SHINKI
The door to my office clicks shut, and the last thread of my composure snaps.
I don't shout. I never shout. But I turn to Franklin, my voice a low, dangerous whip-crack in the silent room. "What the fuck happened in there?"
Franklin runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, a rare sign of distress. "I was thrown off the minute I walked in the door. I didn't expect Sarah Song to be on the other side of that table. She was my TA in contract law. She's… she's sharp. Brilliant, really. I was playing a different game."
I give a single, sharp nod. The confirmation is a bitter pill. "She was good." She was better than good. She was a scalpel, and Franklin had brought a hammer.
I am about to ask why he chose such a flailing, desperate line of questioning, but Jiro beats me to it. His voice is a low, displeased rumble from the corner.
"Why did you ask the last question?" He doesn't look at Franklin; his dark eyes are fixed on me, full of judgment. "The one about the gala. It was stupid. It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull you were already losing to."
"If that matter had been dragged into the deposition," I say, my gaze locked with Jiro's, the words icy, "we would not only have lost that point, we would have handed her more resources for her emotional arsenal. It was a weak move."
Franklin tries to defend himself, his voice tight. "I was trying to catch her off guard! Turn her own temper against her, just like Sarah did with you!"
Jiro lets out a soft, dismissive tsk.
I grimace, a flash of pure, unadulterated irritation twisting my features. "You were trying to replicate a strategy you don't understand," I say, my tone utterly flat. "It's obvious you don't have a firm grasp on what legally constitutes defamation. Maisie Rory never went public with any of her insults. It was all conversational. A private, heated exchange. You based a key question on a fundamental legal error."
Franklin's mouth opens, then closes. He has no defense. He stays quiet, the weight of his miscalculation pressing down on him.
"You can leave," I tell him, the dismissal final.
He doesn't need to be told twice. He gathers his briefcase and leaves without another word, the door closing with a soft, definitive click.
The silence he leaves behind is heavy. Jiro moves to the sideboard. I hear the clink of crystal. He pours one glass of water, then, after a slight pause, a second glass of my Yamazaki whisky.
He walks over and, without a word, offers me the glass of water.
I look from the water to his face, then at the whisky still sitting on the sideboard. Another intentional bad decision. I walk past him, pick up the whisky, and take a slow, deliberate sip, welcoming the familiar burn.
Jiro stares at me, the glass of water still held out. He slowly lowers it.
"You have drunk more alcohol in the last five days than in your entire life put together," he states, his voice gruff.
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching it coat the sides. I don't look at him.
"It's the devil's influence," I say quietly.
I don't need to say her name. We both know exactly who I mean.
I walk over to my desk and lean back against its solid front, the cool wood a grounding pressure through my shirt. I watch Jiro drain his glass of water in one go. He sets the empty crystal down on the sideboard with a soft, definitive click.
"You have never been one to be influenced," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Not by the clan. Not by its... activities. Not by anyone." He turns his head, his dark eyes pinning me. "You like the influence she has on you. And you are not trying to control it."
I stare at him. The observation is so blunt, so utterly devoid of his usual grunts, that a short, sharp laugh escapes me. It's a dry, humorless sound. "You're being weirdly talkative today."
He just smirks, a rare and fleeting expression. "I am just calling a spade a spade."
The words land, settling deep. I look away from him, my gaze drifting to the cityscape beyond the window. I think about it. The takeover bid that felt more personal than strategic. The intervention at the club. The deposition where I was more focused on her reactions than the legal pitfalls. I set my half-finished whisky down on the desk with a quiet thud.
Jiro's eyes follow the movement. "You have already started that," he notes, his tone implying I've crossed a line. "You might as well finish the glass."
"I'm done," I state, pushing away from the desk, intending to walk away from the temptation, from the admission his words are pulling from me.
Jiro gives a single, slow nod, his expression utterly disbelieving. "Yeah. Right." He turns and walks back to the sideboard. I hear the soft glug of liquid as he pours himself a generous measure of the Yamazaki, an unusual act for him.
But when he turns back, glass in hand, he stops. He looks at me, and he shakes his head, a gesture of pure, weary resignation.
I follow his gaze. My own hand is wrapped around the crystal glass I'd just declared myself done with. I am already bringing it to my lips, the amber liquid burning a path of quiet surrender down my throat.
Jiro takes a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving mine over the rim of his glass.
"It is the devil's influence indeed," he says, his voice flat and final. "A devil you welcomed."
The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. I choke on the whisky, a sharp, involuntary spasm seizing my chest. I cough, lowering the glass as my eyes water.
"The fuck, Jiro?"
But he just continues to stare, his point made, the truth hanging in the air between us, as potent and undeniable as the peaty scent of the whisky I can't seem to stop drinking.
Jiro rolls his eyes, a gesture of profound exasperation, and drops heavily into one of the visitor's chairs. He takes another slow sip of his whisky, watching me as I regain my composure.
"You almost killed me," I rasp, the ghost of the cough still scratching at my throat.
"You'll live," he grunts, completely unsympathetic. "Your bad decisions haven't managed to kill you yet."
I straighten up, my pride stung. "I don't make bad decisions. I make calculated risks."
Jiro lets out a short, derisive breath. He starts counting on his fingers. "At twelve, you traded your entire vintage comic book collection for a single, 'strategically valuable' stamp because you decided sentiment was a weakness. Bad decision. At sixteen, you tried to out-logic Uncle Renji during a clan meeting about territorial disputes. You spent a week in the dojo learning why that was a bad decision. Last year, you invested three million in that bio-tech startup because the CEO 'presented well,' and you ignored the flawed data I showed you. They were bankrupt in six months. Bad decision." He leans forward, his dark eyes boring into me. "And now, engaging with the Rory woman in the first place. That wasn't a takeover. It was a tantrum. And it is the mother of all your bad decisions."
A hot, defensive anger flares in my chest. "This is not about her," I snap, the lie feeling brittle even to me. "Nothing is about her. She is a business obstacle. A variable."
Jiro doesn't even blink. "Everything has been about her since the first encounter. The takeover, the lawsuit, the club, the deposition... even this," he says, gesturing to the whisky in my hand. "It is like an addiction for you. You keep going back for the hit, even when you know it's poison."
Frustrated, I drain the rest of my glass in one burning swallow, needing the liquid courage to fortify my crumbling logic. "That's a flawed analogy. I am not addicted. She is a problem that requires a solution. My focus is on the resolution, not the... the subject."
"You don't get the urge to fuck your problems, Shinki," Jiro states, his voice brutally flat. "You don't look forward to seeing them across a room. You don't picture their face when you close your eyes at night."
I stare at him, truly shocked. The vulgarity, the sheer, unvarnished accuracy of it, feels like a physical blow. My mind goes blank for a second, unable to form a coherent rebuttal.
Jiro just shrugs, as if he's stated the most obvious fact in the world. "It's obvious."
I fall into a heavy silence. My thoughts are a chaotic storm. The memory of her in that club, the black bodysuit and defiant eyes. The way her scent of sandalwood cut through the stench of the deposition room. The sharp, satisfying thrill of our verbal sparring. Is this what it is? Not a strategic fascination, but a... a craving? The thought is terrifying. It undermines everything I am.
Jiro, misinterpreting my silence, offers a crude solution. "Go get a one-night stand. Visit a brothel. Get it out of your system. This is just sexual frustration talking."
That pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I scoff, latching onto the simpler, less dangerous explanation. "I am not sexually frustrated. You, however, sound like you are."
He gives me a dry look. "Takes one to know one. And please, I am very much active in that department."
I stare at him, genuinely taken aback. "No shit?" The image of Jiro, my stoic, grumpy shadow, having any kind of active romantic life is somehow more shocking than his earlier accusation.
He just raises an eyebrow, confirming it without words.
Now I'm really thinking about it. Maybe he has a point. A purely physical, transactional release. No emotions. No complications. No fiery red hair and a tongue sharp enough to draw blood. Just a simple, logical solution to a biological need that is clearly clouding my judgment.
I look at my empty glass, then back at Jiro, a new, dangerous calculation forming.
"Maybe," I say, my voice quiet. "Maybe I'll visit one."