The Yakuza's flower

You still care ?

Kizaki pov

I've known Hanayama long enough to know when something's wrong.

Not just yakuza-wrong—something deeper. Personal.

He's been off ever since Ume left....

Everyone sees it, but no one's brave—or stupid—enough to say it out loud. Not with the way he walks into a room now, colder than winter, more dangerous than ever. The kind of quiet that makes men look down and swallow their questions.

He's been fighting more than usual. Picking the kinds of fights that don't make sense. The kind you look for when you're trying to feel something. Anything.

And the women?

They come and go. All of them different. All of them wrong.

I've seen a few of their faces—some even look like her. Dark hair, soft eyes. He doesn't keep them around long enough to learn their names. And they don't ask for his.

Just shadows trying to fill a space that won't be filled.

He hasn't said her name once. But he doesn't have to.

She's in every silence. Every drink. Every bruise.

So when I get the message that he wants to see me in his office, I go. No questions.

When I walk in, he's already seated. Leaning back in his chair, jaw tight, a half-finished cigar burning slowly in the ashtray. The room's dim, smells like tobacco and stress.

He doesn't look up. Just says, "Close the door."

I do.

Silence stretches out. He's not one to waste words, but this time it feels heavier than usual—like he's chewing on something before letting it out.

Finally, he speaks.

"I need you to handle something."

"Anything," I say.

"The cafe" he says as He pauses, then glances up at me.

"It belongs to Ume's grandmother. I want you to invest in it. Quietly. No paper trail. No names."

I blink then I nod.

"Got it. You want it protected?"

"More than that. I want it to thrive. Make sure it stays open. Comfortable."

I nod again, but he's not done.

"Her grandmother. She's got hospital bills. Ongoing care. I want it all taken care of."

I swallow hard. My throat's suddenly dry. "Understood."

He sits back, arms crossed. Eyes on the wall now, like he can't look at me. Or maybe he's seeing something else. Someone else.

"Do it quietly." he adds. "No connection to me. Not a whisper."

I hesitate. "She'll know eventually...."

"I don't want her to," he says, voice low. "If she finds out, she'll try to give it back."

That hits me harder than I expect.

Because he's right.

She would.

And he knows it.

I stand there a second longer, just watching him. This man who doesn't flinch in the face of bullets or blood... now sitting there like he's carrying something heavier than anything I've seen on the streets.

I almost leave without saying it.

But I don't.

"You still care," I say quietly.

He doesn't answer. Doesn't move.

I left his office without a word.

Orders were clear: invest quietly. Pay off the café's debts. Cover the grandmother's medical bills. Make sure no one ever traces it back to him.

That was the thing about Hanayama. He loved in silence, in action. Never in words.

And he hated himself for it.

I moved through Tokyo like a shadow, one of a thousand suits on the street. By the time I reached the bank, I already had the account numbers memorized. The shell company paperwork was processed, the transfer clean. No flags. No trails.

But even as I handled the logistics like I'd done a thousand times before, I couldn't shake the memory that hit me halfway through the process.

Flashback - [ It was an early morning—back when she still lived in his house. I'd arrived at the estate with documents in hand, only to be told he was out back.

I found him there.

Not training. Not smoking. Not handling business.

Just... sitting on the engawa steps with Ume asleep beside him, her head leaning against his shoulder, a blanket draped around them both.

The sun was just rising. Pale orange light stretched across the yard.

Hanayama was still. Not stiff, not brooding—just... present. Like the world outside didn't matter.

I stood there longer than I should have. He didn't notice me, or maybe he did and chose not to care.

But I remember thinking—this man, this giant who's broken people's bones without flinching, looks like he finally found something worth staying still for. ] (end of flashback)

And now it was gone.

She was gone.

And he was pulling himself back into that shell, colder and harder than ever.

The next day, I visited the café.

Small place. Old wood, faded paint. It looked like it had seen better years, but it had a kind of warmth to it—like the kind of spot you'd go when you were homesick, even if it wasn't your home.

Her grandmother was behind the counter. Tiny thing, wiry, with sharp eyes. She didn't recognize me, and I didn't expect her to. I ordered coffee and sat by the window while a fake buyer "expressed interest" in investing in the place.

The deal was accepted within two days.

After that, I handled the hospital bills. Quiet transfers. No receipts with names. Just... erasure of burdens.

That night, I found myself standing on a rooftop near Hanayama's estate, watching the lights flicker on one by one across the city.

And I knew—he wouldn't say it.

Not to me. Not to her.

But he wasn't doing this to ease his guilt.

He was doing it because he still gave a damn.
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