmured.
Then she turned her back on the storm and walked toward the elevator.
The Asura had reclaimed her throne.
Now she had a wedding to ruin.
Hanae turned back to the room.
The office was destroyed. Money scattered everywhere, most of it already blowing out the broken window. Her father unconscious in the corner, finally at peace. The throne empty.
She walked to the desk. Picked up the high-backed leather chair that had been knocked over in the struggle. Set it upright. Brushed off the glass shards with careful movements.
She sat down.
The leather groaned. It felt right. Like it had been waiting for her. Like it had always known she'd come back.
She placed her hands on the armrests. Black leather gloves on dark wood.
Takeshi and Reina stood before the desk. They bowed deep at the waist, perfect synchronization.
"OSU, KUMICHO!" (Yes, Boss!)
Hanae looked at them. Then past them, out the broken window at Tokyo burning in the storm. The city was vast and dangerous and broken.
And it was hers again.
The Asura had reclaimed her throne.
"Takeshi," she said, voice echoing in the sudden quiet.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Clean this up. Find a doctor for my father. A real one. Get him off those drugs. I don't care what it costs."
"At once."
"Reina?"
"Yes, Boss?"
Hanae stubbed out her cigarette on the mahogany desk. Right in the center. Leaving a dark burn mark. A brand.
"Get the car. We have a wedding reception to crash."
Reina's eyes widened. She squealed with delight. "The ex-husband?"
Hanae leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing into slits of pure malice.
"He thinks I'm gone. Thinks he's safe with his fragile little flower." She picked up the gold-plated pistol Jiro had dropped. Checked the chamber. Loaded.
"Time to show him what a real storm looks like."
[End of The Fall]