sunset blvd

The crowd roared to life as the first strike of the o-daiko reverberated through the venue. Deep, thunderous beats followed quickly in succession, signaling the start of the night’s blood sport that had taken the underworld of Tokyo by storm. Yoshino could feel every strike of the massive drum in tandem with her heartbeat. Rhythmic, booming tones filled the arena and stirred a fevered frenzy in the horde of spectators. Hundreds of people gathered under the banner of vice each month to watch the fights and gamble on who would emerge victorious.

Her position from the viewing balcony reserved for Miyama Gaku, President of the Miyama group and founder of the underground fighting ring she was seeing for the first time, gave her the optimal view of the sea of patrons below, and, more importantly, the infamous fighting pit where Kirishima made a name for himself in just a year.

The tempo of the o-daiko increased, rising to a crescendo that could be felt in the depths of her bones.

“Historically, taiko were used in warfare for a myriad of reasons: motivation, communication, intimidation,” Gaku remarked, nodding towards a separate platform across the arena where the drummer, garbed in traditional attire, beat away at the o-daiko with a singular purpose.

“Oh?” Yoshino crossed her ankles and sat a little taller in her seat. A nervous energy settled in the pit of her stomach. Being in unfamiliar territory with the Miyama President, without the buffer of Kirishima, had her on high alert. To her right, Tachibana Aoi, a yakuza member she had seen with Kirishima on more than a few occasions, flipped open his lighter and lit a Mevius, unaware of her internal unease.

Gaku nodded and placed his phone face-down on the small table between them. “The feudal era. These days its purpose has been reduced to a performance art. Theatre, music, and entertainment. Do you know why I revived the tradition here?”

She slowly shook her head. “Why?”

“As a reminder of the nature of humans. War was once celebrated as an act of ambition and conquest; domination. As warriors rode onto the battlefields, the drums sang for blood—” he turned to her with ambivalent eyes “—and so blood was paid. What do you think about war, Yoshino?”

The sudden weight of his question, and the not-so-subtle implication behind it, made the air in her lungs dissipate. The Miyama and Somei groups had been on the cusp of war for the past several years; an age-old feud that spanned over sixty years. The more time passed, the more it became apparent that the question was not if there would be a war, but when. With the increasing tensions, the wedding deadline was pushed back to after her graduation—but she had no intention of staying in Tokyo.

Her fists clenched in her lap, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. She steeled her spine and met his sharp eyes. “I think war is inevitable.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Gaku’s lips, but there was nothing warm about it. “And what will you do when the time comes?” His voice dropped, almost drowned out by the volume of the crowd below. “Will you run from it?”

Yoshino carefully considered her next words. “In the West, war vessels are referred to as females.” 

“Well then I hope you know how to swim.” He turned his attention back to the pit, effectively dismissing her.

She suppressed the urge to retort.

Aoi, who watched the conversation transpire, observed her with an inkling of curiosity.  

“When does the fight start?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

He took a long drag of his cigarette. “Soon. Have you made your bets?”

“Gambling isn’t my vice.” Her nose wrinkled. “I don’t even know who’s fighting. I don’t know about the fighters or the stakes involved. I don’t really know anything.” She swept out her hand, gesturing to the entirety of the arena.

It was a partial truth. She didn’t look into the particular night’s competitors, but she listened when no one thought she was and did her research on the business. It was better to feign ignorance. That way, her cards were always hidden.

“You know Kirishima.”

“I do,” she acknowledged.

“That’s all you need to know.”

Wrong.

The thriving underground bloodsport arena ushered in more money than the yakuza’s other illicit activities. One-on-one matches were held every month. Only the best of the best were able to step into those fighting grounds. There were very few rules. One round. No weapons. Submissions forbidden. Competitors fought until incapacitated and, in some cases, to the death. Only one walked out of the pit.

She didn’t know what happened to the bodies of the dead or where they were disposed of. But she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t be surprised if parts were harvested and sold in the black market. A dead body was worth over sixty million yen. That was a lucrative business in itself.

In those life and death battles, Kirishima was in his natural habitat. He was the champion of the arena, the king of the pit.

Even though she grew up in a Yakuza household, she never developed a particular inclination for violence, so she never attended the monthly events. But for Kirishima’s 21st birthday, his only request was that she came to cheer him on.

The patrons weren’t limited to the criminal underbelly of the city, they also included Tokyo’s elite, people with influence, people with money and power. Despite the unsanctioned nature of the sport, it was one of the most prestigious fighting rings in the world, drawing spectators like CEOs, government officials, top-profile lawyers, and venture capitalists. Hundreds and thousands of dollars could be won or lost in a span of five minutes.

The drumming suddenly stopped, and the volume of the crowd dropped considerably. The lights dimmed with the exception of a single spotlight. A beautiful woman dressed in a deep crimson kimono with gold accents stepped forward to the microphone.

“Welcome to the Tiger’s Den.” Her voice was soft and held a musical-like quality to it, a stark contrast from the violence and savagery soon to transpire on the very ground she was standing on. She bowed deeply. “Official wagers are now locked-in. Tonight, we begin with the champion’s match.” The energy of the arena soared once again, the intensity of the cheering and yelling reaching new heights.

Yoshino straightened in her seat and leaned forward. “Wait, Kirishima’s match is first?”

“His fights are usually last—reserved for the main event, but this time he’s the opener.” Aoi took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Why?”

“He requested it. Said you didn’t like staying out late and he didn’t want to disrupt your sleeping schedule too much. It was permitted just for tonight. For a price, of course.”

Her jaw went slack. It shouldn’t have surprised her—Kirishima was always attentive to her needs, always considerate of her feelings and desires.

Aoi glanced at her from the corner of his eye and crushed the cigarette butt on an ashtray, then placed a fresh one in his mouth, unlit.

The drummer struck the o-daiko twice, snapping her attention back. “Introducing first—fighting out of the blue side—the challenger, five time former heavyweight champion, Izanagi Kenzo!”

“He’s...huge.” Yoshino watched the grizzly-man walk out, his body thickly corded with bulging muscles. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, rolled his neck, and brought his fists up. His sheer physicality was downright terrifying.  

“There’s no weight class distinctions here. We get all kinds of fighters from every corner of the world. Fighters with different martial disciplines, different motives. But one thing remains constant: they have nothing to lose.”

Did Kirishima have nothing to lose?

“This one here fell from grace. Kicked out of the Fighting Championship because they found drugs in his system.” Aoi flicked his wrist, opening the silver lighter, then snapped it shut. He repeated the motions twice more. “One day he lost it and killed his wife out of rage. Served his time behind bars and flew straight here. The fucker looks bigger than ever.”

Yoshino grimaced. She opened her mouth to respond, but the announcer cut her off.

“Fighting from the red side, we have our reigning champion, the King of the Pit, Miyama Kirishima!”

He strolled in with a quiet swagger; hands in his pockets, dark hair slicked back, amusement on his face. The cheers were deafening. Her eyes slid down his shirtless form. Broad shoulders and chiseled body. His biceps were adorned in the ink of his tattoos—twin chartreuse dragons, and under those tattoos were toned, powerful muscles. She averted her eyes as they drew down his abs to the V-cut of obliques that dipped below his black pants.

As though he felt her gaze, he zoned in on her in an instant and shot her a cheeky grin, then winked. His hand rose to his mouth, and she watched in horror as he blew a kiss in her direction. Her body dodged reflexively. The crowd followed his line of sight to her, and suddenly, there were hundreds of eyes on her, hollering and cheering. Whistles and catcalls. A flush crept up her face under the attention.

“The boy’s a crowd pleaser.”

Yoshino started, having forgotten that the Miyama President was next to her.

The announcer bowed once more before leaving the pit. A single drum beat rang out.

Both fighters walked forward and bumped knuckles. No gloves, just white hand wraps to compress the delicate bones and tissues in their hands.

Standing next to each other, it became apparent that Kenzo was a whole head taller than Kirishima—who was six feet himself—and had more mass on him as well. His giant fists were like bear paws rather than human hands. She could tell he was a heavy hitter, and would’ve dreaded to be on the receiving end if she were one of the fighters. For a second, she wondered if Kirishima was thinking the same, until she saw his face.

No. He couldn’t be more excited.

Miyama Kirishima was a masochist by nature. His dark smile hinted at mania, but it was his eyes that gave him away. His brain wasn’t wired like a regular person’s. As a masochist, he was unable to empathize with a typical person’s threshold of pain. He held everything to his own standard of pain, which was absurdly high. It was probably why his fatality record was near 100%, or so she heard.

She held her breath as they circled each other; two vastly different predators. Kirishima was never trained in the traditional sense. He ran on pure instinct. He learned to fight by picking fights with people bigger and stronger than him. He grew up fighting in school, on the streets; anywhere he could. Aggression made the muscles in his back tense—the snarling tiger inked on his skin seemed to come alive.

The challenger threw the first punch. A jab that Kirishima sidestepped and returned. Kenzo blocked it and stepped back in a southpaw stance before making contact with a body kick. Yoshino flinched at the first impact. He was light on his feet, despite his hulking size.

Kirishima’s smile widened; it offset the absolute focus in his eyes. He rolled his shoulders and lifted his fists. Left jab. Right hook. Uppercut. They came at a startling speed. The first punch connected with Kenzo’s face, but he was quick to block the next two.

Yoshino watched with bated breath as they exchanged more blows. Face, ribs, stomach; nothing was spared. Each time a punch landed, the volume of the arena seemed to increase.

Kirishima mixed his strikes with kicks; one landed square in the challenger’s diaphragm. He staggered back, out of breath, but shook it off and dropped low. Kenzo charged and grabbed Kirishima around the waist, bringing him to the ground. On top of him, he brought his fist straight down. Kirishima barely managed to snap his neck to the side in time—the powerful punch still made contact with his cheekbone. Blood bloomed from the blunt-force abrasion.

The spectators went wild at the first sight of blood. And they were hungry for more. They reminded her of rabid dogs foaming at the mouth.

She gripped the arm of her chair. “Why won’t Kirishima block his attacks?” Frustration colored her voice.

“He can’t,” Aoi answered. “Kenzo’s punches are too powerful.”

Kirishima landed a jab to the throat and twisted, managing to dislodge his much bigger opponent, who threw a clumsy hook that was parried with ease. The small reprieve was all Kirishima needed, as he was on his feet in a blink while Kenzo was still on his knees, clutching at his neck. Shifting his weight, he delivered a solid roundhouse kick that connected with Kenzo’s temple. Spittle flew from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground.

“YES!” Yoshino found herself shouting, leaning over the railing of the balcony. She caught herself and quickly sat back down, clearing her throat. “That was a good kick,” she coughed, feigning nonchalance.

Aoi lifted a single eyebrow.

Kirishima was on Kenzo in an instant, raining punch after punch down. Kenzo tucked in his chin and brought his arm up to protect his face, his forearm taking the brunt of the pummeling.

Something shifted in Kirishima at that moment. The exhilarated smile dropped from his face. His next punch broke through Kenzo’s guard, whose face twisted with agony as his left arm fell limp to the side.

“His ulna or radius must be shattered.”

Yoshino’s breath caught in her throat.

Kirishima continued his onslaught, this time on his opponent’s vulnerable face. By the third punch, the notorious Kenzo was knocked out. Kirishima didn’t stop. He continued his assault with a single-minded intensity, blood coating the once-white cloth of his hand wraps. She stared in an almost transfixed state, despite the unnecessary savagery. Akin to how humans tended to stop to watch a car crash.

Stop.

More blood.

Stop.

So much blood.

“STOP!” she yelled, but her voice was drowned out by the hysterical spectators.

Kirishima didn’t stop until Kenzo’s face was unrecognizable.

Kenzo twitched for a moment, then his body fell unnaturally still. A hush silence swept through the arena.

The fight was over.

The announcer stepped into the pit, immaculately dressed and not a single hair out of place, and lifted Kirishima’s bloody hand into the air. Her face was the perfect image of serenity, unmoved by the dead, brutalized body at her feet. “The king retains his crown.”

The crowd erupted with thunderous, ear-splitting cheers.

“I think I’ve seen enough,” Yoshino whispered, feeling both overwhelmed and nauseous in the moment. 

Gaku stood up and fastened the top button of his single breasted suit jacket. “I hope you enjoyed tonight’s entertainment,” he said with a sly smile before turning to make his leave. His two stone-faced bodyguards followed closely behind.

Aoi looked at her with something akin to disappointment and maybe even pity on his face. “You’ll get used to it.” He slid his lighter into his pocket and followed after the group, unhurried.  

When the door closed, Yoshino squeezed her eyes shut, heart pounding. Watching Kirishima beat someone to death for sport wasn’t what disturbed her the most. It was the faint ember of excitement that sparked in her chest, as though his capacity for violence awakened a dormant hunger in her.

From the pit, Kirishima straightened, chest heaving from exertion, and turned in her direction. His muscular body glistened with sweat; a body that was honed to become a finely-tuned killing machine. He pinned her with his gaze; the shadowed, fathomless depths sent shivers down her spine. She forced herself to look away.

She kept her promise and watched his fight. She didn’t have to stay for the rest. Pulling out her phone, she sent him a quick text of congratulations.

Making up her mind, Yoshino stood up. She grabbed the handle of the seat as a wave of dizziness washed over her, taking a moment to stabilize herself.

“Bathroom first,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

— X —

Yoshino splashed cold water on her heated face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Instead of seeing herself, she saw Kirishima’s face as he pounded his opponent’s face in with a vicious detachment. Behind the easy-going smiles and the charismatic facade was a ruthless killer who was obsessed with her.

When she blinked the image away, she saw herself in the mirror, but her eyes were still shadowed.

Drying her hands, she pulled out her phone.

Two missed calls and three text messages, all from Kirishima.

Kirishima: Thank you for coming to cheer for me. I dedicated the victory to you. ^_^

Kirishima: I have a meeting with my old man right now but I’ll take you home after.

Kirishima: Yoshino?

She pressed on the message box.

Yoshino: I wasn’t cheering you on…

The three dots of the typing indicator immediately appeared.

Kirishima: You were in my heart. ^_^

Kirishima: Wait for me, okay? It won’t take too long.

Night rides through Tokyo’s vibrant streets, on the back of his Yamaha R3, were one of the few things she grew fond of in the time she spent with him. Feeling the rumble of the engine beneath her, the howling winds, and the rush of the speed. There was a sense of freedom unlike anything else. But she didn’t want to wrap her arms around his waist and feel his warmth tonight. She just wanted to go home and sleep.  

Yoshino: No need, I already got an Uber.

Yoshino: I’m tired.

Kirishima: Where are you? I’ll wait with you until the Uber arrives.

She exited the bathroom and made her way towards the elevators.

Yoshino: It’s already here, I’m leaving now.

Kirishima: Let me know when you get home. If you need anything, call me.

She sighed and opened the rideshare app to see if her Uber had actually arrived yet.

“We had a lot of money riding on that fuckin’ fight.”

“Yeah, the boss is going to kill us.”

“Hey, isn’t that Kirishima’s bitch?”

Yoshino glanced up to find three men leering at her. She eyed their greasy hair and their ill-fitted suits. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“What?”

“Kirishima’s my bitch.”

One of them stepped forward, slurring, “How about we make you our bitch? You’re going to make back the money we lost.”

He grabbed her wrist in a vice-like hold and dragged her into the emergency stairway. She tried to jerk her arm back, but he was far stronger, squeezing her wrist so hard that she thought the bones would snap. His goons followed, one laughing like a hyena and the other quietly observing with his beady black eyes.

“Let go of me!” she snarled, kicking down hard on his toes and wrenching her arm back with the weight of her body. He grunted as she dug her heel in, but instead of letting go, he pulled harder, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket.

A wave of fury crashed over her. “I’m getting really tired of people thinking they can fuck with me.” She reached into her bag and her fingers closed around cold steel. After her incident in the alley the first year she moved to Tokyo, she vowed to never be defenseless again. The first thing she did when she got home was acquire a balisong. They were lightweight and compact, and more importantly, they could be opened with one hand.

She unlatched the blade with her thumb and flipped it open.

Seeing the weapon, he abruptly released her, throwing her off balance. She slammed back into the railing of the stairs, a searing pain shooting up her arm like lightning. Her eyes watered from the impact, but she ignored the throbbing ripples and raised the butterfly knife.

“Woah, woah.” The quiet guy raised his hands in a placating manner. “If anything happens to her, he’ll come for our heads. We need to go.” He clamped his hand on their shoulders when they remained motionless. “Now.”

They shot her one last threatening look before the door swung closed.

And just like that, they were gone.

— X —

“I wanted you to patch me up, but by the time I got home you were already asleep.”

Yoshino felt her eye twitch as she stared at the Miyama heir before her; still devastatingly handsome despite the dried blood that caked his face. “So you waited for me to wake up?”

Kirishima nodded as the corner of his lips turned up. “I had to get a splint for this though.” He lifted his hands. “Shattered a couple knuckles.”

She sighed and pivoted to grab her brand new first aid kit from the closet, wondering how long it would last until she had to buy yet another one. There were multiple doctors on-site at the fighting arena, but he always came to her.

Taking a seat on the sofa, she patted the cushion beside her. Instead of sitting next to her, he sat down at her feet and pulled her legs into his lap. The familiar action made her irritation dull slightly. They went through the same motions every time she tended to his wounds.

“This is going to sting,” Yoshino murmured. The dried blood was near black and crusted over the gashes.

“I know.” Kirishima didn’t bother hiding the excitement in his voice.

Masochist.

She held his face and wiped at the area with alcohol, putting as little pressure as possible because he didn’t deserve to get any pleasure out of it. Clearing out some of the blood, she studied the laceration on his cheekbone. “I think you might need stitches.”

His eyes lit up. “Do it for me?”

She dropped the blood-soaked gauze sponge and picked up a fresh one. “I’d rather not.”

After cleaning the last of the residual blood, Yoshino rifled through the box and found bacitracin zinc. She hummed. “This will do.”

He leaned closer and continued to watch her with an unnatural stillness. It used to unnerve her—his tendency of staring at her for long periods of time without saying a word. When she confronted him, his only response was that, other than talking to her, watching her was his favorite hobby.

“I'm sure all your friends with benefits think otherwise,” she recalled retorting.

“I would trade it all for you, Yoshino. You only have to say the word.”

She never brought up his staring habit again.

“Did you have to take this many hits?” she quipped while applying a heaping amount of the antibiotic over the gash.

“No,” Kirishima admitted. Her hand froze in mid-air. “But I wanted to feel your touch just a little longer this time.” His arms tightened around her calves, as though shackling her legs.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

She had to remind herself that she was just stringing him along. That she only stayed in Tokyo for an additional three years because Miyama Kirishima was going to become the most dangerous piece on the board, and she was going to be the hand that wielded him. That was it. There were no feelings involved.

But why was there a tightness in her chest?

“You idiot. I’m never dressing your wounds again.” Dropping the ointment in the box, she stood up with a huff.

“I get to watch you face to face, undisturbed.” His voice was low. “It’s different from watching you when you’re asleep.”

She stared at the ground for several heartbeats, then turned away.

His large hand wrapped around her forearm. She yelped in pain, and he immediately released her with a startled look on his face. “Yoshino?” His eyes were wide. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she quickly denied. Before she could hide her arm behind her back, he gently grabbed her hand and pulled up her sleeve slowly. She held her breath as the cotton fabric slid up to reveal an unmistakable hand-shaped bruise around her wrist, then a much larger one on her forearm. The bloom of angry carmine and indigo of broken capillaries starkly contrasted with her pale skin.

“Where did you get all these bruises from?” His soft voice belied the dark inflection in his tone.

“I...fell,” she answered. “I lost my balance.” It technically wasn’t a lie.

He bent his head down and brushed feather-like kisses from her wrist to her tender forearm. When he looked up, something flickered in his honey-gold eyes. She could see the gears turning in his head. He was plotting. She used to find him difficult to read, but over the years she had learned him inside and out.

Kirishima wasn’t a complicated creature. He was a creature that ran on base instincts. A feral animal tamed by her hand.

He stared at her for a long moment before standing up and heading to the refrigerator. Opening the freezer, he pulled out an ice pack. “I’ll make this better.” he promised, his voice holding a dangerous edge. His fist clenched around the bag but his gaze was distant.

A slow smile spread across her face.

I know you will.

— X —

One Month Later

There was something liberating about uninhibited violence. In the pits, no one was bound by the shackles of morality and human decency. It was the only time he felt alive when he wasn’t with her.

That night, the cacophony of the arena was muted; the o-daiko, the chaos of the crowd, the announcer—everything was drowned out to a dull background static. All he could hear was her voice looping in his head.

Be the most fucked-up man in the world.

Be the most fucked-up man in the world.

Be the most fucked-up man in the world.

“I told you I’d make it better, Yoshino.”

He stepped into his pit. On the opposite side stood three trembling opponents with the fear of god in their eyes. Bloodlust rushed through his veins. He closed his eyes. They were going to look forward to hell by the time he was done with them. Especially the one who touched her.