Toji

The bustling port of Santos hummed with activity as cruise ships disgorged waves of tourists onto Brazilian soil. Amidst the throng of eager vacationers stood a man who couldn't have looked more out of place if he tried. Toji Fushiguro's towering frame and muscular build set him apart from the sunburned families and elderly couples tottering about with their luggage.

His emerald eyes scanned the crowd with predatory intensity, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth where a vertical scar marred his otherwise striking features. The salty sea breeze ruffled his mid-length black hair as he leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Toji's casual attire — a simple white t-shirt stretched taut across his torso and worn jeans hanging low on his hips — belied the dangerous aura that seemed to radiate from him. Tourists gave him a wide berth, instinctively sensing the threat he posed.

"Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath, checking his watch impatiently. "Where the fuck is this contact?"

As he waited, Toji's mind wandered to the real reason he was in São Paulo. Sure, he had a job to do, but he was always on the lookout for new talent. The rougher areas of the city, where cartel grunts prowled the streets, held promise. Fresh meat for his ever-expanding operation.

A group of giggling college girls passed by, their eyes lingering appreciatively on Toji's sculpted form. He shot them a cocky wink, chuckling as they blushed and hurried away. It was almost too easy sometimes.

The scent of fried food from nearby stalls mingled with the briny ocean air, making Toji's stomach growl. He hadn't eaten since landing, too focused on the job at hand. Maybe after this meeting, he'd grab a bite and a drink. Celebrate another successful negotiation.

As the minutes ticked by, Toji's restlessness grew. He hated waiting, hated not being able to take immediate action. His fingers twitched, itching for something to do — whether it was pulling a trigger or wrapping around a pool cue.

Just as he was about to say "fuck it" and leave, a nondescript man in a ill-fitting suit approached. Toji's posture shifted subtly, muscles coiling beneath his skin as he prepared for any potential threat.

"Você é Fushiguro?" the man asked nervously, eyes darting around as if expecting an ambush.

Toji's smirk widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "That's me, sunshine. You're late."

The contact visibly swallowed, intimidated by Toji's imposing presence. "Meu chefe—" he began, but Toji cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"English, dipshit. I don't have time for this language barrier bullshit."

The man nodded frantically. "My boss, he say to give you this." He thrust a small envelope into Toji's hands, then turned to flee.

Toji's arm shot out, grabbing the man's wrist in an iron grip. "Not so fast, buddy. You tell your boss that if he ever wastes my time like this again, I'll personally introduce his kneecaps to my sledgehammer. Got it?"

The contact whimpered and nodded, scurrying away the moment Toji released him. Chuckling to himself, Toji tore open the envelope and scanned its contents. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

"Well, well," he murmured, "looks like things are about to get interesting."

Pocketing the envelope, Toji pushed off from the pillar and strode purposefully towards the city proper. The tourists parted before him like the Red Sea, instinctively sensing the danger he exuded. As he walked, his mind raced with possibilities — new recruits to test, deals to broker, and maybe, if he was lucky, a warm body to keep his bed company tonight.

São Paulo spread out before him, a playground of opportunity and violence. And Toji Fushiguro was ready to play.

The restaurant doors swung wide with a lazy creak, and Toji Fushiguro strode in, boots smacking the hardwood like he was daring it to splinter. The air slammed him—garlic, wine, the smug hum of wealth oozing from every corner. Chandeliers glittered overhead, splashing light on crisp tablecloths and the kind of crowd who’d never scraped a plate. His lips curled, scar tugging tight on the right—a smug twitch he didn’t bother hiding. Too plush, too breakable, but a job was a job, and this one stank of cash. That’s what lit his fire. He stood tall, broad frame owning the doorway, black t-shirt stretched over muscle carved from blood and brawls. Jeans hung loose, scuffed at the knees, built for a man who didn’t sit still. His mid-length black hair shifted as he tilted his head, emerald eyes glinting sharp and restless, slicing through the room with a predator’s ease. Near the back, a blonde in a glittery dress yapped into her phone—Lila, the mark. She didn’t look up, didn’t feel the shift. Toji’s grin sharpened. Clueless little princess. He’d have her nabbed before she hit send. His crew spilled in behind, a quiet pack fanning out like shadows. He didn’t turn—didn’t need to. They knew the play. Nyx, tall and lanky with dark hair, slouched left, hands in his pockets, hazel eyes flickering with trouble. A leaner guy with curly hair peeled right, steps cocky, brown eyes darting like he was already plotting. A wiry older bastard with a grizzled beard hung back, scars catching the light, moving slow but sure. Rhea brought up the rear, muscular, blonde hair cropped short, tactical gear creaking faintly, a bag slung over her shoulder. Toji cracked his neck, the pop slicing through the chatter. His fingers brushed the gun tucked against his spine—cold steel on skin, a comfort he never shook. The plan was tight: grab the senator’s brat, dodge her babysitter, cash out. Lila sat twenty feet off, all blonde hair and attitude, some influencer with dirt worth more than her daddy’s campaign. Client didn’t say why, and Toji didn’t give a shit—money talked, the rest could burn. Nyx piped up, voice sliding in lazy: “Listen here, this joint’s begging for a smash-and-grab—too pretty to last.” Toji shot him a look—zip it—and Nyx grinned, all teeth, like he’d torch the place for kicks. Rhea swore low, dry as gravel: “Fuckin’ chandeliers—hope they’re insured.” Toji’s grin twitched wider—she always had a quip, gears already spinning for the exit. His crew, his chaos, but this was his game. He stepped deeper, boots scuffing, restless buzz humming under his skin. Waiters slid past with trays, some chick giggled too loud by the bar, a suit droned about stocks. Lila kept scrolling, oblivious. Toji’s blood thrummed—he lived for this, the quiet before the crash. Clan life had tried to choke that out, eighteen years of blood and chains, ‘til Saul cracked him open—showed him freedom had fangs. Now, at thirty-two, he ran the show, and this soft cage was his to shred. His hand grazed his hip, casual, feeling the pistol’s weight. The room didn’t flinch—not yet. That’s how he liked it: ripe, waiting. “Let’s play,” he muttered, voice rough and low, a growl laced with a smirk. He moved, all swagger and menace, steering his crew toward a table near the center—close enough to watch Lila, far enough to blend. A hostess approached, blonde, soft around the edges, her smile too bright. Toji’s eyes flicked over her—cute, scrappy, probably runs on tips—then slid back to Lila. No spark, no weight, just another face in the crowd. He jerked his chin at the table. “This’ll do,” he said, dropping into a chair, boots up, ready to own the night.

Game on.

Toji Fushiguro cut a powerful figure walking through the lobby of an upscale apartment complex in Manhattan. His presence was a shadow that made the clerks lingering at the edges of the room shift nervously in place, little lambs hoping not to catch the attention of an unexpected wolf in their midst. His gaze didn’t bother sweep over them, locked onto the gold trimmed elevator doors that would lead him to his new charge. Underneath his finger the cool metal of a button gave against the sharp jab of his finger. A soft, irritated huff left Toji. Everything here was too smooth, too polished, too accommodating.

All of this was a glorified shrine to ignorance against human nature, a bastion against the animal reality of survival that crept under his skin in a special sort of way. Where cologne expensive cologne hung in the air like incenses, tickling his nose. The surface mission itself was simple. Protection detail for a highborn heiress whose sense was likely tied to this year’s season of fashion. A soft, breezy chime announced the elevator a beat before the doors opened.

Toji stepped inside and leaned against the back wall, pinning a scurrying man in a business suit in place just outside the threshold. Blood rushed from the strangers face, stripping the ruddy exertion from hustling into a sheet of white. His own lips curled into a satisfied smirk. At 6’2” and lined with cords of muscle that defined his trade of violence well, marred by the frequent scar of a blade or bullet, he knew exactly how intimidating of a sight he made.

Only when the doors shut did he allow the careful tension to melt off of his face. Toji’s lips, punctuated by the vertical scar in the corner, twisted into a wicked smile. One week. One week of playing protection detail while he worked the real job. His target wasn’t a charge, they were an acquisition. Important people always took time to disappear. Paperwork, apparently, or something like that. So he’d play along, bide his time and steel his patience, and take comfort that his assigned prey was decent to look at.

The secondary chime, too cheerful against his thoughts, announced his arrival to the penthouse floor. Gilded doors split like the curtains in a theater, revealing a multi million dollar penthouse overlooking Central Park. Cream decorated the walls with tasteful, pale adornments. In the corners of the room stood tall, proud gray vases housing white Lillies. Their scent carried through the space, softer and more nuanced than the battle of wills downstairs.

His boot clad feet made no noise on the plush carpet, his dark jeans and shirt whispering against each other with each smooth stride. He was a specter in the home, observing every detail of their safe house with a professional’s keen eye. Against the seam of the wall a hidden compartment had been installed. Another emergency kit had been fixed to the bottom of the table, and security cameras peeked out as tiny dots against the electronics. Toji huffed again, quiet and amused. These clients had prepared for everything except the wolf they had let in. The irony was as thick and coppery on his tongue.

Turning the corner, Toji was met with a kitchen bathed in soft yellow light from the morning sun. Framed by it was his quarry, living and breathing. He broke the silence in a low rumble.

“For a team that is paying me so much to keep you safe, they sure are comfortable leaving you alone, and by a window no less. It’s a fine way to redecorate this place crimson, but you probably prefer your head attached to your shoulders.

He chuckled. A low, unabashed tone made to establish dominance from the start. Even if he had to play guard dog, he wouldn’t be letting some privileged brat tug him around by the collar. People always tried, especially those who had been raised to believe that money equated strength. As if they could be entitled to nature itself.

“Come on. We’re going to address the itinerary, and I need a drink.”