I See You
Tokyo at night breathed in light—neon veins pulsing through steel and glass, reflections stretching across rain-dark streets—until, in Hamachō, the city finally learned how to lower its voice.
Here, beneath a paper lantern swaying outside a narrow izakaya, the glow was softer, the air smelled of grilled fish and sake, and lives were quietly rewritten between clinking cups and unspoken rules.
Tonight, one of those quaint, hidden gems smelled like spilled sake and fear.
A glass shattered somewhere near the counter, the sharp crack echoing far louder than necessary. Tables had been shoved aside violently, chairs overturned like discarded toys. The handful of customers who’d been drinking just minutes earlier had already fled, slipping past the noren with pale faces and muttered apologies, unwilling to get involved.
Emori Kana stood frozen in the middle of the dining floor.
Three men blocked her path. Cheap suits, open elaborate collars, the kind of yakuza who wore their aggression like perfume—the yamikin. One of them kicked a fallen chair aside with his heel, grinning as it scraped loudly across the floor.
“You still need to pay up,” one of them said lazily, sleazily sizing her up and down. “Or we find another way to make you useful.”
Her hands trembled around the tray she’d been holding. She had half a mind to slam it down on the man’s head.
“I-I didn’t borrow any money” Kana trembled, her voice thin but steady through sheer will. “It’s not me. I never signed anything.”
“Oh?” The one in the middle—clearly the leader—tilted his head, a grin forming as he excitedly corrected her. He reached into his jacket and produced a folded document, flicking it open with theatrical flair. “Then what’s this?”
He shoved it toward her face.
Her breath hitched.
Emori Kaname’s name stared back at her, bold and mocking. She recognised her older brother’s ugly handwriting anywhere. And beneath it—her name, her address, and stamped in red ink at the bottom, clear as a brand burned into her chest.
Her hanko.
“H-how?” Her knees nearly gave out.
Her heart dropped so fast it felt like it tore something loose inside her, but also anger rising like a boiling kettle about to hiss. The room swam, edges blurring as blood rushed in her ears. She could hear her own pulse, loud and panicked, drowning out the men’s disgusting laughter.
‘No, no, no–’
Kaname’s stupid grin flashed through her mind with his careless promises. ‘I’ll fix it later, Kana-chan’.
She saw her ailing mother’s frail hands instead, wrapped around hospital blankets. The steady beep of machines. The bills piling up in her apron pocket, every yen counted, every shift taken no matter how late or exhausting.
This debt... this wasn’t just money. This was her mother’s life, and hers. This was everything she’d been holding together with bleeding fingers. Her eyes burned.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “He never told me. I swear, Kaname never told me. Please, I didn’t agree to this.”
The leader stepped forward, smacking his teeth in disagreement.
Kana stumbled back on instinct, her hip catching on a misplaced dinner table. Her vision now blurred with unshed tears she refused to let fall. Crying wouldn’t save her.
Crying never saved anyone. Angry crying absolutely never made things better either.
“You’re the guarantor,” he said calmly as he honed in on her. “Unfortunately, that means his debt’s yours now.”
One of the others chuckled like a hyena, high-pitched and careless. “If you can’t pay, we got a place downtown. Girls like you always make it work… eventually.”
Kana’s stomach twisted violently.
The word brothel wasn’t spoken, but it didn’t need to be.
“No, please,” Kana protested weakly, the words tearing out of her before she could stop them.
She bowed deeply, repeatedly, hands clasped together against her thighs as she kept backing up. Her pride cracking under desperation.
“I’ll make it work. I’ll pay in instalments, anything. Just-just not that. Please.”
Her back hit something solid. She gasped.
Strong hands caught her shoulders, steady and warm, preventing her from stumbling.
She slowly looked up behind her.
A tall man stood behind her, late twenties maybe. Light ash-brown hair slicked back neatly but careless in a way that felt intentional. His maroon eyes met hers, sharp and assessing; and for the briefest second, something shifted in them.
Recognition?
Then it vanished just as quickly as it came, shuttered behind an unreadable coldness.
‘Another one,’ Kana thought weakly. ‘This is just not my day.’
Somehow, this one felt worse. He looked too composed—the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be dangerous. Her chest tightened as hopelessness settled in fully, feeling just as heavy as her legs as she stood rooted in place.
She’d run out of options; run out of dignity. Run out of miracles.
His gaze left her and lifted instead to the three men across the room. It darkened. Without a word, he stepped forward, gently but firmly guiding Kana behind him, his body placing itself squarely between her and the chinpira.
“Gishi,” he said coolly, not even glancing back. “Bring the girl out, and wait in the car.”
"Hai, Waka.”
A man with scruffy hair past his nape, who’d been leaning quietly near the entrance, moved immediately as soon as he was instructed. He offered Kana a reassuring nod before ushering her toward the door. Her legs felt numb as she was guided outside, the cool night air slapping against her flushed face. The door to the black MPV outside closed behind her with a heavy, final sound.
Inside the izakaya, the maroon-eyed man sighed.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of black gloves. His ‘lucky’ gloves. He slid them on slowly, each deliberate tug of latex snug around his fingers.
His expression twisted slightly, as if offended by the very air in the room.
The three men advanced, bristling now, their pride wounded.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, taking her away?!” one snarled, already rolling up his sleeves and ready to pounce. “She owes us money!”
The man finished adjusting his gloves, unbothered by the noise. He frowned, almost thoughtful, as if mildly inconvenienced. He breathed in sharply.
“I usually don’t like to introduce myself but since you asked,” he said casually, lifting his gaze at last. A calculated grin slowly spread across his face—humorless, but filled with displeasure.
“Nice to meet you,” he said softly. “I’m Okita Shion.”
----------------------------------------
Hamachō: a neighborhood that breathes with the quiet elegance of a well-kept secret. It is my favourite district.
Izakaya: Japanese-style pub.
Sake: rice wine.
Noren: entryway curtain.
Yamikin: Street-level loan sharks of the underworld; always loud and messy.
Hanko: a personal name seal we use for official documents.
Chinpira: small-time and low-level young punk
Waka: ‘young master’, but Yamagishi Shun drops the honorifics here, their history to be revealed in later chapters.
