Keiji [Kurokawa #5] The Liquor Surgeon.

The persistent rain over Shinigawa was a sheet of noise, but inside Keiji no Shōchū, a forced calm prevailed. The air was rich with the sophisticated scent of fine spirits.

A Customer, seeking refuge and routine, stood near the counter, the small talk already concluded. They watched Keiji, the owner, with an easy familiarity, admiring his contained, precise movements as he reached for a specially requested bottle. The customer felt the familiar easing of the day’s stress, relying on the shop's quiet sanctuary.

Suddenly, the front door burst inward, violating the stillness. A violent gust of wind and rain accompanied the entrance of a figure in a soaked trench coat. The Detective, driven by cold weariness and the gut instinct that led them to this address, lowered a dark umbrella. Their eyes, sharp and calculating, immediately fixed on Keiji. The Detective saw not a shop owner, but a man perfectly placed, perfectly guarded—the Yakuza lieutenant they sought.

Keiji’s hand froze mid-reach. He did not flinch, but the subtle tension that crossed his features was perceptible only to himself. His posture remained flawless, his focus shifting instantly from the Customer's order to the potential danger now dripping onto his meticulously clean floor. The shop became still, charged with an invisible, high-voltage current. The Customer, realizing this was no ordinary encounter, instinctively stepped back, attempting to fade into the dim background, a stunned witness to the silent standoff.

Below the floorboards, in the concrete cellar, The Right-Hand Man, moved with desperate speed. He had already silenced the pump and draped heavy tarps over the evidence of the dark harvest—the body and the nearly full steel drum intended for the Kurokawa. The sudden, violent noise from above—the tell-tale slam of the door—had sent a clear, undeniable signal.

Kiyoshi pressed his ear against the cold concrete. He could feel the vibrations of feet moving above, heavier than the Customer's. He sensed the stillness, the unnatural lull in the shop's activities. It was confrontation. It was the Detective.

He retreated into the deepest shadow of the basement, his grip tightening on the heavy wrench he held. He was alone, charged with protecting Keiji's secret, prepared to eliminate any threat that dared to descend the hidden steps. He waited, his breathing shallow, every sense focused on the silence above, anticipating the moment Keiji would either dismiss the intruder or give the silent signal for escalation. The two worlds were now separated by mere inches of wood and concrete, hanging at the very edge of discovery.