A/N: The following chapter contains mentions of blood. If you are squeamish, you may want to avoid the portion between the first and second page breaks. 

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Tokyo was growing on me. I felt less lost and less like a stranger every week, but that's because Ryuzo and I were together. All the time.

The more time that passed, the easier it got. We got on the same schedule, spending more time together, having sex almost every night.

I never asked about the Yakuza, or what they did, but it seeped so much into the rest of his life. The way he behaved around his brothers, the way he drew a hard line around anything related to business, that haunted gaze that only seemed to fade when he looked at me. 

We were so comfortable with each other, we made each other happy, and he made me feel safe. That was all that mattered. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

One day, we slept too late and he had to sneak out while the landlady was there. She caught me on my way to work later that day.

She was a small woman who had to be in her late sixties. The lovely grandmother type who would feed you three times over and still insist you should eat more. She talked to me as if I were her daughter, just like the other girls staying in the building. That day, I was in trouble.

She took me by the arm and pulled me close. "He is bad man," she scolded me in the best English she could muster. I knew she was talking about Ryuzo. "You are good girl. Good girls do not be with bad men."

I knew the walls were thin, and we were not quiet. I had already caught looks from the other tenants. The Slutty American Girl and the Gang Member was the new K-Drama living in their heads rent free. But I didn't mind. Nothing I did would make me fit in with the status quo here. I wanted to go to work, get paid, and get laid.

He wasn't a bad man — at least he wasn't to me. And I was most definitely not a good girl.

. . .

When I got to the hospital the next day, something unexpected happened.

I walked into a scene down the hall from the ER. Nurses from another team stood outside the room, looking frightened. I didn't know what was wrong until I looked inside. The patient was in a horrible state, every alarm going off from the massive injuries they suffered. Blood dripped from his tattooed arm onto the floor.

Ayumi stood there, so I went to her. "Why is no one helping?" I asked.

"The patient is Yakuza," Ayumi whispered. Her eyes darted behind me. I followed them, seeing the men in bloodied suits watching the crowd. "People are afraid that if they are there when he dies, they will come for their families."

That didn't scare me.

Without pause, I went into the room. The doctor and lead nurse looked surprised but thankful. "How can I help?" I asked. What were they going to do? Come after a virtually orphaned American working for an international company?

The doctor instructed the nurse to remove the compression. Blood flowed immediately.

It was a gunshot wound. I hadn't seen one since I had left the States. Back home, I hadn't worked in an emergency department long, but even in my short time, we saw them once a week, if not once a day. But it was different in Japan. There were strict regulations on both guns and ammunition that required both to be registered. The only ones who seemed to own them were the police and the Yakuza.

Tattoos covered the man's chest and arms, but the rest of him laid bare. He was young, and must have been a newer member — too early to be deep enough to get shot.

The patient tried to flatline twice while we worked on him, but when the blood came in, we got him together. The doctor handed me the forceps and followed my lead. "Cut here, this way," I showed him. He did it. With another tug, the bullet came free. It was whole. As he packed it, the other nurse helped me do a check for more.

He stabilized, and they took him to surgery. It was a rush and somehow gave me a sense of purpose. I felt like less of an outsider, and for all the wrong reasons.

Ayumi came to me with a stern look on her face. "You can't leave now," she said. "You and the bullet are friends today."

. . .

The police had come in later that day, and I had handed the bagged bullet to them. After that, I watched as they walked up the hall, talked with the men in expensive suits, and handed the bag to them.

I understood nothing. "We're close to Shinjuku. Are they Fujiwara-kai?" I had asked Ayumi. She didn't confirm, but she didn't deny either.

"It is not for us to know," is all she had told me. "It's best you pretend you saw nothing at all."

Sounded familiar.

They let me have a longer break as thanks for jumping in to save the patient. My stomach was growling, but I didn't want to be around anyone yet. I went to my locker and found my phone. A single notification waited on my screen.

I miss my sakura

Of course the only message was from him. And of course it was the exact message I wanted to see.

You miss me since this morning?

The typing indicator appeared right after I hit send.

Yes

Desperately

He could put a smile on my face so easily with so few words.

I miss you too. I'm having a bad day 😔

Where should we do the ancient ritual this time?

I sighed rather than laughing. It felt wrong after what just happened, but nothing in Japan felt right but him.

. . .

I met him at a restaurant a few blocks away from the train station. Far enough away from his job and the familiar faces that came with it.

He stood outside, looking at his phone while he smoked. The light of his screen traced the frustrated look on his face. But when he saw me, it melted away. That made me smile.

"Hello, my sakura," he greeted me. "You changed clothes."

I didn't want to spoil his mood over the talk of bloodied scrubs. "Just for you."

We sat at the end of the sushi bar, tucked around the corner. Beer and sushi were exactly what I needed after a long day.

I asked him to order for us. Getting the wrong thing because I mixed up my words again would not help my mood. He did so, getting my favorite sushi and Sapporo. He knew plenty of things about me, just not the parts that would make him run.

His phone pinged, and he picked it up with a sigh. I watched his demeanor change. Something was bothering him, but it didn't seem as serious as the mess I had to clean up earlier. He looked weighed down, bothered by whatever the message was about.

I rubbed his arm. He returned his attention to me and attempted a smile.

"Did you have a bad day, too?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could manage.

His shadow of a smile faded away. "No, it's just . . . Family."

"Family?" I asked with surprise. He had only mentioned his family once before that night.

He nodded, and we left it at that.

The chef passed us our plates. Delicious tuna and eel nigiri, all sorts of pickles, and steamed gyoza. All my favorites.

"You look upset," he gained my attention, meaning to tease. I didn't answer, but my face must have done it for me instead. His brow furrowed with worry. "Did I get you the wrong thing?"

"What? No, this is perfect! I'm just . . . I can't get out of my head about work. Sorry."

"Want to talk about it?"

Did I? Yes. Should I? That was a different question, and one I ignored. "A patient came in with a gunshot wound today."

Surprise tinted his expression while he set up my dipping sauces. "A gunshot?"

I nodded. "The doctor wasn't sure what to do and other nurses were afraid to work on him, so I helped. We got him to surgery and saved him."

A grin returned to his face. "Fearless. As always."

"I'm American. Guns are kind of our thing," I joked. Finally, I got a laugh from him. His handsome smile was full, and it was real. I wanted to keep it there.

He didn't know about it. If it had to do with his syndicate or not, he wouldn't be here with me. He'd be washing his hands of the mess with the others. I was just being paranoid.

We ate and sipped our sake. I felt warm and satisfied. In one way, at least. He seemed to read it on my face.

"Finish your drink," he said in a flirtatious voice. "Then let's go."

"Shit. I forgot to tell you. The landlady wants to kick me out."

"Why?"

"Because we're too loud when we have sex."

A brush of his hair failed to hide his proud smirk. "Sorry."

"You're not sorry at all."

"I'm not," he laughed. "But I don't want you to lose your room. Do you need me to find something new for you?"

"No, I'm fine. She can't really kick me out with my lease. But . . . she said you're not allowed back in."

He glared at his drink, the muscle in his jaw flexing. He looked irked, as if assuming I was turning him down for the second part of our ritual.

"We could go to your place instead," I suggested. He looked at me, and his silence was uncomfortably long. "Do you live close?"

He hid his hesitation behind a slow drink. "Yes."

"So . . . Do you want to go there or do you want to get me in trouble again? I'm okay either way."

His dark eyes stared into mine as if he were trying to catch me in a lie. I mimicked his head tilt to remind him to answer.

"We can do mine," he said finally.

I realized I had never seen him look scared before that. 

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A/N: What do you think Ryuzo is afraid of? Should Mina be worried?

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