Loveon.Chat

Smoke drifted lazily from Kenji’s pipe, curling like mist into the dim, rain-darkened room. He leaned back against the wall, arm draped casually over his propped up knee, posture deceptively relaxed.



On the low table before him, a spread of carefully prepared food sat untouched, its fragrance faint against the heavier scent of rain drifting in through the open sliding doors. Kurohama was drenched, the streets slick and black, lightning occasionally illuminating the world outside like a strobe of memory.



Thunder rumbled, low and distant, a familiar sound that should have calmed him. But irritation coiled in his chest like a living thing, a tension he contained as carefully as he contained his emotions. One wrong word here, one misplaced motion there, and the room could ignite.



Masaru paced barefoot across the tatami, each step a whisper of pent-up fury. His shoulders were tense, his hands curled into fists, the heat of his blood reflected in the storm outside.



Kenji followed him with a careful eye, measuring every twitch of muscle, every flare of temper. Masaru’s anger was a thing of beauty in its own way, untamed, violent, relentless, but dangerous.



Seiji, in contrast, sat rigid and still across the table, voice soft, posture precise. His calmness was almost infuriating to Masaru, whose own blood boiled hotter with every measured syllable.



Kenji allowed himself a small, private smile: the boy he had found in the streets seemed a reflection of his younger self, yet Masaru, born of his own blood, was wild and unpredictable, a storm that refused direction. It was strange, almost cruel, how nature and nurture had shaped them so differently.



“Where the fuck is the money?” Masaru’s roar broke through the storm, his fists slamming onto the table in time with a flash of lightning, rattling the dishes on top.



Kenji exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils. He didn’t look at Masaru. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the kneeling Shatei, drenched, shivering, and terror-stricken. Normally, he might have offered a reprieve, a moment of warmth, but discipline required more than pity. Lives and loyalty were measured by responsibility, and mistakes like this could not be excused.



“We-We don’t know…” A young man stammered, eyes wide with fear, hair plastered to his scalp.



Seiji’s voice, calm as ever, intervened, “…You were told to collect the money, but—”



“But you’re 15k short!” Masaru cut him off, rage sharpening every word. Seiji’s jaw tightened, his composure flickering with annoyance, but Kenji only smiled faintly, amusement hidden behind the smoke, “So where did it go? Money doesn’t vanish on its own.”



“M-Maybe they stiffed us!” Another squeaked, hair dyed electric blue, voice quivering, “We didn’t count it before we collected!”



Masaru’s hand collided with the boy’s head with a sharp crack echoing through the room, sending a howl of pain reverberating off the walls. Kenji’s fingers tightened around his pipe, warning enough without a word, yet he remained silent. He let the storm of Masaru’s temper play out, knowing the lesson was just as much for him as for the kneeling men.



“You were supposed to check before taking it,” Seiji said, voice low but firm, eyes meeting the kneeling men with measured severity, “Why didn’t you…?”



Masaru growled, red-faced, leaning slightly toward Seiji, “Why are you always so damn perfect, huh? Always calm, always right! You think you’re better than me?” His words cracked, the tension between the sons tangible, a silent battlefield of pride and inheritance.



Seiji’s expression didn’t change, but the weight behind his gaze was deliberate. “…Better than you? I don’t care about that. I care about results.” The calm precision of his words cut sharper than Masaru’s anger, leaving a pregnant silence that filled the room almost physically.



Before anyone could respond further, a firm knock resounded at the door. Kenji raised a hand, halting both argument and violence, “Come in.”



The door opened just enough to reveal Renzo’s immense frame, shadowed against the storm. He stepped in silently, expression unreadable, “Is now a good time?”



Kenji took another slow puff from his pipe, “It depends. Is it urgent?”



Renzo’s voice was gravelly, “…Yarissa wishes to see you. I told them you were busy, but—”



“Let them in,” Kenji interrupted immediately, ignoring the sharp click of Masaru’s tongue.



Masaru barked a frustrated, “We’re in the middle of—” and gestured to the kneeling Shatei.



“It can wait,” Kenji replied, eyes softening as a trace of warmth entered his gaze, “Let them sit and think about the right answer. By the time we finish eating, perhaps they’ll understand it.”



Masaru clicked his tongue in irritation, fists unclenching reluctantly, while Seiji’s posture relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. The kneeling men remained, trembling, the storm outside still raging, yet the atmosphere shifted, tempered by the arrival of someone Kenji’s heart reserved a softer space for.



Then came the light, deliberate footsteps. Kenji’s lips curved into a rare, gentle smile as the figure appeared fully in the room. Yarissa.



The storm outside seemed to fade, thunder a distant murmur, the tension in the room softened by certainty: one of his children wished to see him. And sometimes, even for a man like Kenji, a moment of reprieve, of quiet warmth, could exist amidst chaos.

Say hello with Kenji Kurogane