[ The evening continues much in the same way, except Sukuna touches a hand to Megumi's waist and murmurs against his ear in a voice that promises all too much: ] Wait for me.
[ And then, he is gone like a strange figure from a fox's wedding party, into the bar with Gojo; they're off to the main area of the club to talk business at the bar, and Sukuna's men close in on the table, their heads shaved in the way of a yakuza's henchmen; respectful and with eyes cast down.
Sukuna doesn't return to the table again, and neither does Gojo. Instead, Megumi is escorted outside to the bright, late night of the Ginza street. Geisha and hostesses alike pass by on their various ways to and from work; kimonos worn at night are far more jewel-toned and as multiform as the wings of butterfliesโ only ever at night, of course, which unlike butterflies, is when the floating world wakes. There are no day-lit hours here, it's the night's creatures and strange characters who populate the streets; and then of course, there is Ryomen Sukuna.
He pushes the car door open from the inside with a foot as it pulls up beside Megumi.
Something about him, despite the kimono that he wears (the neck of it gaping so much that his entire chest with all of its intricate tattoos is visible; strong muscles and the fine knit of ribs all on display like he cares next to nothing for any kind of propriety; like he disregards it on purpose, deliberately wanting to be contrary and cause people to turn and stare at himโ first in surprise, and then in fear), seems so immediate and modern, as if the century had been born in anticipation of and for him, instead of the reverse. ]
Did you think I'd forget you? [ He asks, on a throaty burr, his tone low but it carries anyway; this is the way of men who are used to giving ordersโ he expects people to lean in to listen, instead of raising his voice to accommodate. ] I didn't.
[ Everyone knows that Sukuna lives in Kabukicho. It's well known that he has the best house in the worst, tackiest neighbourhood. It's a short taxi ride from Ginza over that wayโ but naturally there are no taxis for the yakuza kingpin. The black car is private, with a driver in the front.
The rumours of Sukuna are this: he stands at his vast window in his vast penthouse, right at the top of the tallest residential tower in Shinjuku, and he watches the bloodied lights of the town's nightlife that he owns, watches the figures of that world walking far beneath him like a feudal overlord from a thousand years ago.
This is also well known: people have entered his house and have not left.
This is rumoured, but not confirmed: he eats human flesh.
This is certain: he pays off the police, and would never be caught if he did.
He reaches out of the car now, and offers Megumi his hand.
He's missing neither of his pinky fingers; a yakuza in the prime of his career who has never knelt before another yakuza. He had lobbed off the left hand of his boss himself when told to kneel (this is common knowledge too). Kneeling before emperors, whatever form they take, regardless of the century, sets Sukuna's teeth on edge.
His hand is warm and gentle, thoughโ like a silken pelt that hides venomous claws. ]
How lucky, I have you alone at last, Megumi-chan. [ The nickname said in an imitation of Gojo's voice. ]
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[ And then, he is gone like a strange figure from a fox's wedding party, into the bar with Gojo; they're off to the main area of the club to talk business at the bar, and Sukuna's men close in on the table, their heads shaved in the way of a yakuza's henchmen; respectful and with eyes cast down.
Sukuna doesn't return to the table again, and neither does Gojo. Instead, Megumi is escorted outside to the bright, late night of the Ginza street. Geisha and hostesses alike pass by on their various ways to and from work; kimonos worn at night are far more jewel-toned and as multiform as the wings of butterfliesโ only ever at night, of course, which unlike butterflies, is when the floating world wakes. There are no day-lit hours here, it's the night's creatures and strange characters who populate the streets; and then of course, there is Ryomen Sukuna.
He pushes the car door open from the inside with a foot as it pulls up beside Megumi.
Something about him, despite the kimono that he wears (the neck of it gaping so much that his entire chest with all of its intricate tattoos is visible; strong muscles and the fine knit of ribs all on display like he cares next to nothing for any kind of propriety; like he disregards it on purpose, deliberately wanting to be contrary and cause people to turn and stare at himโ first in surprise, and then in fear), seems so immediate and modern, as if the century had been born in anticipation of and for him, instead of the reverse. ]
Did you think I'd forget you? [ He asks, on a throaty burr, his tone low but it carries anyway; this is the way of men who are used to giving ordersโ he expects people to lean in to listen, instead of raising his voice to accommodate. ] I didn't.
[ Everyone knows that Sukuna lives in Kabukicho. It's well known that he has the best house in the worst, tackiest neighbourhood. It's a short taxi ride from Ginza over that wayโ but naturally there are no taxis for the yakuza kingpin. The black car is private, with a driver in the front.
The rumours of Sukuna are this: he stands at his vast window in his vast penthouse, right at the top of the tallest residential tower in Shinjuku, and he watches the bloodied lights of the town's nightlife that he owns, watches the figures of that world walking far beneath him like a feudal overlord from a thousand years ago.
This is also well known: people have entered his house and have not left.
This is rumoured, but not confirmed: he eats human flesh.
This is certain: he pays off the police, and would never be caught if he did.
He reaches out of the car now, and offers Megumi his hand.
He's missing neither of his pinky fingers; a yakuza in the prime of his career who has never knelt before another yakuza. He had lobbed off the left hand of his boss himself when told to kneel (this is common knowledge too). Kneeling before emperors, whatever form they take, regardless of the century, sets Sukuna's teeth on edge.
His hand is warm and gentle, thoughโ like a silken pelt that hides venomous claws. ]
How lucky, I have you alone at last, Megumi-chan. [ The nickname said in an imitation of Gojo's voice. ]