Smiling at the Moon: Volume 1 - Chapter 3

The content warning is in the footnotes⁰.

◇:*:◆:*:◇

The hotel "Secret Flower Garden" is located halfway up a slope in the love hotel district. Yamada Shinji and Uesugi Ryota crouched beside a vending machine down a narrow street diagonally opposite the hotel, holding their breath with their cell phones in hand. Yamada was wearing jeans and a jacket, while Ryota was in a tracksuit, so at first glance, they might look like delinquents hanging around. However, their unwavering eyes were fixed on the entrance of the "Secret Flower Garden."

Tonight, they witnessed countless lust climbing up the slope. The most common sight was middle-aged, drunken salarymen accompanied by people speaking Japanese with strange intonations. The blatant signs and neon lights on both sides of the road shone luridly and brightly, undeterred by the chilly late November weather, embodying crude expectations of sex and money.

Yamada glanced at his old diver's watch. "It's been five minutes since Meirin went in... it's about time."

"Shouldn't we move in already?" Ryota's shoulders twitched with impatience.

"No, wait a bit longer."

Ryota's phone, set to vibrate, buzzed. It was a message from Meirin. It read "506 OK". They jumped up and rushed toward the hotel entrance. A young couple sharing the elevator with them shot suspicious glances their way, especially the woman with thick, heavy eyelashes. She might have thought they were a gay couple. When Yamada glared at her, she trembled and buried her face in her thin boyfriend's chest.

They arrived in front of room 506. Ryota knocked lightly twice, and the door clicked open. Meirin, in a white blouse and navy skirt, her hair neatly tied up, peeked out.

"Where is he?" Yamada asked. Meirin glanced over her shoulder and answered, "In the bath."

"Good job." Yamada praised her, and Meirin smiled sweetly. Yamada and Ryota barged into the room, checked their positions in the flower-patterned wallpaper and canopy bed setting.

"Here." Meirin handed Yamada a business card. "His company," she said in broken Japanese. Yamada pocketed it and Meirin lay down on the bed, letting her hair down and loosening her blouse. The man was taking a long bath, giving Meirin enough time to apply eyedrops.

When the middle-aged man emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel and with a slack expression, he recoiled at the sight of the two men. On the bed, Meirin lay sobbing, her hair disheveled.

"Who are you?" The man demanded, his voice trembling yet defiant. He managed to raise his voice, which showed some courage, but that was all.

Ryota shouted in Chinese, "You thief!" The man's cheek twitched.

"Wha-what... foreigners?"

Ryota spewed out violent words like "cut," "stab," and "kill" in rapid-fire Chinese, while Yamada pretended to calm him in Japanese. "Hey man, you messed with the wrong girl. She's this Chinese guy's wife."

Squinting one eye, Yamada shrugged with a look of exasperation. The man looked down at Meirin and waved his hands in protest. "I-I didn't know!"

Ryota yelled in Chinese, "I'll gouge your eyes out!" making the man shudder all over.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. We don't need the police, right?" Yamada cracked his neck.

"I really didn't know. Besides, we haven't done anything yet. I swear, we haven't had sex," the man stammered.

At this point, Ryota pulled "it" out of his pocket. The man's face turned as white as if it had been painted with a brush.

"H-h..."

It was a cheap, fake toy knife that glinted dully. When stabbed, the blade would retract into the handle. Carrying a real knife would violate gun and sword laws, but this was safe. In this situation, no amateur would be able to tell that Ryota's weapon was fake.

"Hey, don't bring out something so dangerous," Yamada said, patting Ryota's shoulder and making him put the knife away. The man's knees gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. The towel fell away, exposing his unimpressive genitals, but he didn't even try to cover himself.

"P-p-please, spare me. I-I-I'll pay," he begged.

Yamada folded his arms and hummed thoughtfully. "You think he'll be satisfied with a small amount of money?"

The man hurried to the bag by the bedside, pulled out his wallet, and handed over five 10,000-yen¹;bills with trembling hands. Yamada took them without hesitation and whispered something in Ryota's ear. Ryota then unleashed a torrent of Chinese, and the man looked at Yamada with pleading eyes.

"W-what is he saying?"

"He said his wife isn't that cheap, don't insult her."

The man took out an additional three 10,000-yen bills and 6,000 yen from his wallet. Yamada accepted it all and said, "I'll smooth things over, so you can go now," nodding towards the door. The man hastily put on his pants and shirt, grabbed his bag, and rushed out.

"Ah, wait a minute," Yamada called after him.

"This guy's with the Chinese mafia. You know about the Chinese mafia, right? They're more ruthless than the Japanese yakuza. Normally, you'd be dead for this, but you're lucky to get off with just this much."

The man turned around, his eyes unfocused.

"Don't think about going to the police. If he gets angry, he might kill you and your family. You hear about family massacres on the news, right? I'd hate to see your face on TV."

The man left the room, his footsteps fading away. Meirin got up from the bed and jumped into Ryota's arms, purring like a kitten. Ryota gently stroked her head, his eyes softening.

Yamada handed Ryota 17,000 yen, saying, "This is Meirin's share," and pocketed the rest. "I'll keep the rest."

"Got it."

Meirin clung to Ryota, and the atmosphere in the room became awkward.

"We're done for tonight. You two do whatever you want now," Yamada said, heading out of the love hotel.

Ryota's face turned slightly red as he apologized, "Sorry about that."

"Do your best," Yamada replied, leaving the hotel.

Lighting a cigarette, I walked with it hanging from my mouth. The wind blowing up the love hotel street felt unusually cold when I was alone. Maybe it was because I had just seen Ryota and Meirin being so close. But it's not like those two just started flaunting their relationship today.

As I head north, I pass through a street where Korean conversations fill the air. Crossing it, the road narrows, and aging houses multiply. The scent here is different from the raunchiness of the restaurant district or the seediness of the hotel area. It’s a faded, neglected aroma, like overripe fruit. Despite its tackiness, this place feels oddly familiar.

I finish my cigarette and reach for a fresh one, but something falls from my pocket. As I bend down to retrieve it, a blaring car horn startles me, I pressed against the wall as a black Mercedes sped by.

"Dammit, this is a one-way street!" I cursed at the tail lights, possibly belonging to a rival. Huffing, I picked up what I had dropped: the business card of the middle-aged man from earlier. A valuable source of income.

Given his level of fear, he probably wouldn't go to the police, so I could blackmail him a few more times. Carrying around nearly 90,000 yen in cash suggested he had more money in his wallet. If left to his own devices, he'd probably blow it on women or adult services anyway. A little bit of pain might teach him a lesson.

It had been six months since I teamed up with Ryota and his girlfriend Meirin to run our “honey trap” scam. We had other minor hustles, but this was the most profitable. Together, Ryota and I made around a million²;yen a month. That was enough to pay the tribute to the Motohashi group, cover rent, and living expenses.

Initially, I worked as a bouncer for a rip-off bar through the introduction of the group, but the pay was low. On top of that, the bar got busted, and I lost my hustle in no time.

Meirin was a Chinese exchange student in her fourth year at a private university. She worked part-time at "Swallow," a hostess club managed by the group. Her strong personality often caused trouble with customers, giving the manager headaches. Despite this, Ryota fell in love with her at first sight. Even though she was beautiful, I had no interest in someone as prickly as a pufferfish, but Ryota boldly pursued her and somehow made it work without getting hurt.

Eventually, Meirin clashed with the manager and quit her hostess job. But she was poor and needed to work to pay for her tuition. The honey trap was the perfect solution for both our needs.

Meirin didn't hesitate to become the bait. If caught, she'd get arrested, but her hostess job was also illegal without a work visa, so it was a toss-up.

We didn't limit our operations to Shinjuku; we regularly changed locations to Ikebukuro, Ueno, Sugamo, Shibuya, and so on. This made it harder for the police to track us. Pretending to be Chinese mafia also helped. Even if victims reported to the police, the involvement of Chinese would make the officers hesitant. Unlike the structured Japanese yakuza, the reality of the Chinese mafia was not well understood by the police, and investigations often led nowhere, making them reluctant.

Another benefit of posing as Chinese mafia was in case we mistakenly targeted a fellow yakuza. We were careful to avoid picking up such vibes, but it had happened twice. When a seemingly nice balding man suddenly transformed and threatened us in a gravelly voice, I felt like my life was flashing before my eyes. We babbled in Chinese and fled while he was momentarily confused. Luckily, he didn't pursue us.

If it were Japanese yakuza, it wouldn't have been so simple. They would hunt us down, enraged over their territory being encroached upon, and administer a brutal punishment. With the Chinese, they feared unknowingly provoking a powerful organization and let us go.

My cigarette had burned down, but I was too lazy to light another. Walking with it in my mouth, the smoke dispersed whimsically in the wind. Under the dim streetlights, the branches of an oak tree, protruding over an old concrete wall, swayed violently, like a child swinging a toy.

At the end of the poverty-stricken street, I saw my apartment building, "Gold Coast." Despite the name, it was a Showa-era building from thirty years ago. The exterior was well-maintained, but the facilities were old. However, it was a bargain at 80,000 yen³ for a one-room apartment in this area near Shinjuku.

Entering the building, the cold air eased a bit. I pressed the button for the eighth floor. Maybe because it was past one in the morning, the elevator, which usually took ages, arrived with the speed of an express train. As it ascended, I could hear the ominous sounds of it breaking down from outside the closed doors.

The sound echoed in the inner hallway, so I was careful with my footsteps. I didn't want to be accused of having no manners just because I was yakuza, and I wanted to avoid trouble with civilians as much as possible.

My apartment was a tiny six-tatami room, like a rat's nest. Usually, these apartments are long vertically, but mine was horizontally long with the entrance in the center. It made the placement of furniture awkward. Ryota and I had lived here together until he moved into Meirin's apartment.

When I opened the door, the light was on. I thought I had forgotten to turn it off, but it wasn't that. In the narrow entrance, a pair of worn black sneakers were neatly lined up, and from the foot of the lump on the bed, a big foot stuck out.

I could hear soft snoring. As I tried to be quiet, I snapped back to reality. Why should I tiptoe around in my own home?

I deliberately stomped across the room. Even after I took a shower, changed into sweats, and returned to bed, the rude guest, Kanou Michihiko, was still sleeping soundly.

"Hey!"

He showed no signs of waking up even when he called out to him. Yamada sighed and turned on a small light bulb. He moved the tall man to the side of the wall and slipped in next to him. The futon, warmed by his body heat, was cozy and comfortable. The body next to him shifted slightly, and a sleepy voice said, "Shinji?"

"...You're late. Welcome back." His chest warmed with affection, but it felt oddly embarrassing, so he responded gruffly, "This isn't your house, you know." But since he had already handed over the spare key to his room, his words were completely unconvincing. Michihiko didn't seem to care and yawned softly.

"...I only had a morning lecture today, and after that, I was working at my part-time job all day. I was so tired that I fell asleep while taking a break."

This spring, Michihiko, four years younger, had moved to Tokyo to attend university. Although he seemed to receive sufficient financial support from home, he started a part-time job at a nearby moving company, saying he wanted a bit more pocket money.

Given Michihiko's tall but frail-looking physique, Yamada thought a physically demanding job like moving might be too much for him, and sure enough, at first, he was like a ragged cloth.

He had once been so exhausted that he couldn't press the doorbell at Yamada's apartment and collapsed at the entrance, almost requiring an ambulance.

"I told you, you can't handle it," Yamada had said, but Michihiko continued the job despite staggering. Over the next month or two, his physique gradually changed. Though he still appeared slender, his body was now covered in supple muscles visible even through his clothes.

"The wind was strong outside, wasn't it?"

A sleepy voice reached out to him.

"Yeah."

"It blew all day. My uniform hat almost flew off several times."

Without responding, Yamada pulled the blanket over his head.

"Are you sleepy?"

As Yamada lay still, perhaps thinking he had fallen asleep, Michihiko snuggled up against Yamada's back, which usually would have annoyed him, but since he was pretending to sleep, he let it be. Soon, he heard the steady breathing of someone genuinely asleep.

As he became aware of the warmth on his back, his mind cleared, and he felt a peculiar arousal. He hadn't had any proper action lately.

Yamada turned to face Michihiko and unbuttoned his jeans, pulling down the zipper. As he tugged out Michihiko's member through the opening in his briefs, Michihiko finally woke up.

"Huh... what?"

Still half-asleep, he rubbed his eyes like a cat. When Yamada gripped his now-exposed member, Michihiko gasped. It seemed he finally realized what was happening.

"Are we... doing it?"

"Is it bad if we do?"

Yamada licked Michihiko's face like a dog.

"It's fine... but grabbing me when I was asleep surprised me."

"So should I say, 'May I unveil your esteemed penis?'"

"Just 'Can I touch your dick?' is fine."

Michihiko's dick was already throbbing in Yamada's hand. As he slowly released his grip and gently stroked the underside from the base, it trembled with sensitivity.

Yamada whispered into Michihiko's right ear.

"Do you want me to squeeze the base with my fingers? Or should I play with the drooling tip? If I'm playing with the tip, I should also massage the nice, heart-shaped balls. You like having your dick and balls played with together, don't you?"

Michihiko covered his ears with both hands and lowered his face.

"Or do you prefer having your ass fingered? Even though you're a guy, your ass is as sensitive as a woman's."

Yamada could feel Michihiko's hot breath, but there was no response.

"Tell me clearly where you want to be touched."

"...You can do whatever you want with me."

Yamada felt a thrill at Michihiko's faint voice. He grabbed Michihiko's chin, tilted his face back, and kissed him hard.

"Then don't complain from the start."

As they kissed, Yamada stroked him a few more times, and Michihiko quickly reached his climax. It was almost too fast, like premature ejaculation. Yamada turned Michihiko over and pulled off his jeans. He smeared the still-warm semen on Michihiko's inner thigh.

"Keep your thighs tightly closed."

He felt his head nod. Yamada inserted his erection between the slippery thighs. Even though it wasn't a woman's lubrication but a man's semen, and it wasn't an orifice but thighs squeezing him, it felt fine. He could do it.

Thrusting his hips vigorously, he rubbed between the thighs. The bed creaked, and Michihiko gasped cutely, saying, "Ah, ah." Just rubbing there wasn't enough to release the pent-up heat in his crotch, so Yamada bit into the supple shoulder in front of him.

"Ouch..."

Michihiko's body and thighs trembled. Enjoying the stimulation, Yamada continued to nibble gently until Michihiko's responses dulled and he began to sob quietly. Maybe it hurt. As Yamada licked the bitten shoulder, the crying stopped.

The desire that had swelled up to the brim was ejaculated on Michihiko's back. The act of marking territory like a male's release brought an indescribable sense of satisfaction.

"Hey, look this way."

After finishing up, when trying to turn over Michihiko's body, who was lying face down, he resisted, saying, "I don't want to."

"What's wrong? I told you to look this way."

"My face is weird."

"Your face has always been weird."

He forcefully made him lie on his back. Covering his face with both hands, the squirming body beneath him... despite not being a woman, it was erotic. Yamada swallowed hard, then pinched the two small buds on Michihiko's alluring chest with his fingertips.

"Ha... hmm."

Michihiko's back arched sharply like a shrimp. As his fingers moved, his body contorted.

"What are you doing?" The question sounded childlike and hesitant.

"You know what I'm doing. I'm playing with your nipples."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I want to touch them, that's why."

Twisting and kneading the nipples along with the areola, they swelled significantly from the base. Yamada took them into his mouth. He sucked on them eagerly, alternating between left and right, savoring the sensation. As he did so, Michihiko became aroused again. His tip rubbed against Yamada's abdomen, leaving a wet trail of pre-cum.

"Getting excited again, you horny dick."

Teasing him with words, Michihiko squirmed his hips, tears welling up in his eyes. After letting Michihiko climax once in his aroused state, Yamada slowly savored the small nipples, feeling a comforting sensation of being petted on the head. Meeting Michihiko's gaze as he looked down at him, their eyes locked.

"Do you like that?"

Yamada lifted his face from the nipple he had been sucking on.

"There's no man who dislikes breasts."

Michihiko's hand gently stroked Yamada's cheek.

"Do you prefer them big?"

"Well, bigger ones are more fun to suck on."

"Should I get implants or something?"

He imagined Michihiko with disproportionately large breasts, but it seemed to turn into a creepy creature in his mind.

"You're fine just the way you are. Don't think about changing your body."

Yamada lightly nibbled on the swollen nipple, eliciting a sweet "Ouch" from Michihiko. Encouraged by that sound, he continued to nibble gently. While licking, biting, and sucking on Michihiko's nipple, Yamada unknowingly fell asleep.

The next morning, Michihiko kissed the sleepy-eyed Yamada and said, "See you later," before leaving. They were old acquaintances, more like friends with benefits, engaging in activities that could easily be called those of lovers from an outsider's perspective. However, Yamada chose to ignore the fact, not wanting to delve too deeply into the implications, even though he had a vague understanding of the situation.

◇:*:◆:*:◇

After leaving the apartment building just past ten, Yamada headed south. The daytime entertainment district, reminiscent of the aftermath of a festival, felt glaringly mundane. As I walked, my head slightly down, a high-pitched voice called out, "Shinji, how are you?" Across the street, a familiar drag queen waved at me. I clicked my tongue, thinking that they were too energetic this early in the morning.

The Motohashi group office was located on the second floor of a mixed-use building in the middle of Kabuki Town’s Sakura Street, First District. The group was a large organization with a total of 125 members, including many who were younger than the 22-year-old Yamada, and numerous semi-members who were not fully counted as part of the group.

Motohashi group was under the nationwide Rano group organization. Rano group, a designated yakuza group with 10,000 members nationwide, was a conglomerate of hundreds of smaller groups like Motohashi group, all bearing the orchid badge, its symbol.

The boss of Motohashi group had a son, Soichi, a four-year university graduate with a sharp mind, who made a huge amount of money through stock trading. The Motohashi group’s tribute to Rano group was vastly higher than that of other groups, and because of this achievement, the boss was appointed as an executive within Rano group. If he becomes a senior advisor, the highest honor, he could eventually become the chairman of the Rano group, the top of the 10,000 members of the country. This is no longer a dream come true, but a realistic one.

Motohashi group was on the rise, and Yamada felt the momentum. The group was bustling, not only because of the money Soichi made but also because members were diligently collecting money through various means such as drug trafficking, fraud, theft, and extortion.

I knew that a yakuza’s worth was determined by their ability to make money. Although it felt hypocritical to say this while earning through petty schemes like honey traps, I often felt uneasy with the rough methods that disregarded means and targets. The main income for the Shima group, my former group, was from street vendor operations, which kept us away from blatant criminal activities, perhaps making me unused to the harsh realities here.

There was no sign in front of the office on the second floor. Recently, more groups had stopped displaying signs. Inside, however, the old-fashioned group sign and a stuffed tiger were displayed. The first time I was shown here, I mistook the stuffed tiger for a real one and backed away, earning a wry smile from the executive advisor, Okano.

Beyond the stuffed tiger was a reception room about 15 tatami⁴ mats in size. When the group leader or guests weren’t around, executives and underlings would relax on the sofas here, but usually, the back room, about half in size, served as the waiting room for members.

At the back of the reception room was the group leader’s office, but the group leader, busy with his duties as a senior of Rano group, rarely showed up at this office.

As soon as Yamada entered the reception room, he sensed an unsettling atmosphere. Four or five executives were gathered there, and they all turned to glare sharply at Yamada.

"Ah... good morning," he greeted softly. As he tried to escape to the underling’s waiting room, someone from the group called out, "Hey, Yamada."

It was Okano. In his late forties, short, stocky, balding, with bulging eyes, Okano was an unattractive man, but he was known for his strong sense of honor and his willingness to take care of others, making him well-liked by his subordinates. He had a close relationship with the former head of Shima group, having shared a brotherly cup of sake. When the Shima group disbanded, it was Okano who the boss introduced Yamada to.

Despite being neither a newcomer nor a veteran, Yamada and Ryota managed to get along with the established members of Motohashi group thanks to Okano’s patronage. It was because of this backing that Yamada could secure his place in Motohashi group.

"What is it, Mr. Okano?"

"Come here and help."

Approaching cautiously, Yamada saw someone lying in the center of the group. It was Saotome, two years older than Yamada, a member whose main gig was selling drugs. Saotome, himself a considerable junkie, always wore yellow sweats and had bleached hair, earning him the nickname "Chick" among the members.

He seemed to have messed up and received punishment, as his face was bloodied and swollen, and he lay there motionless with his mouth hanging open.

"Could you throw this guy out?" Okano asked.

For a moment, Yamada thought he was being asked to dispose of a corpse, but he was relieved when Saotome let out a faint groan. If he was alive, it was fine.

"Got it," Yamada said, approaching Saotome. He lifted his limp, heavy body by the head and started to drag him away. Suddenly, Saotome coughed, startling Yamada. Saotome awoke and, in a panic, screamed and began to struggle.

Unable to support him, Yamada let go, and Saotome fell back onto the floor. He quickly got up and staggered toward the reception room door. As Yamada moved to follow, someone said, "Leave him be." Everyone watched with half-smiles as Saotome collided with the corner of a sofa, crouched down, and continued to flee.

The executives’ expressions froze when Saotome bumped directly into Soichi, the boss’s son, who was entering the reception room. Soichi stumbled into a large potted plant, causing it to fall dramatically. Saotome, oblivious to whom he had collided with, continued to make his way out without any apology.

Standing next to Soichi, the tall bodyguard Kato grabbed Saotome’s sweatshirt and pulled him back into the reception room, throwing him to the ground.

"Do you know who you just ran into?" Kato's threatening voice made Saotome, sitting on the floor, cower in fear.

Okano hurried forward, apologizing profusely to Soichi, kicking Saotome who was sitting.

"We were disciplining him, and he was already terrified… really sorry."

Soichi, a financial yakuza, rarely showed up at the office. You would only see him during the New Year or at memorial services. He was almost thirty, tall, handsome, and always wore expensive suits. If it weren’t for the badge on his lapel, he would look like a businessman rather than a yakuza.

Soichi lifted his cream-colored tie, stained red, likely from Saotome’s blood when they collided.

Okano noticed and apologized again. "I'm so sorry. We'll compensate you properly for the ruined attire."

Soichi put his fingers into the knot of his tie, slipped it off, and dropped it to the floor.

"...Throw it away later," he murmured to no one in particular, then looked down at the trembling Saotome, who was holding his head.

"No need to compensate... Instead, make sure there's proper punishment."

Yamada swallowed hard.

"I'll be searching for something in my father's room. It will take ten, fifteen minutes."

Soichi and Kato entered the boss's room. Simultaneously, Okano quietly commanded, "Prepare it." The executives began to move quickly, more so than usual.

A three-meter-square blue plastic sheet was spread beside the reception room, along with a cutting board, a knife, and several towels.

Saotome must have realized what was about to happen. He shook his head, crying, "N-No, no!"

Okano, with a sympathetic expression, advised him, "Give up."

"It's an order from Soichi."

"No, I don't want to! I quit, I quit this gang!"

As Saotome tried to escape, the executives pinned him down. They kicked his stomach and hit his head, and once he was limp, they dragged him onto the plastic sheet, laying him face down.

"No, no, not my fingers!"

The struggling man's hands and feet were held down by the executives. Yamada pressed down on Saotome's right arm. Saotome, making too much noise, had a towel shoved into his mouth. His left hand was placed on the cutting board. Saotome, biting the towel, groaned and cried with tears streaming down his face.

Without any expression, one of the executives picked up the knife and placed it on the first joint of Saotome's left pinky. Yamada didn’t watch the moment the finger was cut off. There was a thud, and Saotome’s body jerked violently. When Yamada opened his eyes, vivid red blood was gushing from the wound.

With the punishment done, the men who had been holding Saotome down stood up. Saotome lay motionless. When they turned him on his back, he was unconscious, his eyes rolled back. His sweatpants were wet, and the smell of ammonia filled the room.

"Smells awful," someone muttered as they kicked Saotome. It must have stirred him awake, as Saotome opened his eyes and started muttering deliriously, "It hurts, it hurts."

There was a clattering sound as the boss’s room door opened. Soichi emerged. Okano hurried over, bowing his head.

"Thank you for your hard work."

Soichi nodded slightly.

"Also, here's this. We made sure there was proper punishment."

Okano presented Saotome’s blood-soaked pinky, placed on a towel, to Soichi. After a glance, Soichi ordered Kato.

"Feed it to those."

Kato took the finger from Okano and dropped it into the large aquarium in the reception room. The koi carp, brightly colored, swarmed around, pecking at the finger, nibbling at the flesh. Watching the finger being nibbled and floating up and down in the water, Yamada felt nauseous and turned away.

"My finger... my finger..."

Saotome, watching his finger float in the tank, was shedding large tears. What used to end with just a beating or kicking had now cost him his finger. Although it was his own fault, if Soichi hadn't been there, it wouldn't have come to this... he was unlucky.

Just as he was about to leave the reception room, Soichi turned as if remembering something. He called Okano over, exchanged a few words, and then left. Once the two of them were gone, the tension in the room eased significantly.

"Get to a hospital quickly," Okano ordered Saotome, who slowly got up and left the reception room. When Yamada returned after cleaning up the blood-soaked towel, knife, and cutting board, the other executives were gone, and only Okano remained, sitting on a sofa and smoking. It was slightly cold as the window was open, but the smell of blood and ammonia was gone.

Noticing Yamada, Okano beckoned him over. "Hey, good job. Come sit here."

Muttering thanks, Yamada sat across from Okano. The comfortable sofa felt oddly uncomfortable, making it hard for him to settle.

"You look pale. Is this the first time you've seen something like that?" Okano asked, raising his pinky finger. Rumors had it that Okano, a lover of women regardless of nationality, had mistresses from China, Korea, Russia, and Japan. Yamada had only seen the Russian mistress, a tall, big-chested blonde, who made an odd pair with Okano, like Beauty and the Beast.

Not wanting to admit fear, Yamada lied, "I just didn't sleep much last night."

It wasn't entirely untrue; he had been up late indulging himself.

"Anyway, Saotome's behavior was pathetic."

Okano exhaled a large cloud of smoke.

"When I was young, if you did something wrong, you’d cut off your own finger. Now, we have to hold them down just to do it. These days, young guys think that being yakuza means they can do all the drugs they want. Saotome was a prime example, skimming off the top of his sales."

Rumors had reached Yamada, too, about Saotome embezzling from his meth sales. The higher-ups knew the lower members' lives were tough, so they turned a blind eye to a certain extent, but Saotome had "crossed the line" and "gone too far," leading to his punishment.

"Once you cut off a finger, it doesn’t grow back, so I usually let it slide. But crossing Soichi is unforgivable. It can't be helped… Anyway, enough of this gloomy talk, let's stop."

Okano waved his left hand as if to clear the air in front of him. Sensing a pause in the conversation, Yamada began, "Um...", Yamada spoke up. "Could you take this month's payment for me?"

Okano nodded. The monthly payments were supposed to be given to the designated executive, but in their absence, any executive could take it and pass it up the chain. Yamada handed over the wrinkled envelope, and Okano carefully counted the bills before tucking it away.

"You two were really a good find. You earn your keep and stay away from drugs. It’s no wonder you came from the Shima group."

Okano spoke thoughtfully. Many yakuza were addicted to gambling or drugs, making it common for payments to be late or missed altogether. Despite this, Yamada and Ryota always paid their dues on time.

Yamada glanced at the door of the empty reception room.

"Um, do you know when the boss might be coming to the office next?"

Okano’s thick eyebrows twitched.

"I’m not sure. Do you have something to say to him?"

"No, I just haven’t seen him lately..."

Okano laughed heartily.

"You’re cute. Well, if you want to get on the boss's good side, just keep earning money. The boss wants useful underlings."

Yamada understood that making money was his role. But the thought that he needed to earn even more to be recognized by the boss made him feel empty.

Despite being part of the organization, he felt distant from its connections. In the small Shima group, he had always been able to consult the boss directly, forming a tight-knit pseudo-family. This made him long for someone he could wholeheartedly admire and follow.

He wanted to feel devoted to someone he could respect, like how he had been willing to risk his life for the Shima group’s boss. But when it came to the current boss, he wasn’t sure if he could put his life on the line. In three years with Motohashi group, the only words he had exchanged with the boss were the initial "Do your best."

He knew the boss was an impressive figure, but there were too few opportunities to see his character and build admiration.

"Would you like to work with Soichi?"

Yamada looked up, and Okano urged him to respond.

"With Soichi?"

"Yes, he mentioned needing an extra hand. He doesn’t like being around people, so it’s just him and Kato, but it seems like he’s been overwhelmed with tasks. A layman would be a hassle if they found out what’s going on, so he wants someone who understands the business. Someone who doesn’t use drugs, isn’t too intimidating, and can handle emails and the internet. You fit the bill."

Soichi’s cool, composed face flashed in Yamada’s mind. A man who could calmly cut off a finger and feed it to the fish. Yamada preferred people who were clumsy but warm-hearted, which made Soichi the opposite of his ideal.

"There are some in the group who don’t like Soichi for not hanging around the office or doing dirty work, but you’re not like that, right? I think Soichi is the future of Motohashi group. Working with him could be beneficial. It might also give you more chances to be noticed by the boss."

Although not enthusiastic, Yamada understood Okano was looking out for him. Plus, if it meant getting noticed by the boss, it might be worth a try.

"Could you arrange that for me?"

Okano smiled. "I thought you’d say that. I’ll talk to him right away. But Soichi might still say, 'No, thanks.'"

"Yeah, I understand."

As they talked, Okano's phone rang. He answered it, exchanged a few words, then covered the receiver.

"I’ll let you know when it’s decided," he said, leaving the reception room.

With his payment handed over, Yamada had no further business. He left the office. Despite the sun shining, the strong wind made it cold outside. He called Ryota to ask about grabbing a meal, but Ryota declined, saying Meirin was cooking lunch. Yamada clicked his tongue at his phone.

He flexed his pinky as he held the phone, imagining that if he screwed up under Soichi, he’d lose it instantly. Yamada chuckled bitterly at the thought.

◇:*:◆:*:◇

Sitting on the roadside of Shibuya's Center Street, Yamada was smoking a cigarette with his head down. Next to him, Ryota squatted with a pained expression. On a weekday afternoon, students and others of similar age wandered about. You couldn’t help but wonder what they were all doing, as if judging yourself.

The sky was overcast, threatening rain, mirroring Yamada's troubled state of mind.

"Bro, let's talk to Michan about this," Ryota pleaded in a pathetic voice, like a begging cat.

"Talking to him won't do any good," Yamada retorted, blowing out a puff of smoke, which coiled in the air like his own gloom.

"But we really can't handle this on our own," Ryota insisted.

Yamada stubbed out his still-burning cigarette and lit a new one. A girl in a miniskirt passing by gave him a meaningful look. Normally, he would take her up on it and hit on her, but in his foul mood, he glared at her instead. She furrowed her brows and hurried away, which irritated him even more.

"Then let's call Meirin," Ryota suggested.

"Can we trust a Chinese person's taste?" Yamada snapped.

"She's not that bad," Ryota weakly protested. Yamada crushed his half-smoked cigarette against the concrete.

"I'll never forget the tie Meirin gave you for your birthday. You always wear tracksuits, so when are you going to wear a tie? And it had pandas on it! You can't wear that to a wedding or a funeral."

"The pattern was like that, but the material was silk and quite good quality," Ryota argued.

"It's not about the price; it's about the taste," Yamada spat, spreading his arms wide.

"But if we had good taste, we wouldn't be sitting here like this," Ryota said, hitting a nerve. Yamada fell silent, the harsh truth stinging. As if on cue, raindrops began to fall from the cloudy sky.

When Yamada stood up, Ryota asked, "Where are you going?"

"Are you stupid? There's no point in getting soaked."

Ryota fidgeted nervously. "Can't we stay here a bit longer? It's only drizzling."

"The rain isn't going to stop. I hate getting wet."

"But, um, you see..." Ryota's hesitation made him look like an illegal immigrant afraid of being questioned by the police.

"Ah, ah, there they are!" Ryota suddenly shouted, raising his hands in triumph. Before Yamada could figure out what was happening, he saw two people rushing towards them from across the street.

Realizing what was going on, Yamada grabbed Ryota by the collar. "You called Michihiko, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry," Ryota whimpered, his face scrunched up like a dried plum. "I couldn't handle this on my own."

"What are you doing, Shinji!" Michihiko's voice called from behind. Yamada let go of Ryota and turned around to face Michihiko and his companion, Mori.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" Yamada yelled.

"What do you mean? Are you okay, Shinji?" Michihiko asked, still panting.

"What's wrong with me?" Yamada shouted.

Michihiko looked down, hesitating before speaking. "The police...?"

"What about the police?"

"Shinji, we thought you got arrested!"

A minor explosion went off in Yamada's mind. "Who told you that? Ryota, what did you say to him?"

Before the trembling Ryota could answer, Michihiko stepped in. "I got a message saying to come quickly because you were in trouble. We thought you got arrested."

Unable to hold back, Yamada glared at Ryota, who cowered behind Michihiko for protection.

"Michihiko was really worried, so I brought him in my car," Mori explained. "So, what's the big problem?"

Yamada didn’t want to say it, but Mori pressed on. Mori, shorter than most guys and not particularly tall for a man, had been friends with Michihiko since high school and went to the same university. They’d all shared meals back then, but lately, Mori had been busy with his club activities, and they hadn’t seen each other much.

Reluctantly, Yamada knew he had to explain. Ryota blurted it out first.

"We need suits."

"You idiot," Yamada grumbled, reaching for Ryota, who hid behind Mori this time.

"Bro, we're starting work at the office in Roppongi and need to get proper suits."

Michihiko's eyes widened in surprise. "Wow, Shinji, you’re getting a real job!"

"No, you idiot! We're working at the group’s office in Roppongi," Yamada corrected, as Ryota elaborated.

"We've never bought suits before. We don't even know where to get them. Are those men's suit stores okay?"

As expected, Michihiko and Mori just stared at each other, mouths agape. This was why Yamada didn’t want to involve them.

"We've got the money! We just don't know where to find the store!"

As the rain intensified, they decided to move to McDonald's. With a slightly empty stomach, Yamada ordered a hamburger set. But everyone else only ordered drinks. Annoyed that they weren't eating with him, he greedily devoured his burger.

"Isn't a regular business suit good enough?" Michihiko asked, sipping a sickly sweet shake.

"I'm not a salaryman," Yamada retorted, leaning back in his chair.

"Then is a flashy yakuza suit okay?" Mori questioned, tilting his head as he drank his cola. Yamada wagged his finger from side to side.

"That won't work. It's the Roppongi office. The boss's son, who I'll be working for, looks like an ordinary guy. I can't be the only one looking all yakuza-like."

"Then a regular business suit should be fine," Michihiko concluded, nodding at Mori.

"But I'm not a salaryman, and those suits are lame. I hate that kind of stuff."

"See? Doesn't he make no sense?" Ryota chimed in annoyingly, prompting Yamada to kick him under the table. Ryota yelped and moved back as Michihiko scolded Yamada.

"Shinji, don't get mad!"

Yamada turned away, sipping his iced coffee. Despite four men being at the table, the atmosphere grew silent.

Michihiko, who had been deep in thought, suddenly clapped his hands. "I get it. Shinji, you want a stylish suit that doesn’t make you look like a salaryman or a gangster, right?"

...That was probably it.

◇:*:◆:*:◇

T.N: Chapter 3 will be continued in Smiling at the Moon Part 2, which consists of a single, extensive chapter. This is the author's decision. This section is the beginning of Chapter 3, which is around 7,000 words. The remaining content, approximately 49,000 words, will be in Part 2. Due to its length, I will need to divide it into multiple sections, even though it is technically one chapter.

Footnotes

0. Content warning: NSFW, cruelty, physical abuse, violence.

1. Around $62 USD.

2. Around $6,221.00 USD.

3. Around $500 USD.

4. Approximately 25 square meters (267 square feet).

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