KENJI
The elevator doors sigh open onto the subterranean level.
The air changes instantly—cool, damp, carrying the faint, metallic tang of old and antiseptic. It's a smell I know as well as my own.
Tokito is already leaning against the concrete wall opposite, arms crossed, a grim anticipation in his eyes.
But he isn't alone.
Standing a few feet away, looking decidedly out of place in his tailored dove-grey shirt, is Shinki. He holds a silk handkerchief loosely in one hand, not yet raising it to his face, but clearly contemplating it.
I stop, my shoes scuffing softly on the stained concrete floor. I arch a brow at my cousin. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be buried in spreadsheets, calculating the exact monetary value of our little 'market anomaly.'"
I know exactly why he's here. The man in the cell is the one who ordered the hit that put his father, my uncle, in a permanent coma. This isn't business for him. This is blood.
