The Yakuza's flower

The Fall

Ume's POV

Mateo barely had time to breathe before the door exploded inward.

Hanayama stepped through the wreckage like a nightmare—slow, heavy, silent.

His gaze found Mateo with a stillness that was worse than rage.

He wasn't angry.

He was calculating.

Figuring out the most efficient way to kill him.

His fists hung at his sides, huge and pale from how tightly they were clenched. His jaw was locked. Shoulders squared. His whole body wound tight—like a fuse seconds from going off.

Mateo exhaled slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. "Well... that's quite an entrance," he muttered in English. He glanced down at me with a smirk. "You got yourself a bodyguard, baby?"

Hanayama didn't answer.

Didn't blink.

Didn't even breathe loud.

Mateo clicked his tongue. "Shame. We were just getting reacquainted," he said as he pushed to his feet.

Wrong thing to say.

Hanayama took a single step forward.

The air cracked.

Mateo flinched, his smirk faltering. He squared his stance, trying to hold onto that arrogance like a shield. "Easy, big guy," he said, voice thinner now. "This is between me and her."

Hanayama didn't blink.

Didn't speak.

But when he moved—he moved like a weapon fired.

The chaos began instantly.

Mateo turned—too slow. Hanayama's fist crashed into the side of his face, whipping his head to the side with a sickening crack. He flew sideways into the dresser beside us, the wood shattering on impact. Drawers burst open. Debris spilled everywhere.

I screamed

scrambling across the floor. Trying not to get in the middle.

Mateo groaned and tried to stand—but Hanayama was already on him.

Another blow—this time low, into his ribs.

Thud.

Mateo folded in half, choking on blood.

Hanayama grabbed his shirt, lifted him off the floor like he weighed nothing, and slammed him against the wall. Plaster split open, a cloud of dust raining down.

Mateo writhed, fists pounding against Hanayama's arm. But it was Pointless.

He might as well have been punching a rock.

"You touched her," Hanayama growled in Japanese—low, cold, and final.

Mateo spat blood, grinning through split lips. "Mi amigo (my friend), I have no idea what you're saying," he rasped in Spanish.

Hanayama didn't care.

He hurled him across the room.

Mateo's body crashed through the coffee table. Glass exploded underneath him. He hit the floor hard, coughing, wheezing.

Hanayama walked through the wreckage like it was nothing—shards crunching under his shoes, breath steady.

But Mateo still wasn't done.

He spat again and forced himself up, wiping blood from his mouth. "Tsk," he muttered. "That's not how you introduce yourself." He shifted his weight, dropped into a loose fighter's stance. "Alright then..."