"Lin Sang, don't you Chinese have an old saying? 'A wise man knows when to adapt'—surely you understand that."
At the mocking, broken Chinese, Lin Yang narrowed his eyes slightly.
"My restaurant's doing just fine. I don't have plans to work for anyone else anytime soon."
Though his Chinese eatery was small, it pulled in tens of thousands of yen a day—thousands of yuan when converted. Only a fool would take a job with them, let alone cook for a bunch of Japanese yakuza.
"Hey, kid!" The voice rose. "You dare reject an invitation from Boss Ono? Don't you know who we are?"
Before the speaker—Ono Takafumi, who'd just opened his mouth—could move, a man behind him with bangs almost covering his eyes stood up. His tone bristled with aggression, and his action spurred several comrades kneeling nearby to rise as well.
"I just want what I'm owed. Twenty-one thousand two hundred and forty yen this week."
Lin Yang remained unflinching. These goons ordered takeout daily, demanding delivery to their hideout, settling weekly. Their so-called "boss"—a low-level thug—hadn't always been Ono. The previous boss had settled bills promptly before "turning over a new leaf" and getting a proper job. This new one had offered Lin a kitchen job, certain he'd refuse, clearly angling to skip payment.
Lin curled his lip. High-end yakuza wore suits, carried briefcases, and strode into skyscrapers. Low-end ones? They stiffed restaurants. Disgraceful.
The bangs guy took Lin's indifference as an insult. He swung his arm at Lin's face, snarling like a dog: "Bastard!"
At six-foot-two, Lin was broad-shouldered—a family-trained cook who'd wielded woks since youth, his arms corded with muscle. The thug, who couldn't have topped five-foot-seven, stood no chance. Lin caught the man's wrist effortlessly, then landed a smooth front kick. The bangs guy slid across the wooden floor like a shrimp.
"Damn Chinese!" another yelled. "How dare you hit Mr. Matsushita!"
"To hell with you!"
"Grab weapons—let's go!"
The remaining thugs barked like dogs, enraged by Lin's resistance. Lin shook his hand free. Their insults chilled him. If he wasn't getting paid today, he'd take their medical bills out of their hides. Let's see how tough they were with broken teeth.
He lunged forward, uppercutting the loudest blond thug's gut. The kid doubled over; Lin grabbed his yellow hair and drove a brutal knee upward.
"Argh!" The blond collapsed, half his teeth scattered, blood dripping from his mouth.
Lin backpedaled, assuming a fighting stance—only to freeze as gunfire erupted.
"Bang!" "Rat-a-tat-tat!"
Brief screams cut off abruptly.
"Someone's shooting in!" A wounded thug stumbled into the room, words dying mid-scream as a bullet blew a hole in his skull. He dropped like a sack of rice.
Damn it. Lin's blood ran cold. No escape now. He crouched, hands over his head, praying these psychos wouldn't take a stray bullet. Please don't put a cap in me too.
He cursed inwardly. Who'd these idiots pissed off? Armed men storming the place?
Black combat boots appeared in his line of sight.
"Rat-a-tat-tat!" Fresh shell casings fell, bouncing near his eyes. No need to look up—he knew kitchen knives couldn't stand against assault rifles. Blood thickened the air.
"Reaper, hold on. Leave some alive. I don't see the target!" A gruff voice boomed in English.
"What's going on? Bad intel?"
Three pairs of boots joined the first.
"Wolf, confirm. Hawk, maintain perimeter watch."
One of the gunmen holstered his pistol, bending to check bodies. He held a phone, comparing faces—flipping even the dead over.
Lin dropped his head lower.
A rough hand yanked his hair upward. "Lift your head. Show your face."
Lin obeyed but kept his eyes shut. Movies taught him: if they didn't see your face, you might live. If they did? Dead.
He felt a calloused hand pinch his chin, shaking it—checking for a match. Then it released.
"Fuck. No luck, boss?"
"How much time left?"
"Ten minutes scheduled. Seven remaining."
"Torture them."
"Understood."
Interrogation began, but these bottom-tier thugs barely spoke English—"What's the point, boss?" Lin wanted to yell. They'd have better jobs if they did.
"Fuck, fuck!" Wolf snarled.
"Reaper. Clean them up. Retreat."
Lin's heart raced. Clean up meant execution. He snapped his eyes open.
"I'm not with them. I speak English and Japanese. I can help."
His pulse thundered. The second he spoke, a hand clamped his neck, a cold muzzle pressed to his temple.
"Who are you? Ever seen this man?" A phone flashed a photo—an olive-skinned Westerner with hollow cheeks and a hawk nose.
"I'm Chinese. Own a restaurant. They ordered takeout. I came to collect. Never seen him. But I can ask them."
Lin spoke clearly, selling his value.
"Good, Wolf. Let him up."
The pressure vanished. Lin gulped, finally taking in the room. Most thugs lay dead; three knelt, guns at their heads. Three armed men in camo—one with a pistol, two with rifles. Wolf had mentioned a "Hawk" on perimeter watch—four total. Black masks hid their faces. Lin exhaled. Survival possible.
"Call me Steering Wheel. Simple: find this guy, kill him. Intel says he's here."
A gunman handed Lin the phone. He worked fast.
"Ever seen him? Where is he?"
He held the photo up to the blond thug—who'd been first to fall, thus still breathing.
"Don't know him!" Blond trembled, shaking his head.
Same answer from Ono and the insulter. Lin translated truthfully.
Steering Wheel's face stayed hidden, but his tone promised violence.
"Fuck. Useless informants. Reaper. Clean house."
Lin's gut tightened. Reaper raised his rifle—then Lin snapped.
"Wait!"
All three turned.
"How many did you kill outside?"
"Four."
"Numbers don't add up." Lin scanned the room, seizing Ono's collar. "You used to order 15 meals. This week, 19 daily. Four dead here—15 total. Where are the other four?"
Ono, usually tough, cracked under pressure. "We're under the Inagawa-kai. You know who that is? You're dead!"
Inagawa-kai—Japan's biggest yakuza syndicate. But threats meant nothing next to a loaded gun. Lin kept it simple.
"He won't talk."
Steering Wheel's gaze hardened. He nodded to Wolf.
Wolf lunged, stabbing Ono's thigh with a knife, twisting. Ono, no tough guy, screamed.
"I'll talk!"
"Ono's willing."
Wolf stopped twisting.
"The boss keeps extra meals in his room. None of us saw the other three except the boss."
"Where's his room?"
"Farthest one in the back."
Ono spilled everything.
Steering Wheel nodded, glancing at Reaper.
"Rat-a-tat-tat!"
Two shots. The last two thugs fell.
"Have him lead."
Ono limped ahead; Lin followed, left hand on his shoulder, right gripping the pistol Reaper tossed him. Gun or not, Lin smelled a trap. Gunfire had erupted outside—if someone was hiding, they'd be ready.
"Creak."
Lin crouched behind Ono as the door swung open.
"Clear."
The room stood empty. Five men filed in. Lin let Ono collapse. A single takeout package sat on the table—one, not three.
Oil stains glistened two meters from the table. Lin knelt to inspect—then the floor tilted. He plummeted down a staircase.
Rolling, he glimpsed the basement. Four men flanked the stairs, pistols drawn.
A "ding" echoed in his mind—but he didn't process it. Gunfire erupted like popping beans.
"Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!"
Silence followed.