Chapter Text
Summer in Osaka was always hot, but this year it was practically scorching. You heeded the weather report warnings blasted daily to ‘Have a hot drink’, ‘Bring an umbrella’, ‘Cover up and wear a hat’ yet here you still were, sitting at the boardroom table sweating absolute buckets. The tired buzz of the fan on the desk, the fan on the floor, and the fan on the ceiling all harmonised into one mind-numbing frequency which filled the silence of each pause the meeting presenter took to flick through a sheet of flipchart paper, click through the projector slides, or pat his gleaming forehead down with a tissue which was now drenched. The men sitting at the table opposite you all breathe a sigh of relief as the floor fan completes a rotation around the room. You brace yourself forward, ever so slightly, to catch a pathetic hit of the slight breeze. It provides no relief, only recirculating the disgustingly thick, hot air which seems ubiquitous with that of the raging heat outside. A bead of sweat rolls from your underarm down the sleeve of your dress shirt, luckily disguised by a blazer.
“Gentlemen,” Your presenting colleague concludes his spot, bowing his head lightly. A meeting attendee opposite you sends you a sympathetic look at the choice of word to address the room. “Katsuki-sama will update us on the budget statement for the next financial year.”
That’s your cue. You push yourself up, your chair sliding back as you lean forwards to click the stack of paper files in your hands on the table, and address the room with a simple, shallow bow. Heels thudding against the thread of the compressed office carpet, you make your way to the front of the room.
“Thank you for your introductory summary, Ito-sama.” You begin, turning your attention to your pre-prepared flipchart and slideshow. Just like you rehearsed dozens of times, you switch to. All nine pairs of eyes lock on you. Respect from some, disdain from others, unfamiliarity and discomfort at the sight of a female financier on everyone. The eyes burning the hottest follow your every move and listen to every comment like a predator stalking for fun, with sheer wanton malice, not even out of hunger or necessity; but just to fulfill that itch, that craving, to remove the unfamiliar from their territory.
Over the years you’ve learned to push through it. The first couple of months were tough but you were good at hiding tears or saving them for a moment more appropriate than the middle of a meeting or a deal sealing negotiation. Through hard work and dedication over the last 5 years, shedding blood, sweat, and tears, you have earned respect from your colleagues; a majority of them men. You were always a confident woman, able to speak your mind without fear and swing as hard as a man. It earned you a reputation.
You were one mean bitch nobody wanted to cross.
“While the yen remains firm and steady,” It’s not good news you’ll be delivering today. “Domestic assets are still climbing. We face a real risk of overheating. Public and foreign investors will panic first.”
Ito’s eyes on you, no matter how harsh, are steadying your standing in this conversation, grounding you with the familiarity of his scrutiny. The wolves are practically salivating to hear your strategy suggestion, ready to jump in with their claws out and rip it apart. But your high position over most of them and the danger in your ability to bite back held them there in silent obedience. Sat and listening.
“Speculative capital from private investors is fleeting. When the yen stills or, worse, falls, we will need to rely on assets from our long-term partners whose commitments are not subject to market sentiment…”
That single statement stiffens the entire room. Suddenly the buzz of the fans is so much more noticeable. Not even Ito stirs in his seat. Whole conversations are held in those extended seconds of silence with just the darting and narrowing of eyes and the furrowing and raising of brows. Everyone understands exactly who you mean.
Takeda Holdings was very much entangled within the morally gray web lining all businesses in Osaka. If anything, Takeda Holdings was weaving their own strings into the mess, shamelessly turning over and managing assets and capital for Osaka’s most feared families. For lieutenants, captains, and patriarchs, Takeda Holdings and their financiers were very much valued allies. You had dealt with them directly yourself. This off-the-books partnership had been going on for decades, probably before you were even born. Yet still tension would rise in the air at any mention of dealings with the yakuza, reminding every sane mind in the room of the risk such operations bring.
The dutiful junior clerk’s pen is stilled gently by the chairman’s hand, stopping their recording of minutes. A slow, fearful turn of the head from the junior is met by the message written all over the face of the senior, no words needed.
That suggestion is to remain off-record.
“Katsuki,” Chairman Takeda’s voice cuts through the silence. “That is noted. Proceed as you see fit.”
The performance ends. At the apex of your bow, your eyes flick up toTakeda, who gives you an approving nod. You cross paths with Ito as you return to your seat and he resumes position to move on the meeting agenda. The tremble in your hands is evident now as you place them softly on your lap, but it’s not the nerves that have you shaking. You’re well overdue for a cigarette and any other time you would’ve joined the rest of the men on your smoker’s death race.
Except nobody in the room was smoking, because Takeda wasn’t.
Another three quarters of an hour pass until you spill out of the boardroom and head your ways. Hand shakes, bows, gentle back pats. You don’t receive any. The tremor in your hands is so intense by now that you swear it has spread down to your feet as you rush towards a side corridor, already desperately clutching your fresh pack of Marlboro Reds. You lean your back on the wall between a potted ficus plant and a metal ashtray and take out the pack, giving it a light tap for luck. And then again, just to be sure. Finally, you pick out the cigarette that popped out first, patting your pocket for a lighter and then when you finally light up you take a long, deep drag. Like you’ve been holding your breath for an hour just to feel this. Billowing out a cloud above you, you close your eyes and let the smoke wash down over your face.
Relief.
You take another drag, holding it until you feel a burn in your lungs.
“You’re relentless, I know. But I learned the hard way that you can work yourself up to the top without inhaling everything I did.”
It's the chairman.
“Takeda-sama!” Your eyes snap open as you choke the words out. You blow the smoke out, away from chairman Takeda, stifling a cough, and with a fast but steady hand stub out your barely smoked cigarette. It just wouldn’t be right to smoke around him anymore after he had to drop the habit.
“Shouldn’t have wasted that.” Takeda remarks but part of him is satisfied that just this once he was able to stop you from worsening the state of your probably already charred lungs. You straighten yourself up from the wall, standing professional but not stiff. The two of you haven’t had much of a chance to talk since his return to work last month as he’s been catching up with all the high-end external stakeholders, reassuring them he’s still fit to work even after his second heart attack. This was his first time back in the boardroom with you and the other heads of department and senior staff.
“I appreciate the fruit basket you sent, Katsuki,” Takeda’s eyes crease as he smiles softly, leaning on his cane, “My wife was very pleased too. I think you should take her up on that invitation to tea sometime.”
It fills you with shame initially being unable to recall the last time you had taken up Sachiko on her tea invitation. It was a couple of weeks before Takeda’s heart attack. She almost predicted it, saying ‘Masayoshi works too hard these days, he’ll be back in hospital before he knows it!’ and two Mondays from then, you found yourself sprinting alongside Ito down the office corridor to use the reception phone and call an ambulance.
“Maybe when I have some time off work.” You suggest and Takeda chuckles.
“That’s either a good quip about how much I’m overworking you or a very polite rejection.”
You open your mouth to speak but Takeda raises his hand, stilling your backchat at his observation.
“I don’t mean to lead anything on your plan, Katsuki,” Takeda takes the reins of the conversation and redirects it. “But I do have a recommendation just this once.”
Your gaze remains on the chairman, unmoving, as your attention fully locks on. It’s not your place at all to allow him to speak. He didn’t need to ask for your attention. But he always did. His fondness of you reaches beyond words, it seeps into his actions, his small gestures of support, belief in your strategy, and confidence in your knowledge. It always had been that way. He was the one to present you with an opportunity to join Takeda Holdings in the first place, after all.
“Sagawa Tsukasa. Name rings a bell?” He asks, now straight faced.
You give him a small nod. Sagawa was a name most people involved in Osaka’s underworld knew.
“Owner of the Cabaret Grand. Omi guy.” You recall the information coming to your mind.
Takeda returns a nod.
“It would work to both of our benefits if we cooperated, an opportunity to stabilize things before the market wobbles. I’ve already spoken to him about this proposal and he seems accepting of it.”
“Accepting makes it sound like he’s not very happy about it.” You remark, already knowing this would be a pain in the ass on top of your usual work.
“I doubt he’d have ever thought a young woman would be advising him on asset management.” Takeda scoffs.
It clicks then, what Takeda wants you to take on.
“I would like you to work with Sagawa, Katsuki.” He suggests softly but both of you know it is more an instruction, with no room to change the decision he has already made for you. ‘Work with’ and not ‘work for’. Important thing to discern between. “He’s got too much on his plate, running all of his fronts. Drop by The Grand tonight, I hope with how close it is to your apartment that it won’t be too troublesome. He’s out of town for the rest of the week and it would be good to strengthen this partnership whilst the topic is fresh on his mind and he hasn’t had much time to overthink it.”
“I will see him tonight, Takeda-sama.” You nod. Takeda pivots on his cane, then stops again as if remembering something he almost chose not to say. After checking for the presence of other employees, his softer voice reaches you.
“Yui-chan,” A pause. That direct address completely changes the tone of the conversation from a business exchange to one between you directly. A father figure to a young woman. “Please, be careful. Sagawa is a sly fox. He’s smart and loyal, but a cruel opportunist. Keep that in mind.”
You make it home early that night, which makes your usual busy evening commute a bit more bearable in the thinner crowds. Avoiding the sardine can feel of the train carriage at rush hour allowed you room to breathe in the sweltering heat which remained unrelenting even with the sun setting low. You make it home and lock your door, kick off your heels, and slip out of your blazer. There’s no relief from the heat even though you listened to advice and kept your blinds and curtains fully drawn whilst you were out. The complete coverage from the outside world allows you to leave a trail of clothes from the entryway to the bathroom as you strip, desperate for relief from the heat and for a shower. Usually you’d wait for the water to warm up before stepping in but today you needed to feel the pierce of the cold water. It hits you sharp like a thousand bee stings but soon dissolves into sweet salvation from the blistering heat. You allow it to wash over you as you stand still. Slowly the water turns hot and your usual routine begins. It gives you some time to think, to strategise, to predict your conversation with Sagawa later.
Quite often during work drinks, you’d share your experiences of working with the Omi with Takeda and Ito. You had your own load of stories to tell from previous experiences, but you had never dealt directly with Sagawa. They had. You heard about his violent streaks. That he’s quite smart with his dealings but brutal when needed. That he’s strategic, calculated, like a chess player. Sotenbori was his chessboard. The necessity to familiarise yourself with his plays, understand how he thinks and moves, is vital to make the most of this opportunity. To manage assets in a way unsuspecting to the authorities and help him settle bills and move cash, would hopefully result in making some interest for Takeda Holdings. It would obviously benefit the wider picture, but it could benefit you personally, get you into real, solid deals in real estate or entertainment. It would be your name which appeared on all the documents, it would be you involved in all the patriarch meetings, all the dealings. Katsuki Yui.
You try to recall any other information you have on Sagawa as you rinse shampoo out of your hair.
“Sagawa has a pawn he favours,” Takeda once said, almost idly. “Loaned, not strictly his, but useful.”
Particularly focused on a particular piece on his playing board. You had always kept that comment at the back of your mind. Cryptic, unclear. Thrown into the conversation and breezed over in a moment with no clarity, soon forgotten. Too strange of a topic to bring back up. It piqued your interest.
You knew you’d have to display the same level of intelligence, confidence, and firmness as Sagawa. Thankfully, you were used to putting on a brave face. And when just a brave face didn’t suffice, you were able to stand your ground firmly. At work, your bitch reputation meant that sour conversations were mostly avoided these days. But you were stepping into territory where you’d have to properly establish yourself. The men there did not yet respect you, no matter if you were on equal or even higher standings than them. From previous dealings with the yakuza you knew that sometimes they just needed to be bitched into place to listen. Sagawa wasn’t just a low-ranking soldier though. He was a patriarch. Although intimidation would definitely be at play from the both of you, you couldn’t approach the situation as simply as usual when putting others into place. It would have to be tactical, subtle, passive-aggressive almost, to not cause serious offence to a man who could have you disappearing one night and next found floating lifeless down the Sotenbori. You’d be meeting him at his establishment, where ironically nobody knew his name. No association existed between Sagawa Tsukasa and the Cabaret Grand. It was a clean front, written off under somebody else’s identity. You needed to insert yourself into the operation, understand the business and its staff formally, to be able to launder efficiently, unsuspected.
Like a method actor, the role came upon you naturally as you slipped on your Armani suit. It helped you exude confidence. After all, money talks, and showing up underdressed to a place as expensive and luxurious as the Cabaret Grand to talk business would be a mistake which could cost you down the line. Checking your makeup and hair in the entryway mirror, to ensure no flaws, nothing for Sagawa to chew you out on, your attention briefly turned to NHK’s evening broadcast. Expect even hotter temperatures soon in August. 1988 will be written in history as one of the hottest summers for Japan. The image of the presenter shrank to a white pinprick before disappearing with a dull thump when you switched the TV off and turned to leave.
By the end of the 10 minute walk your forehead glistened with a light misting of sweat, some of it heat and some of it the pressure of the meeting dawning upon you. You smoked 3 cigarettes as you walked. The smell of smoke clings to the musk of your hot skin and mingles with your deep evening perfume. A quick break in front of the entrance to pat yourself dry where perspiration was making you shine in the neon lights and it was showtime. Muffled jazz presses against the door, a pulse you feel more than hear, until the door opens and the music washes over you and floods into the streets. The round lobby full of booths, upholstered in luxurious fabric that looked like it would cost the equivalent of a mortgage down payment if you spilled a drink on it, was dimly lit and opened up onto the stage where the jazz band strummed and drummed beneath a low, smoky beat.
There was no other way to put it. The place was grand.
It was fairly well air conditioned inside but still you managed to take in a whiff of the tinge of men’s sweat, quickly overpowered by cigarette smoke which hung so thick it was almost foggy.
“I’m here from Takeda Holdings.” You say to the front of house staff at the host stand. Feeling a focused burn staring into the back of your head, you whip your eyes around but can’t quite pinpoint where the gaze is coming from. You trail your head forward again just as the host orients himself to your identity from the guest book in front of him.
“Katsuki-sama.” The host confirms and you nod. He gives you a deep bow, totally giving away that he must’ve been briefed of your arrival. “Please, if you’d follow me.”
The host leads the way up a wide staircase, escorting you to a wing of the gold gilded balcony overhanging the Grand’s atrium. It’s a great view from up here, a clear shot of the guests on the floor and of the band on stage. The booth you’re sitting in is right at the end of the walkway, where a heavy curtain drapes over a dark corner right next to you.
“The manager will be with you shortly.” The waiter takes your drinks order, complimenting you on your choice of top shelf spirit, and leaves following another bow.
The drink soon arrives, chilled so low that a sheer covering of frost lines the glass. The waiter disappears. Your attention shifts from admiring the Grand’s floor down below to the presence of a figure emerging from the dark curtain draping over the side of the booth. Although you’ve never met before, there’s no mistaking him. The aura emanating off him is that of an experienced, intimidating man. He’s holding an untouched glass of something dark and smokey, your drinking experience telling you it’s not a cheap choice just by the colour and consistency of the drink. This can’t just be the manager. The guy’s swaggering up to the booth like he owns the damn place. It’s got to be Sagawa himself. You raise yourself slightly to fold into a bow, keeping it subtle.
His eyes are running up and down you as you move. Assessing you. Sizing you up.
Sagawa slides into the booth next to you, that way you’re covering him from eyes watching from the floor below. The drink in his hand ends up next to yours on the table in front of you. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, offering you one. You take it, fishing out your lighter to do your bit in this exchange, offering him the flame first and then lighting yourself up. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit intimidated but allowing yourself to entertain that thought even in the slightest would show in the twitch of your brow, a curl of your lips, a dart of your eyes, and so you push it deep down and ground yourself in your role. The way he sat meant he was still looking straight at you, body turned towards you. It almost looked like you were his entertainment for the night. You bet he didn’t make his male colleagues play it up like this. The burning feeling of staring eyes had followed you up here from the lobby. That was the one thing you weren’t able to shake off, attributing it to Sagawa’s hard glare for the most of it. But it was about to become very clear that it wasn’t his gaze you were feeling.
Sagawa doesn’t touch his glass right away. He lets it sit there and sweat. Lets you sweat.
“Takeda’s got expensive tastes these days,” he says at last, eyes drifting not to your face, but to your hands. Assessing for the slightest signs of distress, a tremble or twitch. Your calm, relaxed hands, that unknowingly to him have broken many noses and pulled triggers when needed. “Sends a woman when he wants to talk money.”
You smile like you’ve heard worse. Because you have.
“Takeda wants to brace before the crash,” you say evenly. “When it comes, public money vanishes. Cash like yours doesn’t. I think we could both benefit from this exchange, can’t we?”
Sagawa’s eyes flick back to his glass.
“We get stability. You get guaranteed work to turn shit over when everyone else starts scrambling.”
He finally takes a sip of his drink, not in defeat but almost in admission of agreement in your statement.
The music below slips out of rhythm. You pick up on it subconsciously, sharp senses on alert , head turning towards the edge of the balcony as you begin to assess the situation below.Trouble announces itself with the distressed voice of a hostess ringing through the lobby. The bustle below magnifies exponentially and it gets to a point when even Sagawa can’t resist furrowing his brows and shooting a glance down over you. Concerned for the safety of his hostess? Probably not. Inconvenienced by the noise, more like.
You’re able to focus better now that the feeling of presumably his eyes boring through you leaves you momentarily. Through clearer vision you see a hostess, very obviously struggling to protect herself against a customer’s groping hands. A waiter attempts to diffuse the situation but he is much smaller than the perpetrator, finding himself just as helpless as the hostess, and withdraws. The jazz tune played by the band trickles apart, beats are missed and skipped by their concerned eyes focusing more on the situation ahead and less on the sheet music in front of them.
“Sorry ‘bout this, Katsuki-san.” Sagawa scoffs, in disbelief that an incident like this would happen now, reflecting badly on your impression of the Grand.
“What, this ain’t part of the show?” You dare to break the tension with light sarcasm. It cracks the ice and Sagawa huffs in approval.
The hostess is increasingly distressed. The strings of sympathy in your heart are being played like a harp at every helpless noise she makes, every attempt to move away from the perpetrator. It makes you want to stand up from your seat, get down there, and beat the shit out of the guy yourself. You know you could, you’ve taken down men bigger than him before, definitely not with brute strength but with speed and taught technique. But you can’t, you mustn’t, so you stifle that feeling and allow the incident to play out in front of the both of you.
Sagawa breathes a sigh of relief, when the clack of steel-toed shoes enters into the frame as if on cue, and relaxes into the plush of the booth. The footsteps don’t hurry. That’s what strikes you first. No rush, no posturing, just the measured pace of someone who expects the room to make way. And the room does.
“That meant to be security?” Your eyes look back at Sagawa, whose expression is now disinterested in the situation.
The entrance turns heads, stills fidgeting, silences conversations. His face is indiscernible from this distance. The perpetrator does a double take when he sees the storm of a man approaching in his peripherals and slowly, carefully, retracts his hand from the hostesses cleavage. The poor lady drags herself out of the booth. The customer is clearly ready for a fight, upset about the interruption to his fun. You brace for the thwack of a punch or the crisp clap of a slap. But it never comes. Instead the man bows to the customer, his neatly tied ponytail bobbing down with him.
“Management.” Sagawa states simply. Cogs are turning in your head, trying to piece the operation together. That man is who you’d be dealing with.
A series of gasps snaps your attention back down to the lobby floor. The manager and customer are now standing face to face. Well, as much as they can be, as the manager easily towers over the rowdy customer who makes a very poor attempt at a left uppercut. It’s smoothly dodged with a sidestep, sending the customer spinning and desperately balancing himself on the table. Management catches the customer’s wrist when a pair of ice tongs is picked up from the champagne bucket and swung up towards the underside of his chin, disarming the perpetrator almost immediately. You acknowledge the speed and strength it takes to react in the way he did, having prior first-hand knowledge of being in such situations. An ember of admiration stirs inside you.
The troublemaker turns pink with embarrassment at both of his provocations being completely foiled and chooses to end his self-inflicted public humiliation by hastily stumbling down the main aisle. He doesn’t fail to take a tumble or two, holding himself up on the corners and backrests of booths as he barrels towards the exit. When the main doors slam and a moment of silence passes, the crowd breathes a sigh of relief. The music picks back up slowly, the strum and blow of each instrument finding its timing and beat again. Chatter and laughter succeeds the tense silence. Finally, you see the manager’s face clearly as he turns to address the front desk host who had nervously waddled up to him when the situation relaxed. His moment of stillness gives you a chance to take a good look at him. Strong jaw. Piercing cheekbones. Clean shave… Eye patch?
Huh, interesting.
Sagawa sinks deeper into his seat, keeping himself out of the line of sight from the floor below. In the atrium below you, the host points up to your booth, informing of your arrival. Before the manager moves, his single eye focuses on you. That burning sensation of being watched returns. It was his gaze that had followed you up here from the front desk. You presume his staring was due to your appearance very clearly straying from Sagawa’s usual choice of business partner. It takes him less than a minute to make his way across the floor, up the staircase and to arrive at your table.. Your breath hitches just slightly as he stops at the foot of the table. Another addition to the cloud of intimidation engulfing you from Sagawa’s presence. This guy looked mean as fuck.
“Katsuki-san,” Sagawa nods towards you, then points towards his manager. “Majima.”
You stand up, bowing low. Your gaze never leaves his singular, piercing eye, staring right back at you the entire time as he mirrors your bow. His face is contorting, twitching as his friendly customer service expression struggles to stay put.
“Majima-san.” You acknowledge him with respect.
“No need for honorifics.” Sagawa says in a pleasant tone, ironically to deliver a downgrading quip he’s just stabbed at Majima, keeping his voice low. It isn’t correction, it’s subtraction. He’s putting him in his place. Neurons fire in your brain. “He hasn’t earned them back yet.”
The grinding and whining of the cogs turning in your head finally stops as every gear clicks into place. The front man of the Cabaret Grand was Sagawa’s favourite piece on the playing board. A pawn used to make strategic moves. This was a wild dynamic you didn’t know you were signing up for.
Majima remains standing at the top of the table, his eye now burning into Sagawa with disdain at the comment made to reduce him. Sagawa who doesn’t even bother to return a single moment of attention to him. The silent rage fills the momentary silence so awkwardly that you look down into your glass to try and visually escape the situation as you swig. Sagawa’s now empty glass sits next to yours when you put it down.
“Didn’t mean to disturb your meeting, Mr Manager. Sit.” Sagawa orders, his gaze remaining on you and his smile stays unwavering. Majima knows the command is for him, Sagawa doesn’t even need to address him, hell he doesn’t even need to look at him. Majima sinks down slowly onto the plush couch opposite you as Sagawa stands up, like the motion of a seesaw. They’re both playing a role, just as much as you are, in keeping up the front to this business.
Majima’s single eye narrows when it locks onto you from across the table and suddenly you feel like you’re under a magnifying glass at noon on a cloudless summer’s day. It’s that same burning feeling you felt before except with it coming from a foot or two in front of you it was unbearable. But still, you do not twitch, budge, or tremble. You do not nervously readjust your position, swallow too hard, or breathe in too sharply. Your practiced resilience is what had gotten you this far in life so far, you weren’t going to let yourself trip up on the doorstep of a huge opportunity wide open in front of you.
The tension rises when, seeing you had both extinguished your previous smokes, Sagawa extends his pack of cigarettes towards you from the foot of the table. Not Majima, but you first. Majima’s eye measures you, miffed to see another pair of hands weaving into the short strings that his puppeteer already holds taut. You recollect the reluctance and resentment in which he slumped down into the seat opposite you after having a command basically barked at him. The stubbornness of a mule in the body of a bull; broad-shouldered, massive, every movement carrying a threat of unstoppable force.
This won’t be easy, you think to yourself then and there. He’s going to make this a fucking nightmare. You take the offered cigarette. The pack swings around to Majima, who raises his open palm in polite refusal, making Sagawa’s eyebrow fly up in puzzlement. Majima’s a smoker for sure, you could tell by the hungry, pained expression as he rejected the cigarette. His rejection speaks louder than words in just how happy he is to see another pair of hands in his mess.
“Suit yourself.” Sagawa stuffs the pack back in his pocket and lights you both up. Majima sits there with nothing. Not a drink, not a smoke. Just watching as the both of you indulge.
“Won’t be ‘round for the rest of the week now, I trust you’ll get the ball rollin’ without me.” Sagawa smiles quite pleasantly, visibly more relaxed after finishing his drink. He leans down, hands planted on the end of the table, his head hung low and facing you.
“Anything involving money or assets s’yours. Move funds, adjust records, whatever ya need. Majima’s here to keep this joint running. He’s good…” It’s an exchange made mostly in whispers and low voices under the beat of the band’s rhythm, hidden within the moments of loud bursts of laughter from guests around you. His firm hand slaps down on Majima’s hunched shoulder. “...when he wants to be. I trust you’ll comply?”
For the first time since Majima joined the table, Sagawa actually bothers to look at him. Majima’s mouth twitches, his eye glaring at Sagawa side-on. He doesn’t need to answer to confirm he’ll comply with Sagawa’s request. He will. They both know he will. You’re noting all the complexities and subtleties of their wild relationship.
“Keep things smooth,” Sagawa says, already turning away. “Don’t want any trouble whilst I’m in Tokyo..”
Majima is left with you. For a second, he’s staring you down menacingly with resentment. Another addition to his line of command. You have a thousand questions and he sure doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to answer any. Then he remembers where you are and the role you’re both playing. The customer service face swims up to the surface but you can see in his eye, the furrow of his brow, the crease of his nose, that he’s pissed. A brief exchange of details, business cards, and your working hours happens before the both of you squeeze out of the booth.
He takes one more look at you, scrunching his face.
“Tch.”
Then he turns and walks away.
You smoke 6 cigarettes on your walk back home.