Chapter 15: The Dragon’s Scars || Ryu no Kizuato

  Kawamura Residence, Roppongi, Minato-ku → October 3rd, 2022

  “The scales may remain, but the fire has already devoured them”

  Shohei's grip was a vise. He didn't just seize Shunsuke's arm; he snatched it, dragging him from the room. The low, sickly hum of the lanterns cast their monstrous silhouettes onto the tatami, but Shunsuke felt only the crushing weight of his father’s hand, a promise of pain to come.

  Ryuichi lunged to follow, but Taiki’s hand clamped on his shoulder. “Stay here, Ryuichi. This is Shunsuke’s burden to bear. He defied his family; now he must face the consequences.”

  Taiki’s tone was as cold as the winter wind, yet a flicker of worry warmed his eyes. He’d always been their guardian in the Kawamura shadows.

  Ryuichi’s voice trembled when he spoke. “What if Shohei kills him?”

  He rubbed his arms against the chill that had nothing to do with the night air. Taiki met his gaze without hesitation. “He won’t. Shohei is obsessed with bloodlines. He would never kill his last true son.”

  Silence settled between them like falling ash. Ryuichi stared at the closed door, reminded that Shunsuke alone carried the Kawamura blood. Ryuichi himself was only adopted—never the flesh-and-bone heir Shohei claimed to cherish.

  The silence settled, thick and suffocating. It was broken only by the sharp scrape of Taiki's lighter and the slow exhale of cigarette smoke that hung in the stale air like a shroud. Ryuichi backed against the wall, his spine hitting the cool plaster, knuckles white as he tightened his fist. Taiki's gaze, sharp as broken glass, cut across the room to meet his. In that small, silent space, the tension between them was a coiled snake, ready to strike.

  With no one else to witness, Taiki slipped Ryuichi shards of intel: blueprints to dismantle the Kawamura-gumi from within.

  Taiki had always believed in Shunsuke’s right to lead, but now even that faith wavered. What would happen when the clan discovered Shunsuke’s true vow—not to them, but to Miyu Lin Nakashima and her rival family?

  Then a pained scream from the other room pierced the silence, jagged and raw like metal scraping bone. It was Shunsuke’s scream—one Ryuichi had never heard before. Pure agony, as if his soul were being torn apart.

  The flickering neon outside cast ghostly shadows across Taiki’s face as he shifted, visibly shaken. Ryuichi trembled, his breath shallow, fear clawing at his insides.

  The screams began to muffle, swallowed by the thick walls. The low hum from the hallway lights buzzed in the background, eerily steady against the chaos. Then, it went dead silent.

  Taiki's cigarette, forgotten in his fingers, let out a final curl of smoke, its ash a perfect gray column in the oppressive stillness.

  Ryuichi didn’t look at Taiki. His gaze was fixed on the closed door, the one that held his brother's silence. He could almost smell the incense, a phantom scent of something burning and sacred, an image his mind conjured from his brother's tormented past.

  Across the room, Taiki's eyes flicked to Ryuichi's face, a silent question passing between them: What just happened to him there?

  Shunsuke lay curled in the backseat, a knot of broken nerves and throbbing pain. His vision blurred in and out, the passing city lights melting into hazy streaks of neon and gold. A little whimper, fragile as a child's, slipped past his lips before he could stifle it. The friction of his clothes—the simple, suffocating cotton—was pure agony, each shift of the fabric a fresh lash against his skin. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood, determined not to scream. Not again. Not after that.

  Ryuichi kept his eyes on the road, the city blurring past. “Nii-san,” he said, his voice clipped, “We’re almost there.” He couldn’t bring himself to look in the rearview mirror, couldn't face the wreckage in the back seat. Shunsuke’s weak nod was a barely felt shift in the car’s suspension. The weight of Taiki’s sacrifice settled over Ryuichi like a shroud. Taiki hadn’t just interfered; he had knelt, head bowed, and offered himself up to Shohei's rage. It was a clear warning: a simple act of defiance would be met with unspeakable pain, a reminder that Shohei's mercy was a lie. Shunsuke was a lesson. Taiki was the proof.

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  The words were a threadbare whisper. “What… happened to Taiki?” Shunsuke drifted in and out of consciousness, and the question was a fragile plea in the darkness. Ryuichi’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He swallowed, the lie burning on his tongue. “I don’t know.” But he knew. He knew that when Taiki had bowed, he hadn’t just offered words. As Shunsuke’s godfather, he had argued that Shunsuke’s rebellion was a stain on his honor, a debt that could only be paid in blood. Ryuichi’s mind flashed to the brief, horrifying glimpse of a ritual knife and a severed pinky finger. Yubitsume. It was an act of atonement, a public display of loyalty. Shohei's so-called 'leniency' was the sharpest warning of all—a warning for Shunsuke, a warning for Ryuichi. The ghost of a finger, a silent promise of what would come next for any who dared to defy him.

  Ryuichi pulled out his phone, the motion a practiced, seamless reflex, and dialed Miyu’s number. "Please...don't," a whimper, barely audible, came from the backseat. Ryuichi's thumb hovered over the call button. He sighed, the sound heavy in the car's quiet. "I just wanted to tell her you're alive." The last word was a brittle thread. He didn't say what they both knew: that even after everything, the outcome had been far from certain. Shunsuke’s sigh was a faint, painful hiss of air. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I let him... get to me." Regret was a tangible thing, a heavy weight in the air, heavier than the pain from his back.

  The air in the car was a complex tapestry of scents: the sharp metallic tang of blood, the faint, clean scent of hinoki wood from the car's interior, and, clinging to Shunsuke's skin, the sick-sweet smell of incense. The smell was a ghost in the car, a reminder of the cruel ritual, a stain that wouldn't wash away.

  They drove in a tense silence, the neon-lit streets of Roppongi a stark contrast to the darkness within the car. The sleek, glass skyscrapers of Roppongi Hills rose in the distance, a glittering, unfeeling crown on the city. As they passed a giant billboard, a familiar face, flawless and smiling, appeared. Miyu, in a crisp white blouse, held up a cosmetic product, her image a testament to a public life of beauty and perfection. Next to it, another massive screen displayed Shunsuke’s face, a different kind of perfection. His gaze was sharp, a little too intense for the gentle perfume he was meant to be selling.

  Ryuichi’s laugh was a harsh, dry scrape of a sound. How easy it was for them to sell a fantasy. If the world knew the blood on Miyu’s hands, the scars on Shunsuke’s back—if they knew who these "perfect" models truly were—the billboards would come down in a heartbeat. It all came down to a name, a reputation built on violence and control. Their real lives were buried under a glamorous, profitable lie. Nothing else mattered. Not the perfect smile, not the sculpted face. Just the family name.

  Ryuichi guided the Lexus RX into the sterile, underground garage. The hum of the engine cut out, leaving a heavy silence, broken only by the distant ping of an elevator. He parked beside Shunsuke’s other car, the LC500, the sleek coupe’s dark paint gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights, a beautiful but empty symbol of the life they pretended to lead.

  Ryuichi was out of the car in an instant, his movements sharp and efficient. He rounded the hood to the backseat, a knot of dread tightening in his gut. Shunsuke was a dead weight, his body trembling, a low moan caught in his throat as Ryuichi helped him up. He wasn't walking; he was being held, a broken statue leaning on a column.

  Step by careful step, Ryuichi became his pillar, his anchor. He guided Shunsuke toward the elevator, his hand a steady presence at his brother's back. He pressed the button for the 32nd floor, the small chime of the elevator bell echoing in the quiet. Shunsuke still leaned heavily against him, his body shaking, fighting not to collapse.

  Ryuichi knew why. Shunsuke had been unconscious when he and Taiki had intervened. He wouldn't remember the sterile silence of the room after the screams had stopped, the way they had carried him out and gently, carefully, tried to clean the wounds, and how they had painstakingly removed the gray, clinging ash from the raw, open flesh.

  The door clicked open, revealing a soft lamplit space. Ryuichi stepped inside, and Miyu turned to face him, her figure silhouetted by the light. Shunsuke was still out of view, slumped against the door frame. Her father, Yuu, was a silent sentinel in the corner. Miyu's eyes, wide with unspoken sadness, were fixed on Ryuichi, but her gaze was not seeing him, but the man she knew was just out of sight.

  Shunsuke's weak grasp on the door frame gave out. He slumped forward, a dead weight, but Ryuichi was already there, catching him. "Careful, Nii-san," Ryuichi's voice was a low command. He became a steady pillar for Shunsuke, guiding him, step by agonizing step, to the couch.

  Miyu moved quickly, her hand reaching for his back in a gentle, reassuring gesture. He flinched away from her touch, a reflexive, sharp recoil. Her hand pulled back as if she had been burned herself. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice a fragile thing. Shunsuke looked at her, his faint smile a brittle mask. "It's okay," he whispered back, his voice thick with pain. "You didn't know." He reached for the hem of his jacket, his hands fumbling, unable to do the simplest of tasks. Miyu’s hands, so steady with a blade, trembled as she helped Ryuichi peel the layers of clothing away.

  As the fabric peeled back, the silence in the room became a live, humming thing. Miyu's breath hitched, her hands flying to her mouth, a silent scream she couldn’t utter. His back was a map of brutality: burn marks, red and blistering, a brutal constellation of pain. Black soot and ash were smeared across the raw flesh, as if someone had tried to grind the evidence of the cruelty into his skin. They followed the path of the dragon tattooed on his back, a mockery of the power the beast was meant to represent. The dragon was weeping fire. "Shunsuke…" her voice was a breath, a shattered thing. "What did he do to you?"