#echosdeath.

aware as they are of the game, they won't let it show. not to the men who don't know they're playing it, not to anyone. the sixth chairman knows too, of course, and keeps his own cards even closer to his chest than usual, going as far as disappearing entirely, and by choice, tsuji's more than certain, though the why of it is still out of their reach. both of them circling the same secret from opposite ends of the board. all the average tōjō grunt knows is that two men they followed and revered and feared either got put down or vanished. the rest keeps piling on: majima's now gone quiet. not unusual, if it hadn't been days... whether it's his position or his cover that's compromised, tsuji doesn't know yet, and he hates not knowing. saejima's broken out of prison again, and tsuji can only surmise for one reason only. chizuru's missing— taken, more like, despite majima's best efforts to keep both her and saejima out of this bullshit. mirei's dead, too; so is that gilded camellia woman, two deaths evidently covered up as a suicide and collateral. kiryū's incentivized to break out of his own hiding and currently on a rampage, which also makes tsuji concerned for haruka. and now there's @echosdeath to worry about as well, becoming three separate targets on three separate backs— someone his late patriarch would tear through all of tōkyō for, and wherever necessary beyond it. same as he'd do for anyone he called his own. as if the week wasn't already generous enough.

tsuji's hands interlock, palms pressed against his temples. his curtain bangs are pushed back alongside his glasses. for all the clean-cut efficiency and a level head they're known for among tōjō ranks, he's about as strung as he's been in years— a fact that the florist had the nerve to point out on his way out, leaving them to mind the office while he oversees the coliseum and other areas of the glitzy mayhem of purgatory. nishida and minami are posted outside, small mercies, while tsuji stays on the line with khabib, the legitimate ghāfed of the crimson caravan and shams's brother, staring at his own distorted reflection against the aquarium's glass, discussing the next course of action, choosing their words the way they always do: sparingly, when the doors open.

shams azari, in the flesh. speak of the devil.

nishida is warbling after her, that damn construction hat practically gorilla-glued to his head; minami, an unpredictable worrywart in his own right, looks between shams and nishida, then to tsuji. tsuji taps the tip of the receiver against his chin, leaning on a hip as he stares at shams with that tired, hollowed-out gaze of theirs. it's a familiar scene, one that tsuji would be amused about any other time if not for the dire straits at present. khabib's still talking when tsuji cuts the call short, placing the earpiece back on the base. he'll understand. he steps away from the desk with a lazy strut as one hand deftly pulls out their butterfly knife to fiddle around with and the other tucking into a pocket of their slacks, trying their best to appear composed as always. if not for shams's sake, then for his brothers at her heels.

"you look like hell," tsuji says, which is as close as he'll get to asking how she's holding up. he nods to the chair behind him. "sit." no pause for pleasantries after that. "your brother and i were figuring out how to handle it. use it, maybe, before it uses you first."

shams sits in the florist's chair as instructed, hands folding over the polished timber. her eyes are as worn as his. "nanase." she mulls over her words, then looks up at him. he feels nishida and minami brush both sides of him. he doesn't need to look at either of them to will their traps shut. "you know this is a trap, don't you?"

he glances at chizuru. she goes back further than almost anybody left in his life: back to saejima and yasuko, back to a version of himself he didn't let many people see anymore, back to a version of herself she'd had to bury just to survive it. she'd stayed standing long after yasuko wasn't, long after saejima disappeared into a cell, again, and again, and again, taking another piece of his old life down with him.

they've been through unimaginable shit. she never really brings any of it up unless he does first. but what she does is keep a light on for him, in one form or another: the bar past close, her own door past midnight. never asking what brought him there, making room, keeping something in his hand to hold onto, and letting him sit in whatever silence he needs until he's ready to leave it behind. he catches himself watching her some nights, much like this one, longer than he means to, and she catches him right back, and neither of 'em ever says a word about it. so when shams started showing up too, dragging her own ghosts in with her, it made a strange kinda sense that chizuru took to her the same easy way, looking after her like she'd look after him. velvet kiss carries all of it. history he doesn't talk about, feelings he doesn't name, and over the years, somehow, a kid who'd become theirs too, in her own way.

majima snaps back to reality when chizuru pours more sake into his glass. when she notices he's come to his senses, she shoots him a knowing look before going back to whatever she was saying to shams. shams turns then too, catching the tail end of that look, and now raises a brow at him. the voice on the record keeps climbing and breaking and climbing again, an old wound dressed up in glitter and horns. before either of them can say anything else, though, chizuru's phone buzzes against the counter. she checks it, the messages first, then the time, sighing through her nose.

"i gotta run out for a bit," chizuru says, already grabbing her jacket off the hook. her signature black with the leopard collar, matching well with the rest of her. "yaeko needs a hand at her place. shouldn't take long, but ya know, lock up whenever ya like if ya need." on her way out she pats shams on the head as if she's still a kid and then majima on the shoulder, gently tugging on his cheek with that same knowing look. he swats at her, no real bite to it, and then she's out the door, the bell above it jingling behind her.

when he looks back to shams, she's looking at him... really looking. the smile dies, features twisting into concern. there's a pensive glint in her eyes, too, one she got when she's working herself up to something. he's back in 2006, or 2010, or in any other time, really, when she worries at him like a scab, prying him open, dissecting his guts and innermost secrets. not that he had much to hide from her, as she doesn't have much to hide from him. eventually, it spills between both of their hands whether they liked it or not. she turns to the drink she's been nursing, thumbing the rim nervously. majima has half a mind to tell her to spit it out already, but she does just that before he can, and what she says hangs there in the space between the enka and the ice crackling his own glass.

"you know... even when i couldn't count on anyone," it's a whisper. the record hits another swell. "i could always count on you."

the words sit there a second before he can bring himself to answer them. there's an ache that comes with being told something that true no matter how many times he's run into it, something with no punchline waiting behind it. rather than speak, he lets himself drift again. lets his mind wander to when shams was smaller, remembering serious eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw that never once matched a kid her age, tailing around after men twice her size in rooms she had no business being in. remembering thinking, even back then, there was something wrong about a child that composed, that quiet; a child who'd already learned the world wasn't gonna go easy on her and decided to get ahead of it. he never told her that. wasn't his place, not back then.

so instead, whenever he could get away with it, he'd swipe her and her kid brother right outta whatever soundproofed room or back-office meeting they were supposed to be sitting in, hauling 'em both down to the nearest arcade like it was the most normal thing in the world. shams took longer to light up and make grabby hands at whatever cabinet was closest, always did. she didn't quite know what to do with herself when nobody was testing her for something. he remembers watching her figure out, slow, that she was allowed to just be a kid for an hour or two. teaching her how to properly button-mash, letting khabib win at the claw machine even when he was clearly cheating, buying 'em both way too much junk food outta some vending machine and telling 'em not to snitch to their old man, ali. small stuff. stupid stuff. stuff that shoulda been theirs by default and wasn't, not with the life they were being groomed into. he never made a big deal out of it. never called it saving 'em from anything, even though he knew damn well that's what it was. just took what few hours he could steal and made sure, for that little while, neither of 'em had to be anybody's heir or anybody's weapons, but just kids.

he watched her grow up anyway, in pieces, glimpses, whenever her pop's business crossed paths with his. watched that serious kid turn into something sharper, colder, a ghost with a codename before she was even old enough to call herself anything else. and some small, stubborn part of him always wondered if those stolen afternoons meant anything to her at all, once the world got done turning her into somebody else, even though another part of him knew they had. he thinsk about purgatory, after. before he even fully clocked that pari and the kid he thought dead knew were the same person. thinks about watching her walk away from kamurochō after handing her whole empire to her brother, nothing but a nod goodbye, figuring that'd be the last he ever saw of her. it wasn't. never was, not with her. and now, a few months out from the worst of it— kurosawa, the caravan, everything that tried to take her, and chizuru, and saejima, and the others all in the same breath, losing mirei— here she is despite it all. still stubborn, and still looking at him like she's waiting for him to prove her wrong.

he clears his throat, scratches the back of his neck, stares at his glass, suddenly the most interesting thing in the bar. "heh. 'course you could, brat. wasn't ever a question... i mean— after everything that just went down? kurosawa diggin' up your whole life, the caravan comin' outta the woodwork, the sandstorm still lickin' their chops out there somewhere—" he trails off, then sighs. "yeah. i get it more than you probably think. had haruka's life hangin' over my head. kyōdai's too. mirei's..." he chews his lip. "and chizuru. had her right there with me, through all of it. used her against me, same as he tried usin' everybody i— we care about." he shakes his head, putting the memory back where it came from instead of shoving it unuder. "so i know what that feels like. watchin' somebody try to hurt you through the people you love. wasn't gonna let that happen to you if i could help it."

"mm. that's unfortunate." kaeya's head rolls into a small, lackadaisical tilt. fur brushes his cheek. unusually, he doesn't reach for diversion: no clever redirection, no attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. a moment of study passes before he crosses into the shade and lowers himself beside her. relief comes quickly, easing into him as the light falls away. tipping his head back, one arm drapes loosely over a knee. "i appreciate the invitation." his eye drifts closed. "the diagnosis could've used a gentler bedside manner, though."

“are y’sure?” she takes a bite of kaki-pi. because of matsugane, his clan, and yaeko’s girl, she’s come to know yagami too. over twenty years, she’s watched him stumble, rebuild himself, and keep going anyway. much like she has with @echosdeath. “i mean, tābō’s quite the charmer... and not exactly subtle. neither are you.” and if either of them had the courage to confront what was already obvious— to themselves, let alone each other— it would’ve saved them— and everyone else— a lot of trouble. “it’s kinda cute. embarrassin’, but cute.” and if they had eyes, too, maybe it wouldn’t have taken this long. so much for perceptive types.

she exhales softly. taps her manicured nails on the table. “and the way ya talk about him...” a laugh. “honestly, i’m startin’ t’wonder which one of ya’s actually foolin’ themselves worse.” her eyes crinkle deviously, pausing her tapping to point at shams. “like yer face... it does this... thing whenever he comes up. y’know? real annoyin’. makes it hard t’take ya seriously.” when shams makes an expression opposite of what she’s describing and sinks her head onto the counter, chizuru smiles to herself. cards fingers through dark waves of her daughter’s hair, listening to the bar’s music. [what about this dream again, i wonder? is there still love to be found? in the moment our hands touch, all the feelings i’ve held back rise up...] “no, but really, listen.” she often hears stories about other people in love, people falling out of it, or people simply talking about it, what with her bar attracting the hopeless romantics, hopeful fools and every cynic in-between. “ya don’t survive what we survived without gettin’ good at buryin’ things.” it’s been years since she’s let herself call anything love. that’s what she thinks, at least. maybe if the fates were kind, her boys down in sōtenbori— and yasuko, too, if she were alive— would poke and prod at her the same way she’s doing with shams now. ...two outta three, anyway.

avoids eye contact, keeps her eyes on her hands. communication is supposed to happen here. something reciprocal. something that closes the distance instead of defining it. she’s still learning how to do that, how to answer, how to meet speech with speech, after years where silence became the only fluent thing she had, where it became easier than translation. there’s a point where the conversation should require her to respond. should catch up to her, arrive in time to be met, become something she can step into instead of fall behind.

it doesn’t. at least, until @echosdeath says, “it’s not my fault, but it’s my problem.”

but it’s my problem... akie’s bitten-down nails worry at the skin around them, before pressing down into the soft, tender flesh, too hard, too far, until it hurt. pinpricks of blood well up on her thumb. shams, who’s been more-or-less enduring the lopsided exchange, reaches over to stop her, an attempt to calm akie’s nerves, but her hands dart away and retreat into sugiura’s jacket instead— hers now, in the way things become hers when no one is actively using them anymore.

“i d-don’t...” her voice comes out rough, scratchy, shaky. she hates how small it sounds. “i, um... d-don’t need you making it your problem.” with skin-picking off the table, akie curls further into herself on the couch, and focuses elsewhere in sugiura’s apartment. “i don’t n-need that.” she decides on his shelf, sparse except for a singular picture frame: him and his sister. emi terasawa looks back at her. she wishes she had a picture of shiori still.

god, @echosdeath is ruthless. does she say this to all her business partners too? good afternoon, thanks for meeting with me. by the way, you seem mentally unstable! “‘not entirely insane’...” akiyama repeats it back to her, visibly pouting harder as she plucks the magazine off his face. “see, the ‘not entirely’ part somehow makes it worse. if you’d just called me insane outright, i could’ve worked with that. but this?” he presses a hand to his chest. “this feels targeted.”