Wednesday, 3 April 1985

The stench of days-old rubbish and cigarette smoke pulled Ichiro out of oblivion, and he clawed at the rough ground with a grunt. Prickles of pain shot through his fingertips, prompting him to relax his hands and roll over with some difficulty.

Blurred lights and shadows danced all around as he tried to flex his idle tongue but produced only a guttural rasp. The crunch of shoes against debris caught Ichiro's attention. He let his eyes roll back before he noticed the silhouette of a person leaning against a wall and bringing a flickering flame up to their lips.

They blew out a trail of smoke, and Ichiro extended his jaw to call for help. His voice came out hoarse and garbled, though he hoped their hearing would be sharp enough that they'd understand him anyway.

Sure enough, they lowered their cigarette and turned their head slowly towards where he lay. Their breaths grew heavy, and they dropped the smoking object from their fingertips, then let out a piercing, terror-stricken scream.

Ichiro struggled to comprehend such a reaction as they fled from the alleyway, crying unintelligibly for anyone to hear. He contorted his arm with a crack so he could feel his own face, and a squelch filled his ears, followed by a throbbing warmth emanating through his bones.

An unpleasant thought reared in his scattered mind. He had a vague memory of falling out of a high-rise building, so perhaps this was why his face had become a visceral mess. It was no wonder then that people were terrified of him, and he supposed it would be awfully rude to subject another soul to his grotesque new appearance.

With his legs yet to regain any sensation, Ichiro flopped himself facedown, then dragged his body forward with only his hands. He felt like a worm as he inched along towards the end of the alleyway, his abdomen scraping against the uneven pavement and his brains shaking inside his head with each jerk.

He couldn't recall what he was trying to escape from, but he would get to safety even if it killed him. So, he persevered despite the discomfort, and the shadows of the alleyway eventually faded. Bright streetlights shone down, filling him with relief until he heard hurried whispers nearby.

"What's up with that guy? Why's he moving around like that?"

"I don't know, but it's giving me the creeps. We should really get out of here."

The two women raced off, causing a breeze to blow through Ichiro's hair. He stopped and raised his head in confusion. He'd assumed it discourteous to show his face, but it was evident the same was true about his general appearance. He groaned, finding it irritating that he couldn't win in this situation.

Either he retreated into the alleyway and risked being discovered by an unknown threat, or he continued his journey into the light and suffered under the scrutiny of those more able-bodied than him.

He mulled over his options, and in that time, noticed a tingling had begun in his lower legs. He looked over his shoulder and saw the fabric of his pants shift before they emitted a familiar steam.

It was then that he remembered his body's ability to regenerate, so he decided to stay put and let the supernatural take its course. He felt his own bones creak and lock back into place, followed by muscles and skin stretching as they repaired themselves.

Ichiro tried moving his feet and exhaled in relief when they seemed to work just fine. He got up while pressing his palm against the nearby wall for support, then tiptoed forward, taking care to avoid tripping over the odd scrap of rubbish or uneven paving.

A trio of inebriated salarymen stumbled down the street with their arms over each other's shoulders. The man on the left slammed into Ichiro, knocking him aside and yelling to his friends far louder than was necessary.

"Goddamn! I really gotta piss!"

Ichiro rubbed at his cheek and froze upon withdrawing his bloodied hand. He hadn't been bumped hard enough to sustain such an injury, which meant his face had not yet healed properly from the fall.

He stared at the backs of the three salarymen as they waddled away. It was somewhat of a consolation that they'd been too drunk and self-absorbed to notice anything unusual, so Ichiro chose to take his chances and return to the host club as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened.

With his newly functional legs, he flew past blurred figures and neon signs, then bolted through the doors of his workplace like they were the gateway to heaven itself, only to be brought down to earth again when he ran straight into his boss Atsushi and was sent hurtling backwards.

"Son of a bitch!" Atsushi bellowed, shaking his wrinkled fist as Ichiro landed on the floor. "Where have you been the past two hours?"

Ichiro could not settle on a suitable answer after all that had happened, so he stared dumbly up at the old man's enraged face. To his relief, Atsushi returned his gaze and noticed the rough state he was in.

"Good heavens." Atsushi lowered his fist and relaxed his face. "What on earth happened to you? Did you get into a fight?"

Ichiro shook his head.

"Did you piss someone off again?"

"No," Ichiro managed to rasp. His tongue brushed against the roof of his mouth and a row of intact teeth. "Can't remember."

Atsushi ground his discolored teeth together, then beckoned to the burly man in a white suit standing in the corner of the reception area. "You! Maeda!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Take this boy to the breakroom and get to the bottom of this matter. If I find out another clan tried to ruin my merchandise, I swear I'll be raising hell with the higher-ups! They'd be nothing without guys like me!"

Maeda trod over and grabbed Ichiro before he could even try to protest. He was dragged past the reception desk, then into the room that had become a second refuge for him over the weeks. He had no choice but to plop himself into a chair while Maeda struggled to sit down opposite him.

"Let's make this as brief as we can," Maeda grumbled after squeezing his large legs beneath the table. "I'm sure you want to go home just like I do."

"Yes," Ichiro said with a reluctant nod.

Maeda clasped his bulky hands together. "So, who did this to you? Was it a man or a woman?"

"Man," Ichiro replied, figuring it was the more probable answer.

"What did they look like?"

Ichiro trawled his anxious mind for an inkling of what had caused him to fall out of a building in the first place. He couldn't imagine himself doing such a thing voluntarily, so he wondered if someone had pushed him.

"Well?" Maeda scowled, signaling to Ichiro that it was dangerous to stall any longer.

"Don't know. Happened so fast."

"You didn't see them even once?"

"No."

Maeda leaned forward so that his hefty stomach enveloped the edge of the table. "But I'm sure you remember that foreign woman you left with. What did you do with her?"

Ichiro experienced a brief recollection of a ruffled black dress, but nothing else. "What foreigner?"

"Are you stupid?" Maeda extended his index and middle fingers towards Ichiro's face, only to hesitate and pull his hand back. "You can't overlook something like that."

"Head hurts." Ichiro gestured towards his damp forehead and hoped it would convince Maeda that further interrogation was pointless. "Need rest."

Maeda rose from his chair with a grunt. "Absolutely not. It's a pain having to scrub bloodstains off a couch."

Ichiro lolled his head as part of the pretense. "Huh?"

"I'll get you a towel instead. If you think you need an ambulance, just call out."

Maeda turned his back and went to one of the lockers to fetch the promised item. Ichiro eyed the door and contemplated making another escape before a white towel landed in a heap in front of him.

"Thanks," he said half-heartedly, picking it up and using it to wipe his face, leaving crimson streaks behind. He placed the towel down on the table, bloody side up. "Can I go home now?"

"No." Maeda approached Ichiro's side of the table and towered over his seated form. "Open your mouth."

"What?"

Maeda yanked him up by the collar. "I said, open!"

Ichiro's heart gave a jolt, and he did as ordered. Maeda's beady black eyes became focused as he scanned the inside of his mouth.

"Nothing wrong with your teeth as far as I can tell. Did this person really beat you up at all?" Maeda let go of Ichiro's collar, and he landed back in his chair.

"I think they pushed me."

"Hm. That so?"

"Yes."

Maeda cocked his head to one side, a gesture that looked comical for a man as rugged and burly as him. "Why don't you wait here, then? I've got to talk with Atsushi for a minute." He took his leave, and Ichiro sat in silence while the bloodstains on the towel dried and turned a maroon color.

The ticking of the clock kept Ichiro's mind anchored in the present as he realized that none of the other hosts had shown themselves since his return. It was a strange thing indeed, and he considered getting up to investigate, but Maeda ambled into the breakroom with Atsushi and another man in tow.

"There he is, boss." Maeda pointed.

"I can see that." Atsushi made his way over, causing Ichiro to freeze before he lifted up the towel and gave it a cautious sniff. "It sure smells like blood to me."

He turned to his subordinates. "I'll hold this boy down. Sato, I want you to test out my theory."

The lean man behind Maeda nodded and strode towards Ichiro while flicking out a blade. Ichiro squirmed in a panic, but Atsushi's hands came down to pin his shoulders in place. He began to kick his legs instead, hoping it would generate enough force to throw the old man off.

The tip of Sato's blade approached his cheek. Ichiro shut his eyes instinctively, only to open them again when Atsushi scolded his subordinate.

"Not the face, you idiot! Try his hand!"

"Right. Of course, boss."

Sato leaned forward and grabbed Ichiro's shifting wrist, forcing it to remain steady. Then, the blade came down, piercing through delicate skin and bringing forth a trickle of warm blood. Ichiro gasped and finally kicked hard enough to send Atsushi backwards. However, his chair also toppled over and took him down with it.

His head slammed against the floor, throwing him into a temporary daze that allowed Atsushi to scurry back and subdue him with a knee to the stomach.

"Don't try to escape again! Let me see that hand!"

Ichiro let out shallow breaths and glanced to the side as the cut on his hand emitted steam, then started to seal itself shut. Atsushi's breath tickled his cheek, and in an act of desperation, he clawed at the old man's eyes.

Atsushi yelped and fell back. Ichiro clambered his way out of the fallen chair and came face to face with Maeda and Sato, both of whom were fuming at seeing their boss go down in such a manner.

He spied the narrow gap between them and charged forward, hoping it would shock them into moving aside. But the two of them remained rooted in place, and Ichiro wound up sprawled on the floor like a complete fool.

Behind him, Atsushi regained his bearings and ensnared him with a headlock while Maeda and Sato closed in to trap him for good.

Their menacing shadows passed over him, and Ichiro allowed himself one last gasp for air before a beefy fist collided with his face, and his vision flashed red. 

******

Author's Note: I was tempted to stretch the fight out for longer, but realistically, it made sense for the gangsters to quickly overwhelm Ichiro instead of attacking one at a time like they do in some movies.