Chapter 7: Tattoos
A/N: Tebori (Japanese: 手彫り) is a traditional Japanese technique of hand-poking tattoos.
WARNING: violence.
Heavy breaths filled the dark alley and the figure's silhouette was barely visible in the dim light. His knuckles were covered in blood and his frightened eyes stared at the man he had knocked out.
"You fucked up, kid. Now we gotta deal with this mess."
The man's tattooed companion bit his cigarette and growled at the young boy, the embers of the tobacco burning bright in the darkness.
The boy's clothes were torn and his face was drenched with sweat as he backed up slowly, shifting his feet in a battle-ready stance as he prepared to fight for his life.
It had been a long struggle for the young boy, a journey that started with his first day at a new school a few years back. He had been ignoring his surroundings as he ventured into the streets, but his life took a turn when he stumbled upon the two men in the alley.
He felt his heart racing as adrenaline rushed through his veins. The anger and frustration that had been building up for so long were finally released, the feeling of liberation suddenly washing over him. For the first time, he had taken control of his destiny and stood up for himself. He had no fear of the consequences, only a fierce determination to show the world that he was not a victim anymore.
The man threw the first punch, but the boy was ready and he was able to dodge it - he quickly countered with a kick to the man's stomach, causing him to stumble. The boy then used the opportunity to land several hits and kicks, eventually knocking the man to the ground.
He heard the sound of slow steps coming from the darkness and turned around to see a slender man walking towards them, his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. The man's face was hidden in the shadows, but the boy could make out his sharp jawline and piercing eyes.
"You're quite the fighter," he said, a hint of admiration in his deep tone.
"What do you want from me?" The boy asked huffing, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
Jiro was awakened from his flashback as a scream echoed through the room, shaking him from his trance. He looked around the wood-paneled space and the tattooed men gathered there, their grimaces illuminated by the subtle light of the candles.
A loud thud reverberated through the air and Jiro's attention was drawn back to the center.
A man without irezumi was hanging from the beam above him by his ankles, his beaten body swinging back and forth as the tattooed men tortured him ruthlessly. He screamed out in terror and pain, pleading for mercy as his naked body was covered with bruises and blood.
Jiro's eyes shifted to the slender man he had encountered a couple of years back in the dark alley, who was now lying on a futon. The dark tattoos on his back were colored with a tebori technique and his black dreadlocks were tied up in a bun on the top of his head. He seemed to be enjoying himself as a malicious smirk appeared on his thin lips.
"You now ask for forgiveness... how interesting..."
The oyabun of the yakuza motioned for the tattoo artist to withdraw and the man quickly complied, bowing his head as he moved away from the futon.
He then slowly got up and walked towards the victim who was still hanging from the ceiling. He grasped the person's neck and looked into his eyes with a cold gaze.
"You should have considered the consequences of your actions before you acted," he said in a husky voice and leaned closer to him.
"Now you must pay the price."
The smell of smoke and incense spread throughout the space, mixing with the salty sweat of the man who was being punished. The victim squirmed and tears fell from his eyes along with blood dripping from his nostrils. His face contorted in agony as he pleaded for pity once more.
"Takuya. Come here."
Jiro stood up and walked towards the oyabun, his feet heavy with dread. He lowered his head in reverence and spoke in a respectful tone.
"Yes, oyabun?"
His leader smirked and took one of the baseball bats from another member, handing it to Jiro.
"It's time for you to show him what happens when you fail to respect the rules of the yakuza."
Jiro reluctantly grabbed the bat, his chest tightening as he sensed the warm texture against his palms.
It was two years ago when he was standing in that dark alley, defending himself against the tattooed men he now belonged to. He had been taken under the wing of the oyabun, trained to become one of his followers, and now he was being asked to execute the leader's wrath.
The injured man's eyes were wide with fear as he looked up at Jiro, hoping for a miracle that would save him from his impending fate.
The oyabun returned to his futon and gestured for the tattooist to continue, his face revealing his satisfaction with the situation. The tattoo artist wearing black clothing nodded and returned to his work, poking delicately the man's back with the bamboo tool.
Every member's gaze was fixed on Jiro, their eyes shining with interest as he held the bat in his hands. The atmosphere was still and all that could be heard was the sound of ink being applied to the oyabun's skin. Jiro's breath was coming in short bursts and his mind was racing with emotions as he prepared to act on his boss's orders.
He forced himself to return to the dark place he had been trying to escape from for so long. This cold, emotionless state of mind felt familiar, almost comforting to him.
Taking a deep breath, he swung the bat with all his might toward the roped man, his bottled-up frustration and anger fueling each strike. He imagined the victim's brown eyes as blue and his black hair as light brown as if he were punishing someone else instead.
(Later that night)
The yakuza members gathered together to celebrate their night. They captivated the room with their laughter and loud conversations as they toasted in honor of their oyabun.
The men proudly displayed their tattoos, some of them fresh from the evening. They wore their ink proudly, a symbol of their loyalty to the clan and as a reminder of their organization's power.
Jiro's arms and chest were decorated as well representing his rank as part of the oyabun's inner circle. The artworks were intricate and detailed, featuring symbols of mythology like dragons, demons, and gods framed by clouds of red and black.
He watched his fellow yakuza members from the corner of the room, declining the offer of a drink and instead choosing to stay sober for the night. The air reeked with the smell of tobacco and expensive liquor as the men gambled.
The others teased Jiro about his dyed white hair, calling him "shiroi ojisan" which was a term for a white-haired older man, even though he was the youngest of them all. He tried to smile at their jokes, but inside he was starting to feel something he hadn't noticed in a long time - remorse. Despite the camaraderie, Jiro suddenly felt like an outsider, unable to join in the laughter and revelry.
Stains of red were still visible on the tatami mat beneath the victim who was now gone, a reminder of the violence that had occurred just a few hours prior. Jiro looked away, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten as the guilt began to overwhelm him.
"Oyabun Nichiro wishes to see you," one of the men mentioned to him.
Jiro approached Nichiro, feeling the pain in his abdomen worsen with each step. He kept his gaze down, not wanting to make eye contact with his oyabun. When he reached him, he bowed in respect as Nichiro stood with an emotionless look on his face, ink covering his entire body.
"I have a task for you."
Nichiro continued, his voice low and stern.
"Miyahara's clan threatens our territory... take a couple of men and take care of them."
"Yes, oyabun," Jiro answered, not daring to look up as the words left his mouth. He knew his duty, and he was prepared to do whatever was necessary to fulfill it.
(The next day)
The penthouse was almost ghostly silent as Natsuo was there alone. He surveyed the living room, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the plush black couches and the gleaming marble countertops. He wore Jiro's clothing which was a couple of sizes too large for his thin frame, but they had a scent that was somewhat pleasant.
Despite having been there for a few days, Natsuo was hesitant to disturb the pristine environment. He didn't dare touch anything, thinking he would damage something. It was almost as if he was a guest in the home, an intruder in Jiro's realm.
He moved to the black kitchen with integrated appliances and stainless steel fixtures. He ran his fingers along the cool surfaces, feeling the smooth curves and the polished finish.
There were clean dishes in the washer and he didn't want to be totally useless, so he decided to take them out and put them away. Natsuo carefully unloaded the washing machine, placing each expensive plate in its assigned place on the shelf.
His heart skipped a beat as he heard the sound of the front door opening. He watched as Jiro walked into the living room, his shoulders tense and his brows wrinkled from worry.
Natsuo hesitated, sensing something was wrong but not wanting to pry or intrude. He tried to look away, not wanting Jiro to think he was spying on him.
Jiro's gaze swept over him, sending shivers down his spine. He could feel his heart pumping faster and a bead of sweat forming on his forehead as the silence dragged on. His mouth was dry and he felt a lump in his throat as the seconds passed by.
"W-where do I put... these...?" Natsuo stammered as he unconsciously grabbed a wine glass out of the washer, nearly dropping it to his surprise as Jiro walked into the kitchen next to him.
"Let me."
Jiro gently took the wine glass from Natsuo's clammy hands and placed it in the top cabinet with the rest of the delicate glassware.
"You don't have to do that," he said as he glanced at the dishes his new roommate had just organized.
Natsuo let out a relieved sigh as he watched Jiro walk out of the kitchen, his heart finally calming down. He had been so focused on his former classmate's presence that he hadn't noticed how tense he had been. The solitude returned to the penthouse as Jiro closed the door to his bedroom.
Yet, despite the fear and anxiety that flooded Natsuo's body every time Jiro entered the room, he stayed in the penthouse and tried to give their arrangement a chance.
Every day he thought about leaving, but something held him back. Natsuo found himself tongue-tied and struggling to find topics of conversation to break the awkward silence between them. He was constantly on edge, struggling to keep his stress in check and trying to act naturally in Jiro's presence.
Natsuo quickly retreated to his bedroom that Jiro had pointed to him, shutting the door quietly so he wouldn't disturb his fellow resident. He flopped on the bed, grateful for the few moments of peace, his body still trembling from the encounter.
His eyes closed and he tried to steady his breathing, focusing on the warmth of the sun as it shone through the window and onto his face.
Natsuo drifted off into a deep sleep, completely free from the fear and anxiety that had so often kept him awake in the past. He dreamt of a world where the two of them had been friends since the beginning - a world where they could have conversations without uncomfortable pauses and where he wouldn't feel threatened when his friend smiled at him.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone