In just a couple days, Reoni was off to work again. Of course, he had been pleaded with by the gang to wait until they knew what happened to him, but it wasn’t his call to make. 

“My boss is gonna find some way to blame me for being unconscious,” Reoni explained to Kijuro on their drive to Sailand Lagoon. 

There was no way to control Reoni’s work schedule, but at the least, he would be picked up and dropped off by one of the gang members. 

“But I’m used to it.” He tracked the inserted radiant greenery throughout the village of Ginza which, prior to his sleep, were still hidden in buds of potential. 

“I really appreciate you for arranging all of this. I don’t know how many times I’ve thanked you for saving my life.”

Kijuro faintly smiled as he listened to him talk. There was more that was exchanged, but he listened to the feelings behind it more than his words. “Your life being in danger is a product of being friends with a gang, so we should only hold up the other end of the stick,” he spoke softly, something that naturally happened when he had conversations with Reoni.

He pondered as they coasted through a series of curves. The way the two of them spoke was only after they had filtered through all of their thoughts. That being said, they were the only people who could open those packaged words. 

“Have you ever considered quitting?” Kijuro asked.

“A few times, but it was too late when I tried.”

“Why didn’t you before?”

“I didn't think… I had a choice at that time.” He pressed his cheek against the window, hooking his finger around one of his curls. “After Silas, I thought I had no future.” 

Kijuro took a glimpse at Reoni with upturned brows. It was difficult to hear Reoni speak like that, and it was even more painful to take in what he said next. “You’re able to leave any time. You’re protected under our territory.” 

The primary income streams for The Prisms were via extortion, drugs, and gambling. Part of that involved claiming hotspot areas for clubs and tourist attractions. Sailand Lagoon not only relied on The Prisms for supply, but their protection racket as well.

“Not really. If I leave, I’ll no longer have protection… I’ll have my regular clients become enemies. Not that it’s like the protection isn’t an illusion in the first place.” He set his hands between his lap and lowered his head.

“It’s almost as if I’m in the gang. My choice doesn’t change my life, so I would rather live comfortably with what I’m good at,” he said with a dry smile.

Kijuro’s fist tightened on the steering wheel. Reoni was almost on par with stubbornness as Eliu, but there was no cause. He was one of the smartest, most creative people he could think of. He had a promising dream of becoming a national track runner; There was no end to his success, so how come he’s trapped as a prostitute?

He was ready to open his mouth to argue when Reoni lunged forward in his seat. He reflexively stepped on the brakes and grabbed his arm, his face crinkling at Reoni.

“I’m sorry… I— The bar… Its—”

Sailand Lagoon, no longer distinguishable, rotted in green ink, its insides ripped across the sidewalk. The window frames were bare without glass to hold, leaking the world of vacant despair inside. All of the tables had been flipped, and the counters were waxed with irreclaimable bottles of wine and vodka, the shards sparkling from the brazen sun. The LED signs that were hung up from the interior and exterior parts of the buildings were strangled and disfigured. And of the worst, the front wall had been stained with the painting of a green snake with a black tongue. A green mamba was scowling at them.

Kijuro pulled up in front of the store and rushed to get out of the car alongside Reoni. The fragrant alcohol and the fresh mark of graffiti violated their noses. 

“The bar’s not open in the morning. The boss was the only one who called me down,” Reoni murmured.

“Unfortunately, this seems recent.” Kijuro motioned towards the building, and peeked his head upwards to scan the floor. The windows were pulverized, almost blending into the tile if for no glint. “This seems more than just a break-in, but there’s no bullet rounds.”

“Don’t get so close. What if they’re still inside?”

“Then they’ll have no faces before the chance to show them,” Kijuro said with a calm smile. He strode to the wall and stared at the paint, then reached out with a hand, stamping his knuckle. 

Reoni twisted his necklace as he stood behind him. A figure emerged from the alleyway in his peripherals and froze him in place, clueless of how to yell out to Kijuro.

“I wasn’t sure who would arrive here quicker: you or the cops,” the man said with a hand placed on his hip.

The man, who had dressed exclusively in shades of black and red, stared directly at Reoni as if they had met before. But he would’ve remembered such a hairstyle as unique as his—sweeping black bangs that were only separated with the rest of his long hair from half of it being tied back, reminding him somewhat of Kijuro’s.

“Oh dear, I know that voice.” Kijuro spun around, but was more fixated on stroking the paint on his knuckle. “The ink’s still wet…”

“My voice is memorable, is it?” In a split second, the stranger was no longer than an inch away from Reoni. His hand was held captive as the man kneeled before him. “I hope you’ll remember mine, then?”

Reoni blinked, his eyes darting to Kijuro. “Do you know him, Key? Is he drunk?”

“I’m afraid I do. He’s part of the Cross Road Kings.”

And in another split second, they were separated by meters apart. Reoni glued his arms by his side protectively after they were contaminated by a rival of the Prisms. The bar was secured against Cross Road Kings specifically, as a direct competitor in the markets the Prisms ran in, yet Kijuro acted as if he was a pest more than a threat.

“That isn’t nice, Kijuro. I wanted to introduce myself,” he expressed with moue.

“Rei. What brings you here? I don’t recall this case having anything to do with the CRK.” He dropped his hands to devote his attention to him now. “Unless… you’ve rebranded?”

Rei walked inside with a duck of his head, checking beneath the tables, watching the back rooms for any movement, and knocking on the walls to draw echoes. “We’re not here to cause trouble. We just heard there’s a new gang,” he said.

“I still do not believe this issue involves you.”

“Shouldn’t we have the right to know?” 

“Yes, but if this gang were to be inside, we would be attracting attention we wouldn’t want. This seems like it only happened around an hour ago, so we can assume that the police won’t be nice to us if they find us both here, correct?”

Reoni observed the two men from afar. Two gang leaders presumably, from the aura Rei exhibited. A leather jacket lolled over his shoulders, only held by a couple of measly straps linked to his multi-level belts, and a sparkle from his frosty bracelets sometimes glimpsed from under. He wore an awfully white dress shirt unbuttoned down below his collarbone, though nothing had shown from under as a sheer, dark turtleneck embosomed his skin. And the way his face sparkled ghostly just as finely as Kijuro’s, he had to wonder… does it take longer for Rei to get ready than it does for him? It was difficult to find a man wearing as many accessories as him.

Rei paused in his walk, his arms masqueraded under his coat with his hands fixed to his pockets. “I see…” He sporadically jerked his head towards Kijuro, clasped his palms loudly, and said, “Then let’s search together! That’ll finish the job faster!”

“Is that honestly what you got from that?”

Search? Reoni’s ears tingled. Was that why Rei was here? But that wasn’t why he and Kijuro were there. Where was his boss?! Surely he would have heard them yelling by now and would’ve come out to yell back.

“You should check the inside, I've already started out here. Oh, but, it wouldn’t be very good for Reoni to come in with that cute pastel sweater. He could borrow my leather jacket.”

Reoni’s head rose to his name, in spite of no longer being tuned in. The breeze from a car bolting through was caught underneath his shirt. He was reminded by the ethereal air—the sidewalk parking would be empty considering the closing time. Yet, three cars remained. Kijuro’s car, a chic black car, and his boss’s mustang. 

They weren’t alone. The back rooms were yet to be checked.

Questions would only be a hindrance. He vaulted over a windowsill and thrashed his legs over furniture as he sped to the office.