Archive of Our Own

“Isn’t it extremely intriguing?” Amanda speaks, now turning her chair toward you. Before you can inquire as to what specifically, she adds, “The mind of a crime lord.”

You look at her with oblivion etched across your face. An emotion you only have realized of owning because of Amanda’s chuckle. 

“And do you know what’s gonna turn this building upside down in a good way?” Behind her thick glasses, eyes like clear marbles look at you with distinct interest. “Getting an interview with a crime lord.”

As if on cue, you become aware of the background noise of sirens blaring and a reporter babbling on her television. There is a display of several vehicles colliding along a highway; the one to blame for making your 30-minute drive to work scratching an hour earlier.

“Which gang was behind that?” You carefully choose your words. You must make the most of the opportunity to corner Amanda and convince her that you are a real human being and not a human espresso machine. 

Amanda leans back, pressing the cap of the pen on her lower lip. “Bonten. The usual recipe.”

Bonten; the infamous, if not the most heinous, crime organization in the whole country. Raised in the upper echelon of gangs, they are basically considered as pharaohs of the underground. You do not cross Bonten, to put it succinctly and in the most clichéd way possible. If you do, you will go down in history as the most dimwitted person ever.

“Your next target is to have a heart-to-heart talk with Izana Kurokawa, then?” you quip only to keep the conversation going. Milk the cow as long as you could, as they say. 

Amanda points the pen at you. “Yes. But who says I’m talking about Izana Kurokawa? The dude has retired. And he’s probably gonna shoot you if you stand five meters away from him.”

Shit. You really need to keep tabs on these crime lords, don’t you? 

“Then, who are we talking about?“ You grin like a child masking embarrassment. 

Amanda taps her table before pointing at the television again. “Manjiro Sano. There we go. Right on cue.” 

Manjiro Sano. 

Mikey. 

The gravity of emotions and memories long gone successfully pulls your grin downwards. It is an echo— a cacophony of voices filling your head with the familiar name. A name that feels like a new tattoo every time memories of your teenage years resurface. 

Your head turns, much like they do in horror movies, to face the image of a man displayed on a digital screen. Blurred as it is, filled with grain from a snapshot of a camera some meters away from where he stands, you know it is him. 

Manjiro Sano— just a different man from the boy you once knew. Different in so many ways.

“… they say he’s lenient compared to Izana. Do crime lords possess leniency? That’s what I wanna—” Amanda slaps the table to fetter you back to reality, to grab your eyes away from the fuzzy image of Manjiro Sano. “Are you listening?” 

“Y… yes. I am. Leniency, right?” You blink rapidly, coughing up a nervous chuckle to swipe the stupefaction off your face. 

Amanda groans in frustration. “I know nobody will get it. Nobody has the balls to cover a story about Bonten or any other crime syndicate. You may leave.” 

Shaken up by the weight of information you have accidentally gathered, there’s no time at all to wallow in the bitter dismissal. You depart from her office while she babbles about the dullness of the new age of media. Apparently, nobody has what it takes to cover the unbelievable anymore: getting an interview with a crime lord. 

Try as you might to keep your cool, an overflow remains in your head; a swarm of memories and thoughts flooding you to the point of headache. However, it has not stopped you from typing on your computer. For a syndicate as well-organized and huge as Bonten, it’s perplexing to arrive at limited search results from the Internet about them. Scattered news dating back from years ago are accessible, but there’s nothing about the background of its members or hierarchy. It’s obvious that the results are controlled. Basically, they have not only the country but also the media by the balls. 

What’s with the show of power, then? Is it to claim territory? To prove a point? 

Mikey is not that kind; his means are not pompous or grandiose. Whenever he needs to make a point, he does it out of good will. He exhibits his strength for the sake of friends and family. 

But what would you know? You haven’t seen him in years. He is close to a stranger now and you to him. The axes of your lives have veered in separate ways after high school. He was gone. He made a choice and that choice did not include you. 

While sipping on your coffee, you observe the distressed faces and pinched eyebrows of workers around your station. Of those running to and fro with heaps of paper on their arms. And those… those emerging from Amanda’s office bearing the same countenance you had earlier. 

The revelation struck you right there and then, and you cursed yourself bitterly for allowing her point to go over your head. 

Amanda is a wise spider, spinning threads of curiosity upon the employees working under her web. Right now, she presents a competition of who can weave the best tapestry. That tapestry being an interview with a crime lord. 

Your fingers tingle at the tips, like you have been struck by an energy so primal you couldn’t disregard its call. Somehow, amidst the mystery and peril, your thoughts have fixated on one goal: answer Amanda’s challenge by conjuring a tale that can turn this building upside down.

The urge to dash and yell that you accept Amanda’s challenge is far too much for your self restraint. Your stomach twists in anticipation. However, if you dared to expose the illusion of enthusiasm, desperation would replace its place.

You are desperate to be recognized. Eager to be noticed. It matters not if the eyes belong to people who matter, you miserably need to be out there and make a name that it physically hurts.

Pulse quickening at the speed which your feet miraculously managed to catch up on, you bang on Amanda’s door, jarring the poor woman out of her daydream. Her mouth opens for reproach but you shut it down quickly with: “I am gonna get you that story. I promise.” 

And this is desperation speaking. There is no shame left to conceal it. You are desperate and Manjiro Sano, the boy from your past, is the only one who can answer to that desperation. 

—

With renewed joviality that a child could only possess, you ride into the next day. Rather vibrant of acquiring yet another reason to finally live, you take in the air around the city like a tourist visiting for the first time. Every store you have passed by, restaurants you have dined in, and clubs you have patronized are all untouched places starting today. 

He was here the night of the accident. But where does a crime lord hide? Certainly not under the bridge nor a penthouse, right? Those places are too conspicuous and predictable.

Knowing Mikey, he would do absolutely everything to avoid the spotlight. He was not one to wallow in attention, especially if it’s not bargained for. 

Suddenly, an acrid thought sweeps your little reminiscence into sudden oblivion. Knowing Mikey? What hound of hell has driven you thinking that you still know him? Understanding Mikey’s intentions and strategies is like trying to see through a keyhole into a completely dark room. Upon realizing this, the weight of your frustration swiftly gathers in your chest, your self-doubt wriggling free to breathe life. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” You grip the steering wheel firmly and sigh. Here you go again, stepping into the savage life of gangsters without a single weapon in your arsenal. Saved for the times you were with Mikey during some of Toman’s gang fights years ago, you are comparable to a newborn in the environment you wish to trespass.

This escapade of yours, that is highly likely to put your life in danger, must be given a thorough deliberation. Yet that very thing is not bestowed to you as luxury. Time is of the essence. Mikey could be gone and flying into some place while your self-doubt eats at you little by little. 

“Think,” you murmur to yourself all while hitting your head against the steering wheel. “Where would he go? Where would he hide? Think!”

— 

A police station; that’s where you end up standing in front of after the gruesome moments you have spent deciding inside your car. A place where you’d see a couple of gangsters, yes, only that they are behind bars. And certainly a place you would not find any members of Bonten lurking around. 

However, if there’s anyone who is in active pursuit of Bonten like you do, you have judged that they’d be in a police station. Now, all you have to accomplish is find someone to uncork the information you need.

There was a slight commotion inside when you went in. A pickpocket has been restrained with handcuffs and led to a cell where a few criminals are being detained. It’s fairly easy to breeze through to the information desk without skeptical eyes following your wake. But the real challenge has presented itself when you are finally face-to-face with the stern policeman on duty. 

“How may I help you?” he asks with that hostile tone they always use to shun reporters away. 

You stretch your lips wide before raising your ID and saying, “Good morning, Officer. I am from On the Street. I’m here to inquire whether there’s been any update regarding the Bonten case about the accident on 5th Street?” 

“Media,” he says with an audible scorn. “Right now, we are not permitted to divulge any information about the case. It is extremely confidential. So, please wait for further announcements regarding the press conference we are to hold soon.” 

Thus, it begins: the battle of policemen’s repudiation and a journalist’s perseverance. 

“How is it that the police have deduced Bonten as the prime perpetrators of the accident?”

“I told you: we are not allowed to divulge any information just yet,” the policeman enunciates, his brows dipping together in annoyance. 

“Is it true that Manjiro Sano has replaced Izana Kurokawa and now leads the gang?”

“I will have to escort you out—”

“What measures are the police doing to get the mayhem under control? Is there anything you want to say to quell the unease amongst the civilians, officer?” you parrot all these as a new officer leads you, although gently, out of the building. “Is there any information yet about Bonten’s whereabouts— you do not need to drag me!” you almost shout the words out, snatching the hem of your shirt away. 

“I am not dragging you…” The policeman paused, lifting his face up to properly look at you without his cap obscuring the sight. 

“Wait.” You squint hard, gasping as you take in his face completely. It all makes sense now. “Baji? Keisuke Baji?!”

Your frozen face frizzles into excitement upon the sight of Keisuke Baji— Toman’s 1st Division Captain back in the day. 

He scans you from head to toe, spilling out your name with the same surprised cadence of someone who hasn’t seen you in years. 

“It’s… it’s good to see you, Baji,” you whisper breathlessly, trying your hardest to contain the thrill that’s beginning to overflow from your mouth. “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d be a police officer. And that you’d work here in this city.” 

“Is that a compliment or…?” Baji howls the same merry sound. His hair is shorter now and he carries a crisp air around him, but not much has changed from the boy back then. He still has his canine teeth peeking out everytime he speaks. Although his rugged countenance of pinched brows and perpetually rude expression are all a distant memory. 

“It is a compliment! Wow… I… it’s been years, huh? You’ve changed a lot but not so much.” 

Baji scratches his nape. “Yeah. Figured I had to get my shit together so here I am now. And you…” Curious set of brown eyes focuses on you again. “A journalist, then?” 

You absentmindedly raise your ID with a blinding smile. “Yes! Yes, I am. I was hoping I could gather some, y’know, details about Bonten’s whereabouts. I need it badly,” you say, adding just a tad bit of defeat to your word to gain some sympathy.

Baji is the one. He is the missing key. 

The man twists his lips, like a grimace, as if Bonten is an open wound he’s still trying to mend. “I’m sorry. It’s top-secret right now. I have only arrived here myself because they needed some reinforcements. That’s how bad it is.” Preparing to leave, he taps your shoulder. 

“Baji, you do not understand. I need this.” You chase him with eager feet, thumbing the air to show your perseverance. “Anything. I’ll take anything.” 

He shakes his head. “No can do. Civilians cannot be involved in this. I hope you understand—”

“I’m not a civilian. It’s my job to know what goes on around us, Baji. To make stories about it. So, help me. Please.” Your voice dips into its lowest decibel, accompanied by the droop of your eyes. Just one of many things your floundering desperation has freed from inside you. 

Sighing, Baji halts in his tracks. You observe him with anticipation, heart doing cartwheels when he takes your shoulders. “I can’t. You have to go home. Let us handle this alone for once, hm?” And he walks away, just like that.

You watch his back, suffering the defeats you have received with a pungent taste in your mouth. “This is not the last time you’ll see me, Baji!”

—

The day after your unexpected and undignified reunion with Baji, you have delved into the depths of humiliation, made severe by Amanda’s constant demands. Two days have gone by since you have taken up her challenge. Which brings you to yet another dilemma: she’s going to give you a deadline. She wouldn’t say it, but her eyes have already spoken. 

And for five days after that, you have done nothing but to go back and forths to the police station, almost camping outside to persuade Baji. Who, much to your chagrin, would not spare you a glimpse. You suppose there is a silver lining to that as well. You couldn’t afford his superiors catching a whiff of your relation with him, lest they command him to stay away— if he wasn’t doing that already. 

So now you sit inside your car, cursing sharply at your coffee cup, which you happened to spill the contents of on your lap. Luckily, it has gone cold enough not to singe. However, none of this would’ve happened if you weren’t jittering on your feet, parked near the police station, and prepared to be rejected by an old friend once more. 

You place the drink back to the cup holder while wiping yourself when all of a sudden, Baji comes into view. A sense of urgency strikes at you, driving you grappling for the door to meet him. 

Baji has other things in mind, though. He motions for you to go back and sit tight after glancing behind him warily. 

“Tell me you’ve changed your mind, Baji,” you whisper before rolling the window down. 

He bends forward, as if terrified of invisible eavesdropping ears, then hands you a piece of paper. “Meet me here tomorrow. Do not be late. I don’t have forever,” he says.

—

“Chifuyu’s pet shop…?” is your initial question to yourself, after parking near the address Baji has given you. “Why does he wanna meet here?” 

The glass door chimes in upon your entry and an empty shop greets you inside. You have been here once, when you thought that you’d be responsible to take care of a fish. It died two weeks later. 

“How may I help you—?” 

You follow the voice, finding Chifuyu behind the counter. He doesn’t appear surprised to see you there at all. It’s almost as if he’s expecting your arrival. 

“Here for another fish?” he quips. That’s when Kazutora emerges from the staff room carrying little trinkets. Chifuyu must’ve seen the question in your eyes, for he says, “I hired his unemployed ass last month.” 

“Wow. Is this a li’l reunion? Should’ve dressed for the occasion,” Kazutora pitches in with a small chuckle. 

You cannot help but smile. It feels good to see them again. Together and helping one another. 

“You look good. The both of you,” you say, still holding your smile. “Unfortunately, I’m not here for a fish. I’m here for Baji.” 

They share a look of which meaning is only understood between them. Baji must’ve given them a heads up about you and your reasons. Maybe they find you odd, too, or even foolish for seeking out Bonten. 

However, if they had anything to say, they have kept it all to themselves. 

Chifuyu asks you to follow him up on a narrow staircase leading to a room. There, you find Baji alone with his cigarette. It would seem like the room is meant for meetings such as this one. The windows are high and there is no furniture saved for a folded mattress.

“I’ll leave you two, then,” Chifuyu bids goodbye before disappearing. 

Alone with Baji, you have a pain in your stomach that wasn’t there before. His silence does not help either. You could almost hear the butt of his cigarette as he killed its ember and your own heartbeat clashing over the quietude.

“Baji, thank you for—”

“Why d’ya wanna find Bonten?” he cuts you off sharply, uninterested by any greetings. His modulation lacks hostility; there’s only plain curiosity. “I know you and Mikey were a thing before. So, if you’re hoping that you could relive that romance, I’ve got bad news for ya.”

“Woah, woah, I have to stop you right there.” You point at him, marred with the underlying insult of his statement. “I didn’t chase you around like a lost puppy just so I could ‘relive my romance’ with Mikey.”

Baji cocks his thick brow. “Then, what’s the reason?”

“I am a journalist,” you claim with pride, “and it’s my job to tell people stories. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” 

“Forgive me but I’m a little lost. What kinda story are you planning to tell?” He sits on the floor then, eyeing you intently. 

“I need an interview with a crime lord—” You raise your finger to stop his attempt at a word. “I know it sounds crazy and even foolish, but this is my job, my career. I have to see, even just a little bit, how a crime lord’s mind works.” 

“Even at the expense of your own life?” he shoots the question without hanging back. Straightforward and definite. “Because y’know, he’s not Mikey anymore. Not the one we used to know, anyway. He kills people now. Heck, he does it as a hobby.” 

When you have an imprinted version of a person in your mind, it’s difficult to accept someone else’s impression of them. Yet you know that Baji knows him better, before and even now, despite the years. You have held your composure before him but to no avail, swallowing down the thick lump formed in your throat.

“I have a plan,” is all you can think of saying, attacked by your own nerves. “But I need your help first.” 

Baji lights another cigarette; his first puff clouding the plane of his face with thick smoke. “Seems like you’ve already decided. So, what’s gonna be my part in your story?” 

A newfound confidence blooms as you witness Baji’s inclination to help. Not wasting a second, you say, “Tell me where I can find Bonten. Any clues, vague clues, I’ll take anything.”

“This is how it’s gonna be—” Baji leans forward, looking at you with those impassioned eyes while holding a folder: top-secret, it says on the cover. “I’m gonna tell you what you need to know. In return, you’re gonna lead me to Mikey. Just like you, some of us also need a breakthrough.”

—

The euphoria of successfully convincing Baji dwindles every time you have to open and read what it was inside the folder. As a journalist, you have already read about the most heinous crime committed by mankind, replaced by another crime, and then another. In truth, Bonten is your typical gang. Prostitution, murder, violence— the usual stuff. And yet it feels as though these names written on the pages of top-secret information are the sons of the devil themselves. 

These are familiar names. These were the faces of boys you went to school with and bumped shoulders with while walking along the corridors. And one of them is the owner of your first kiss and first heartbreak. 

Manjiro Sano.

The picture that is stapled on the right corner of his data is akin to what you saw on the television. Its grain texture makes clear how hard the photographer worked to catch him at just the right moment. Regardless of its shortcomings, the image satisfies the question you have about Mikey. Of how different he is compared to that boy, despite his best efforts to maintain his laid-back, prankster persona, who blushed like a ripe tomato when he kissed you for the first time. 

There isn’t even a glimmer of light in the eyes of this Mikey; like looking into an endless abyss just before it swallows you whole. Even his once-blonde hair has changed to jet black and is shorter now. 

If you were to stand face-to-face with this Mikey now, what would you do? What words could you possibly utter? Would he recognize you? All these belong to your futile attempts to find Bonten. You’ve spent weeks trying to find every bar and casino named in the folder, only to return home exhausted from yet another futile search. 

You look out the window, staring at the bright LED lights curving at the shape of the club’s name. You send Baji a simple text regarding your location before walking in; a custom you both decided to practice just in case. The bar is buzzing with vivacious lights and loud speakers, seeming to be a standard nightclub where patrons enjoy getting wasted on alcohol. Your chances of finding Mikey have instantly decreased based only on that. 

You are not giving up yet. 

Making a beeline to the nearest bar counter, the air of citrus and cannabis paired with leathery musk follow your wake. You simultaneously survey the entire club as the bartender asks for your preferred beverage, to which you have replied, “Something light.” With the initial sip, the alcohol quickly brushes your throat, adding fire to your already heightened senses. 

“Where does that hallway lead to?” The bartender leans forward at your inquiry. Then, you repeat, “That hallway filled with red lights.”

He smiles cheekily. “Oh, that’s for the sex workers. Their wardrobes, I mean.”

“Sex workers? Then, this is also a strip club?” 

The bartender tips his head in confirmation.

During the shard of time you have been given, you have already concocted a way to confirm whether Mikey is in the club. As unobtrusive as you can, you amble straight to the red hallway, where a couple of workers are making their way out. They are dressed in silk and mesh, pantyhose and fishnets, stiletto and kitten heels. 

Slipping inside once they are all gone has been easy, but it is opening the doors that isn’t. You curse sharply, trying the doorknob with all your might when it parted to reveal one worker.

“I… I…” you stutter.

She lifts a perfectly trimmed brow, imitating your floundering irritably. “What do you want?”

“I’m gonna get dressed.” Your throat bobs on account of the lie. 

“Are you new? How about your things? Don’t tell me you forgot them at home?” she bombards. 

“No! Of… of course not,” you struggle not to stammer, still sticking to your lie. “They are inside. I was… I needed to take a dump—”

She scrunches her nose and makes a gagging noise. “Alright, alright! Just hurry! We’re not gonna wait for ya.”

Your effective falsehood now faces another obstacle involving a selection of clothing from a variety of racks inside the room. If they aren’t fishnet tights, they are clothes of scanty fabric that will not cover whatever you want to hide. You take a deep and long breath, picking up the smooth satin chemise that extends down just enough to cover your butt. 

As you draw nearer to the bouncers guarding the hallway where a bunch of workers have disappeared, you have been attacked by the sudden urge to flee. Do you really know what you’re about to do? Will the haste to which you have committed this decision save you from the possible doom lurking just behind these tall, muscular men?

The life of the party outside has diminished compared to the air inside the VIP room. Here, there is no sense of haste, no rubbing of sweat-covered bodies against one another. The women are dancing on the platform to some slow music with obscene lyrics. You have been hit by the whiff of expensive liquor, cigarettes, and of that sharp stale of danger. 

“What are you doing? Go and do your job,” a girl hisses, collecting your arm and guiding you towards a pink-haired man seated on the bar stool. She flashes him a smile, one he did not return. “Enjoy the rest of your night, darling,” she says before pushing you a little closer to the unamused man. 

You pump gas into your confidence so that it might be effective enough to get your hands moving. Finally, you palm his chest and pitch yourself between his thighs like a lost cat begging for scraps. He would not even pretend to spare you a glance, much to your chagrin. 

“This… this is my first time. I… I’m sorry,” you stutter, tilting your head up to bravely meet his eyes. There, your world completely and utterly flipped at the sight of two scars on both sides of his mouth. Haruchiyo Sanzu.

“Haruchiyo,” someone calls not a distance away from Sanzu. Hidden by the shadows, you cannot tell who it is, and the voice is too low to make you doubt if you truly heard something, but then it adds, “Switch with me.”

Switch with whom? You must’ve plastered the inquiry shamelessly onto your face, for Sanzu, not having any semblance that he remembers you, points you toward the location of the voice. 

You amble your way to the shadows, where a woman in a slight mood picks up her feet and saunters to Sanzu’s direction. Then a light switches on to illuminate the darkness, a red light, casting ironically soft shadows across his face. 

Your heart lodges in your throat at his sight. Those nights of letting your thoughts wander around Manjiro Sano have given injustice to the man before you now. Yes, there are little traces of that boy you fell in love with in high school in the planes of his face, in his eyes, nose, and lips. However, there is none of the life and energy he perpetually used to own. 

“I didn’t know you’re working for me;” are the words he has issued. “Sit.”

You are stuck in place; disoriented, utterly clueless, and yes, terrified. He will devour you, and it will hurt, but he won’t stop; that’s a promise painted in his eyes. Eyes that used to shine brightly you would not see them without delight.

“I said, sit,” he repeats, voice staccato.

The impatience imbued in his tone has effaced your immobility. You sit beside him, too close for your own comfort, but unable to move farther lest you tempt his patience. 

He wears a different perfume now— stronger and more virile. 

“Didn’t know you’d end up in a strip club. You’ve always been a dreamer, right? Big dreams in a small city,” he comments before taking a quaff of his bottle. “You’re new, aren’t you? What do they call you ‘round here?”

You want to speak so badly, to answer his inquiries as to prove or convince yourself there’s nothing to be afraid of, but you feel sand grazing your throat. 

“C’mon now, I’m not going to hurt you. Not yet.” If he has tried to invigorate, he entirely failed in doing so. A lingering sense of danger coils around his air; like a snake pulling its body to strike. 

Still, you attempt to get your lips moving. “I… The truth is, Mikey, I have been looking for you.” 

“To get back together?” He turns to you. 

“No! I mean…” You swallow after minding your tone. Would it be safe to tell him the truth? In the end, you’ve decided against it and said, “I… I want to know how you’ve been all these years.”

Mikey cackles. He cackles so loud the others start facing your direction, making you feel utterly feeble and small under their attention. What was so funny? Nothing, you think, because his eyes did not reflect his mirth. 

“Not to get back I see,” he says between sputters of laughter. “What do you think now that you’ve seen me? Dissatisfied? Disappointed?”

Are you disappointed? You try to find that feeling; there’s none. What’s there has been the understanding that Mikey displayed many times before his petrifying potential to be what he is now. Everyone had just turned a blind eye. 

“Mikey, I—” You eat the words when Sanzu makes a move beside Mikey. He leans forward, one hand securing his gun, as he whispers something which has been swiftly understood by his leader. 

He faces you again while the women shuffle out of the room and the rest of Bonten gather their keys and guns. 

“Leave. Don’t come searching for me again or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” 

Your heart drops instantly. Tears seared the back of your eyes and a stupid sob rose from your throat. Before you can choke on it, you pick your feet up and dash for the exit. The hallway blurs as you hastily wipe your dry cheek merely to secure that none can see any tear from falling. 

Baji is right. He has always been right. How could you be so foolish? Mikey kills people now. An interview, huh? You’d be six feet under before the first question—

A shriek, you know it belonged to you; filled with terror and confusion. Somebody is behind you, somebody pulls your body, somebody holds a kerchief to cover your nose and mouth. That’s the end of it before tightness pulls your chest together and the world falls apart. Utter darkness soon follows. 

—

You are losing sense of time the same way you are about to lose your mind. If there’s anything that your current affairs have made you understand, it is that a human is in possession of bottomless sorrow and anxiety. Your cheeks are never dry and your stomach is equally alive on its own to haul out what little contents it had. The anxiety has driven you dormant on a king-sized bed of which soft mattress offers you no comfort. It’s been hours since the last you’ve seen another soul, when you awoke in the same room with Manjiro Sano watching and sitting beside you on the bed. 

“M… Mikey?” Your words were corded with lethargy, then, as though dreamland had not freed you yet. He looked unreal, frightening in his laconic state and invariable countenance. For a moment you thought of him as just another fabric of a nightmare but then it slammed into you with a force; the reality of what happened in the nightclub up to the moment you were kidnapped. “Where am I?” you asked breathlessly, fear starting to beat in your chest. He did not answer. “Where am I?!” 

“Didn’t you say you’re looking for me?” He tilted his head to the side; wonderment plastered on his face like that of a curious child. “You’re here. I’m here.” 

“You—!” Anger flashed, you gritted your teeth, but it diminished into trepidation. Without restraint, the tears poured forth. “You kidnapped me!” you choked.

His patience shriveled by the accusation and he made its grandiose display by fishing for his gun tucked away in his pants. Mikey held the revolver lazily, as though it couldn’t kill with but a single pull of the trigger. 

Your heart once again plummeted. 

“I’m a bit lost…” he dragged languorously while scratching his temple with the muzzle, “you said you’re looking for me. Now that I’m with you, you wanna go home. You have to tell me the truth or else I’m gon’ be so pissed. Why the fuck were you looking for me?”

Tear-stained cheeks and mouth bursting with sobs, you told him the truth. “I… I’m not a hooker, Mikey. I’m a journalist. I wanted…” Speaking was like swallowing scorching coals. Still, with great effort you pushed through. “I had to interview a crime lord. It’s… it’s my job and I thought… I thought I could convince you…” 

He leapt to his feet while singing, circling the bed, and displaying not an ounce of recognition for the gravity of the crime he committed. Refusing to blink due to palpable fear, you watched each miniscule movement he performed through the tears blurring your sight.

“I gotta admit, you’re fucking brave. You’ve always got that spirit in you.” He cocked the gun to your direction. You fought a whimper as death stared you right in the face. “So, you wanna sit with me, you and your camera and stupid questions. Is that it?”

“If that’s not what you want… I won’t force you, Mikey,” you breathed out, “Just please, let me go. Let me go. I won’t bother you again—”

“I’ll do it,” interrupted Mikey, his indifference to your cries was unmitigated. “In one condition.”

“It’s alright,” you convinced him while holding out your hand as if to placate his temper. “You don’t need to do it, Mikey. I understand, I truly—”

He abruptly stopped to look at you and said, barred against any protest, “I said I’ll do it. For you.”

Teardrops clung desperately to your lashes, and they rolled down your heated cheeks when you fluttered your eyes closed. You inhaled slowly before peeling them open again. “What… what do you want in return?” 

“I remember now: I never got a taste of your pussy.” With raptorial enthusiasm he stood before the foot of the bed, possessing a full view of your body in a flimsy chemise which did nothing to conceal you. Gaiety was one of Mikey’s old signature traits. He had always been the kind of boy whose animation was easily perceived in the twinkle of his eyes and a tint of flushed pink on his cheeks. You could almost swear that for a moment that boy had been resurrected, only that his current buoyancy was owned by malevolence. 

“No, Mikey, no,” you responded desperately paired with a wagging of the head. “Please. Anything but that, I will do.” 

“I’ve been waiting for this time to come around.” His voice thickened, cheeks suddenly aglow with desire. “Truth is, I didn’t wanna disturb your peaceful life. But what could I possibly do? I had to see you. I had to do something. Then you came looking for me. That just means we’re meant to be together, right?”

“Mikey, please, just let me go home—”

“Home! Home! Home!” Mikey snapped, his violent outburst of carding through and tugging at his hair made you nauseous. “This is your home now. You’re not going anywhere else. So, you have to be a good girl. A really good girl…” 

Everything was decided when Mikey worked the buttons and zipper of his pants. You wept for the last time; for the boy he once was, and for the person you’d become. 

His cock peeked out of his boxers, a small pool of precum leaking from its flushed cocktip. It bobbed and slapped once against his navel before standing proud on its own, veins crawling around its generous shaft. He silently motioned you to crawl with a gun in his hand. You thought of catching the weapon from him, but the consequences were a horror so substantial you’d decided against it. 

“Suck,” he commanded, eyes glazed with undiluted lust. “‘S all yours.”

Another whimper managed to slip out of you, causing your lips to brush against the slick precum on his tip. Mikey took it as augmentation to his pleasure and with his aching cock he desirously parted your lips to shove it inside your warm maw. Lack of words defeated him and instead groaned like a maniac before taking your head and thrusting his shaft greedily down your throat. 

Taking pains to adjust your mouth for little comfort, you gagged repeatedly with saliva dripping from your crevices. Tears pricked your eyes again; the humiliation and struggle for air had rendered you weak. 

Mikey continued in his assault, popping his cock back with a force to slam the skin below his navel repeatedly on your nose. Anchoring himself by gripping your hair, he shamelessly milked his cock to the base with the expense of ruining your mouth. Your cheek puffed persistently as he positioned your head in one place and fucked the gummy muscles inside like his life depended on it; his spit-coated balls clapping your chin in the process. 

“Been dreaming… of this… for a long time—” Revealing his lust were the slurred words that did not make sense. He was mumbling like a fool while fucking your mouth, chest heaving painfully. “Wanted my cock between your pretty lips… ah! Fuck!” 

Mikey surrendered to incessant curses, his body shivering at the sheer amount of pleasure that seemed to overwhelm him, and yet his hips couldn’t stay inert. Regardless of the tremors in his muscles, he persisted to pitch his lower body and therefore rammed his whole girth down your poor and ravaged throat. Portraying such a slippery mess of you was a mix of snot, tears, and spit. Until Mikey, an animalistic moan crawling up from his guts, took his lubricious cock out and pumped a surge of thick loads onto your face. Cum that was both viscid and heavy smeared your skin, cheek, lips, and eyelids with potency. 

You barely had recollected your wits, had not even gained the luxury to clean his cum off your face, or gargle away his pervasive taste that was still on your tongue when he said:

“Lay down.” Patience was nonexistent in his tone nor did compunction mar his countenance; the order had no room for disobedience. 

With the oppressive presence of his gun, which he did not let go of regardless of the circumstances, you could only sob, hoping that somewhere in between he’d see the sixteen-year-old girl he loved before and had violated now. 

Reluctance exuded in every movement you took to lay down; fear had engulfed you once more when Mikey joined you on the mattress. He climbed on top of you, ensnaring your body with the devotion beating alive in his eyes. Devotion that made you sick to your stomach.  

“You look so beautiful,” he whispered in wonderment, softly running his thumb along your jaw and planting affectionate kisses all over your face. His cum didn’t bother him one bit, for he ran his tongue over your skin and lapped on the thick semen to taste himself. “So… so pretty.”

“Mikey… stop this… stop this… please,” you whimpered, fisting on his shirt and turning your face away from his lecherous tongue. “Don’t do it… Please!” 

He couldn’t be persuaded; he regarded your frailty as a doorway to his wicked desires. Mikey pushed your trepidation to its peak by lifting your chemise to reveal your underwear. His cock stood hard poking your thigh; growing even more at the sight before him. His balls remained heavy, too, as if he hadn’t just blasted out a lot of cum. 

“Ssh. Quit it, pretty girl. Just let it go… let it go,” he warbled softly, his breath fanning your cheek until he found your breasts almost peeking out of your gauzy dress. When his tongue connected to your nipple through the satin fabric of your chemise, resentment seized you in its grip that, in spite of the repercussions, you started pounding Mikey’s head while screaming. 

“Please! Help! Help!” Your continuous assault threw him out of balance, granting you an opening to run for the door. “Help me! Help!” 

But before your foot met the cold floor, Mikey pulled the trigger, the bullet zinging past to shatter the nearest vase. It happened so fast you had not the time to do anything but scream and fold in on yourself while covering your ears. 

Mikey emitted his vexation with a groan. “Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you,” he sibilated close to your ear, pinning his weapon just beside your head. “Do you really think you can escape? There’s no help coming your way so why don’t you fucking behave? Because I’m telling you now, pretty, the next bullet might find your brain.”

You could only choke on a strangled sob when he parted your thighs with sharp urgency. No amount of stress from your recent behavior had had an effect on him and his desire. His carnality was an unstoppable current; for Mikey it must be sated promptly. He ripped your underwear right on the crotch to make room for his greedy cock. 

It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt.

Mikey pumped his hips to jam his hard girth into your cunt; his forehead creasing at the dryness that welcomed him there. It did not deter him, of course, no force in the world could. He spat on his free palm, shivering at the inconvenience of taking his cock out, and moistened the pulsing girth before ramming it again to your cunt hole. His success was celebrated with nonstop thrusting; fucking you at a pace of a man deprived of your cunt for so long. Mikey slowed down, certainly, prolonging the release of another hot load that had started to tickle his plump balls.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he taunted, dragging his cock from the root to tip, feeling your walls clench around him in spite of yourself. “See, you’re squeezin’ me so hard, pretty girl. You love this.”

You stifled a sob by covering your mouth, eyes entirely fixed on the ceiling, your mind working strenuously to block out the sensation of being fucked against your wishes. 

“Oh, fuck,” Mikey dragged, long and breathless. His gun clattered on the floor as he focused on entirely fucking you instead. Tossing you on your stomach, he shoved his cock with ease from behind. With no zeal to support your knees, you went flat on the bed as he pumped and pumped endlessly, his navel and your ass clapping together. “I love this pussy,” he brought his lips close to your ear and deliriously whispered. “Fuck— yes, pretty girl, that’s right. Squeeze me tight with your perfect cunt.”

The pillows were all soaked with your tears. Everything hurts; your bones were in perpetual agony at Mikey’s pace, even your cunt burned from the force of his ceaseless thrusts. 

Mikey attached his lips to your cheek, teeth grazing your skin. “I’m gon’ cum so hard in your pussy, pretty girl. Cum so fuckin’ much you’ll be pregnant once I’m done with you.” Mikey slanted down his whole weight on your back as if wanting to glue himself there, and with a few equally powerful thrusts he dumped another round of hot cum straight to your womb; he filled your gummy walls with such density— that, when he pulled out with white and thick strings sticking to his throbbing girth, and jammed his cock into your cunt hole again, fat amounts of cum filtered from your pussy, like an overflowing glass.  

Desensitized you were to the highest degree of what transpired in that room, you had not the bones to even wriggle free out of Mikey’s embrace once he was done with you. And so, against your comfort, you allowed him to be all over you on the same bed. He was speaking gibberish, talking of family and keeping you beside him as a dutiful wife. To hear such make-believe roll from his mouth, it almost felt more wicked than the offense he had committed against you. 

It has been hours since then, and Mikey has not returned yet. With a start, you embrace yourself when the door opens to reveal Sanzu. He carries several bags in his hand and places them on the floor without a regard to your current situation. 

“You have ten minutes to dress,” he delivers and on seeing you inert, therefore adds with evident rancor, “Get your ass moving before Mikey comes here and fetches you himself.”

What miracle has given you enough stability to do Mikey’s bidding is a mystery even to yourself. Within the given timeframe, you have scrubbed the stickiness off your skin despite the exhaustion clinging to your body. It’s the fear, you suppose, that has managed to ironically give you strength to carry on. If you want out of this godforsaken place, you have to remain alive, and to do that you have to please Mikey. 

Having bestowed the false liberty to leave your room, you have had the chance to observe your current dwelling; which is situated not a distant away from the shore. The seas surround you, you think with a pounding heart, and it’s definitely miles away from the city. You chew on your bottom lip to prevent the anxiety from freeing your tears. Where, exactly, are you?

Sanzu cuts your deep reverie by opening a door and motioning you to follow. Another wave of nausea taunts your stomach, for in there, Mikey and the rest of Bonten welcomed you with undivided attention. You have seen as well the cameras and ring lights situated on different angles inside the room. 

‘I still think this is a bad idea,’ you heard a man with a mullet, Rindou Haitani, whisper to his brother, Ran Haitani. To which the latter replies, ‘Yeah? Try telling Mikey that and have your brains sticking to the wall.’

“Let’s not waste time,” Mikey pronounces to everyone in the room, “Shall we begin the interview? Gotta give my pretty girl what she wants.”

Finally, with solid conviction, you consider him downright insane and vile. Mikey is the personification of endless torment by using against you the very reason why you are here in the first place. But you have to survive, whatever the cost, and so you take a seat on a stool close to him. Everything you need has been prepared; from the lapel to the interview questions they’ve personally made. You want it to be over and done, proceeding with haste to ask him the first question when all of a sudden, a noise from a helicopter flying overhead infiltrates the silence. 

As if strings that have been plucked, every Bonten member have risen to their feet except for Mikey. Kokonoi Hajime, with an intelligible curse, declared that they have been found by the police. 

You have made yourself as small as possible in the growing tension inside the room, while your hopes have enlarged an extensive amount. Everyone cock their guns, hissing and cursing at each other while barking orders. Mikey is evidently frustrated, even more so when your eyes have met across the room. He takes a step to get to you, and you see only the reincarnation of all your nightmares as he approaches, that you, with all your might, snatches Ran Haitani’s gun amidst the chaos and holds onto it for dear life.

“Don’t come close! I will fucking shoot you!” you bellow, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks, hand shaking. “I’ll kill you, Mikey! I swear to God, don’t come near me!”

“Pretty girl, you have guts, but that’s not a toy,” he suspires, showing not an ounce of fear for his safety. 

“Mikey, we have to go!” Sanzu secures Mikey’s arm but he wouldn’t budge. 

Although everyone is looking at you, they have all frozen in place after hearing that Mikey would be killed if they ventured any closer. Despite the visible wobble in your knees, you seize the chance to take a step back and exit the room. However, a barrage of gunfire has come from the outside between the police and Bonten’s goons. Despite having trouble breathing because of fear, you persisted and fled for your life while carrying the pistol. 

“Do not fucking shoot!” You have heard Mikey’s uproar in seeing you running away from him. “Do not fucking shoot, you motherfuckers!”

You despair the moments you have been caught in the crossfire; despaired that yet again, you have committed such foolishness, but hopeful that this will save your life. For a brief moment you believe in yourself exceedingly, because there is Baji beckoning for you to run faster, to him and to freedom. Over the hounding death, your hands connect and you want to believe, so badly, that you are finally safe.

“Baji…” You look at him with horror, and he returns the same expression, if not ten fold, when he perceives the blood and realizes that you have been shot.

—

It’s a fine morning when you wake up; the sunlight has kissed your cheek with its warmth and promise of a rainless day. You quickly rise to savor the last hours of pleasant light before it turns too hot to enjoy. With a mug of brewed coffee, you pitch yourself comfortably on the niche in the window, letting the whisper of air and the song of birds rejoice in the background. 

In this moment of stillness, you still haven’t found the remedy to stop reminiscing about the past, it being the gruesome events you had to suffer in the hands of Mikey. Nightmares frequently plague your sleep, and you’ve never been able to sleep soundly without being startled awake by a pounding heart and cold sweats. He inhibits your terrors, for he has shaped the very meaning of fear into his image. 

You have since relocated to a different address, grateful that your company allowed you to work from home until you can face the world again. If you could change your face and name, you would, just to have a little bit of security and continue life as it is. 

Baji regularly checks up on you with constant apologies and saying that forever, he will carry the guilt of leaving you alone. You have assured him time and time again, it’s you who sought him for his help. And it wasn’t truly in vain as three of Bonten’s executives were apprehended by the police. Mikey not being one of them is the only disappointment. Even with that horrifying truth, you have endured. After all, you have only one choice and that’s to move forward.

As night falls, the heat of the day builds into thick, hazy clouds, and with the absence of stars, rain starts to pour. Maybe it’s paranoia delivered by the sound of raindrops beating against the roof, but your anxiety once again had you fishing for the gun in your closet. Even though it never warms your hands, you may at least feel the security it offers.

You browse mindlessly for a show to occupy your time, but they fail to tether your attention. The rain outside hasn’t abated at all; it’s simply gotten worse that it drowns out the sound of your television. Remembering that you haven’t eaten anything, you brave the sound of thunder, making your way to the kitchen to reheat some left-overs. 

And certainly, given how loud the doorbell rang in your ear, you could have sworn it sounded like a bomb. 

It’s past midnight. You haven’t ordered any take out food either. But Baji… Baji did say he’d visit. 

You went back for the gun and gripped it tightly while keeping it concealed behind you. In that particular moment, you whisper a gratitude to yourself for installing a video doorbell, yet you cannot watch without your heart melting in terror. 

The rain continues its fury in the background. Lightning strikes the skies, followed by the loud boom of thunder. And you, picking up the little pieces of your courage, watch the little screen as it flashed a live video of someone by your door. 

You watch him while gasping on a sob, head pounding, your hands visibly shaking.

He peers at the camera with one eye open, made bone-chillingly sinister by the fisheye lens, and says:

“Pretty girl, shall we continue where we left off?”