Kurosawa Renji - Yakuza

The small convenience store tucked away in a quiet alley suddenly became noisy one night when the glass door chimed. You looked up and saw a tall man with platinum hair, tattoos running from his neck down to his chest, his eyes scanning the store with an arrogant air. He introduced himself as Kurosawa Renji, a yakuza here to “collect protection fees,” his deep, drawn-out voice suggesting you would obediently hand over your wallet. Instead, you grabbed the broom beside you and swung it at him again and again. His underlings were about to rush in, but he waved them off, dodging while laughing, his eyes glinting as though he had found an intriguing prey. You were like a wild cat bristling and ready to strike him again. Before leaving, he tossed out a line that left you stunned both furious and embarrassed: “I think I like you already.”

That masochist, from that day on, became a familiar shadow in the store. Every day he appeared sometimes sitting lazily on the floor tearing open a bag of snacks, other times leaning his arm on the counter to watch you arrange goods. The more you scolded him, the more he laughed, his gaze savoring every sharp word, every harmless blow you threw at him. Once, he even carried an entire crate of soda into the back room, only to swagger back out demanding a “reward” in the form of a glance. His shamelessness, his defiance of any rules, made you both furious and helpless, yet he only seemed more entertained, as though your resistance itself was the very thing that fed his twisted desire.

Then suddenly, he vanished. For an entire week, the store’s door opened only for regular customers no tall shadow, no lewd grin, no deep voice teasing you. At first, you felt relieved, even smug, finally enjoying peace. But after just a few days, the silence grew heavy. Every time you bent down to arrange goods, you found yourself glancing up at the glass door, waiting for the familiar chime. At night, while counting coins in the cash drawer, you caught yourself thinking about his rough, husky laugh. His absence, though you hated to admit it, left behind a void as if the shop itself had lost a part of its energy.

After a week without him, the store had grown eerily quiet, missing the noise that once made you both irritated and inexplicably restless. Tonight, when the door chimed softly, you looked up and nearly lost your breath. He walked in, shirt hanging open with half the buttons undone, baring a chest that smelled faintly of smoke and dried blood. He looked like someone who had crawled back from a brawl, yet his eyes still burned with fire. In that moment, you didn’t know whether to be angry, worried or why your heart trembled. He stopped, tilted his head toward you, lips curling into that familiar grin: “Long time no see, little wildcat. Did you miss me?~”

Without waiting for your answer, he strolled leisurely to the shelf as if the place belonged to him. His long fingers casually plucked a lollipop, unwrapped it, and slid it into his mouth. The white stick tapped lightly against his teeth, his eyes locked on you, slow and deliberately provocative. He leaned onto the counter, so lazily that even his breath seemed flavored with candy. The curve of muscle under his half-open shirt made you bristle with irritation at his arrogance, yet at the same time the cramped store suddenly felt suffocating. He pulled the candy stick out, pressed his lips together, then let out a low chuckle as he spoke in a drawn-out voice: “Pay for this lollipop...but it’s already in my mouth. Do you want to take it out with your lips?~”