East Exit of Shinjuku, Kabukichō Ichiban-gai.
SHIJUKU CLUB.
Universe Floor.
Electronic beats pounded through the hearts of the men and women, colored lights raining from above.
Inside the sweat-soaked crowd, men bumped against the women beside them, deliberately drawing flirtatious glances and casual caresses from strangers.
Here, every sound was drowned by the thunderous volume.
Grown-ups kissed in shadowed corners, or sat hand-in-hand on sofas, whispering intimately into each other's ears.
A sultry dancer moved on the stage; the DJ waved excitedly at the sea of people below—left hand clutching a bottle, fingers tapping as the music swelled from soft to fierce… wilder by the second.
The crowd cheered, counting down with the DJ.
Three… two… one… here we go!
A fiercer rhythm exploded.
An ocean of liquor and desire.
Fujimoto Matsu and his girlfriend swayed on the edge of the dancefloor, swept along by the tide of bodies.
He wore the same black suit, a silver chain at his throat—don't be surprised; in this era there are still men who dance in tailored jackets.
His girlfriend, face glowing with pleasure, was caressing a young Boy's body.
Fujimoto Matsu narrowed his small eyes, squeezed between two dancing women, and began to move against one of them.
The two of them, without a word, had chosen their prey.
Midnight—club's hottest hour.
A girl slipped in wearing a mask; the crowd parted as people looked for their partners.
She stood out, utterly alone.
The manager, in a silver suit, asked a few respectful questions, then led the young lady—who clearly didn't belong here—into a booth.
She bowed politely, thanked him, and under the sales-pitch of the drinks promoter ordered a stack of top-shelf foreign liquor—when the card was swiped the promoter still stared at her face.
Instinctively she pulled her mask higher.
Once the payment cleared, the manager dragged the promoter stumbling into a corner.
'This kind sneaks out to taste life—she's swiping the family elder's card.'
'When you meet a girl like that, keep your eyes to yourself! Just sell the booze!'
'And keep an eye on her—if she gets wasted, don't let some low-life drag her off.'
Around the corner of the corridor the manager lectured the promoter.
The young man hadn't been happy about the liquor commission; hearing his boss's warning only sharpened his itch.
That girl… not bad, huh?
'Bad my ass! Look at her style—most important, the card, did you see it?'
The manager cuffed the back of the promoter's head: 'That's no ordinary card.'
'If something happens, don't drag me down!'
The manager added a few veiled words, then walked off shaking his head.
He hated dealing with sheltered women with scary backing.
The people behind them rarely played fair.
—His former superior, the general manager in charge of outside security, had been exactly like that.
Maybe it was the man's witty talk and sharp dress; he knew how to hook girls. One had simply come to 'see the world' with friends, and the GM happened to host her VIP booth.
A week later the whole company knew the GM had 'landed a rich girl.'
From that day the GM spent money like water.
And grew more arrogant by the minute.
He splurged on designer clothes, used her card for sports cars and luxury watches, throwing cash everywhere.
In the end the naïve little girl got pregnant for him.
The manager remembered her—sweet face, long straight black hair.
She often came during the day to bring the GM—her boyfriend—hand-made bento at the club's office.
Of course, the boxes were tossed out right after.
When teased, the man boasted: 'She's crazy for me—where? Hahaha! Right there! You'd never guess, so elegant, but wild when it counts—hahaha!'
Everyone listening felt sick.
Later, when the pregnancy couldn't be hidden, her father showed up at the company—as expected.
—The meeting was awkward; their GM sat solid in his leather chair, head down, trying to dismiss the man with a few lines.
'She's carrying my kid—great, right? With all your money, spending a little on me and the baby is nothing.'
'Your daughter adores me. Look, I even recorded a video—so what's the issue?'
The manager broke into a cold sweat.
The girl's father said nothing, face calm.
Only the bodyguards behind him stared at the GM with strange, amused eyes.
After the three left, the GM flashed a sly grin at the staff—including the manager. That look of total victory still keeps the manager on edge.
'I'm the general manager of the club floor—hell, I know every corner of the underworld. Neither White nor anyone else can touch me.'
'If you're pregnant, just have the kid. I already bought the stuff. Hey, don't look at me—you've all taken plenty from me!'
'No break-up fee, no deleting the video.'
'I'm just giving the sheltered young miss a lesson in real life!'
'A teacher's got to collect tuition, right?'
The next day, the general manager who loved giving lessons vanished.
Days passed with no contact; the company head called the police—then nothing. It went into the books as a missing-person case.
As months slipped by, the buzz, the suspicion, the questions all cooled and were forgotten.
Soon, even inside the company no one mentioned him or that girl anymore.
He was gone for good.
Now and then the manager, strolling with his wife and Child, still talks about that swaggering general manager while gazing over Tokyo Bay and wonders where he is now.
Bottom line… don't do scummy things.
With that thought, the manager sighed: better keep an eye on his own people.
These days, the higher the power, the scarier the kids orbiting it—and ignorance is fading fast.
They're rational, shrewd, brutal, and they never hunt alone; they move in packs.
Sometimes, provoking one brings the whole swarm.
The manager skirted the booth and stopped in the shadow behind the girl, shooting a glare at the eager lackey nearby and mouthing a word.
'Scram!'
The girl never noticed the round-faced manager shooing off an annoying fly for her.
Bundled up tight, she sat quietly in the huge booth, head lowered, fingers tapping on her phone amid the pounding music and writhing crowd.
On the sofa beside her lay a plain diary.
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