"…Are you ready," the man said, nudging the noodles around with his plastic fork, "for revenge… for what he did to your parents?"
The question didn't echo. It didn't need to.
Takomi didn't answer right away. The room stayed the same—cracked walls, damp smell, the faint hiss of steam from the cup—but something in his chest tightened like it had been pulled a notch too far.
For a moment, his ears rang.
Not loud. Just enough.
—
It had been brighter that day.
Too bright for something that ended the way it did.
The entrance of Luis Vilium was washed in warm light, glass doors reflecting people who looked like they belonged there. Polished shoes, quiet laughter, the soft clink of cutlery leaking out every time the door opened.
Takomi stood half a step behind his parents, staring at his own reflection for a second before looking away.
"…Do we really have to do this?" he muttered.
His mother turned back with a small smile. "It's one dinner."
"It's an anniversary dinner," his father corrected, adjusting his cuff like it mattered. "At least pretend to care."
"I do care," Takomi said. "About going home."
"That's not on the menu."
"…Unfair."
His mother laughed softly. "Just behave."
"…I always behave."
Both of them looked at him.
"…Most of the time," he added.
Inside, everything felt too clean. Too controlled. Even the air smelled filtered—like nothing unpleasant was allowed to exist there.
"Reservation?" the man at the desk asked.
"Takomi," his father said.
A quick check. A nod. "Yes, sir. This way."
Takomi glanced around as they walked. People talking, smiling, eating like nothing could go wrong in a place like this.
"…Let's just eat and leave," he muttered.
They were seated near the center. Not hidden. Not exposed. Just enough in the open.
His mother sat first, smoothing her dress. His father pulled the chair slightly before sitting, out of habit.
Takomi dropped into his seat.
"…Food better be worth it."
"Stop complaining," his father said. "You'll eat it anyway."
"…That's the problem."
His mother shook her head, smiling again.
For a while, it stayed normal.
Menus opened. Small talk. The kind of conversation that didn't need to go anywhere.
Then—
Footsteps.
Heavier than the rest.
Takomi noticed before he meant to. The rhythm didn't match the others.
His father looked up.
His mother didn't.
A group stopped at their table.
Three in front. Others behind.
The one in the middle spoke first.
"…We need this table."
Not loud. Not aggressive.
Just stated.
Takomi's father blinked once. "…I'm sorry?"
"You heard me."
"…We have a reservation."
"I know."
"…Then I don't see the issue."
The man's mouth curved slightly. Not a smile.
"…There isn't one. You'll move."
Takomi's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
His father didn't shift.
"…No."
It wasn't defiance. Not really.
Just… refusal.
The man tilted his head a little, like he was trying to understand something simple.
"…You don't understand," he said.
"…I understand enough," his father replied. "We booked this table. We'll stay."
A chair somewhere behind scraped softly.
People were watching now.
Trying not to.
Takomi's mother looked between them. "…Is something wrong?"
"…No," his father said quietly. "Nothing's wrong."
The man let out a small breath.
"…People like you always do this."
"…Do what?"
"…Mistake patience for weakness."
Takomi felt it then—something tightening in his chest, like he already knew how this would end but couldn't move fast enough to change it.
The man's hand slipped into his coat.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Takomi's chair shifted back slightly.
"…Hey—"
The gun came out smooth, like it had always been there.
His mother's eyes widened.
His father stood—
"Stop—"
The sound cut everything.
Sharp.
Too loud.
Too close.
Takomi flinched.
His mother dropped first.
His father right after.
The table shook.
Something fell. Glass maybe.
Someone screamed.
Someone else ran.
Takomi didn't move.
His ears rang.
His hands felt cold.
The man lowered the gun, barely looking at what he'd done.
"…Clean this," he said to someone behind him.
Then—
for a second—
he looked at Takomi.
No anger.
No satisfaction.
Nothing.
Then he turned away.
And sat down.
At the same table.
—
Later, people talked.
Voices blurred together.
"…complicated situation…"
"…connections…"
"…higher orders…"
Words that didn't mean anything.
No arrest.
No consequences.
No one touched him.
Because he wasn't just a man.
He was something people didn't stand against.
—
"…Today," Takomi said quietly.
The present came back in pieces.
The damp smell. The broken walls. The faint steam from the noodles.
His throat felt dry.
"…He dies."
A small pause.
"…At the same place."
The man across from him stirred the noodles again, like he hadn't just heard anything important.
"…You still think it works like that."
Takomi's ears rang again—faint, irritating.
"…Then why am I here?" he asked.
The man leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "…Because you don't choose the order."
Takomi's fingers pressed into the torn lining of his pocket.
"…Say it properly."
A short breath from the man. Almost a laugh.
"…You're going after Aslim."
The name sat wrong.
Takomi frowned slightly. "…Who?"
"Right hand," the man said, peeling the lid of the cup back a little more. "Runs connections across Asia and Africa. Drugs, weapons, shipments… people. Everything flows through him."
Takomi shifted his weight.
The ringing faded just enough.
"…And if he's gone?"
"Things break," the man said simply. "Routes stop. People panic. Messages don't reach."
"…For how long?"
"A week," he said. Then shrugged. "Maybe more. Depends how fast they fix it."
Takomi glanced down at his hand.
Steady.
But colder than it should be.
"…That's your move," the man continued. "While they're busy fixing it, I take what's left."
Takomi's jaw tightened.
"…And him?"
The man leaned back, chair creaking.
"…Still alive."
Silence.
Takomi's stomach turned slightly—not enough to show, just enough to sit there.
"…Then why wait?"
"Because you won't reach him like this," the man said. "You'll die before you get close."
Takomi didn't respond.
"…You're good," the man added. "Not that good."
A pause.
"…Yet."
Takomi exhaled slowly.
"…So I clear the way."
"You make it easier."
"Same thing."
"Not really."
Takomi almost argued—
then didn't.
The ringing flickered again.
"…Fine," he muttered.
The man picked up the noodles again, like that settled everything.
"…Don't die tonight," he said between bites. "I don't like replacing people."
Takomi didn't react.
Didn't nod.
Didn't agree.
He just stood there, thumb pressing deeper into the tear in his pocket—
until it almost hurt.
And this time—
he didn't pull his hand away.