I blinked.
The logic was cold.
Brutal.
And horrifyingly coherent.
I hated that I understood it.
"That's not justice," I whispered. "That's terrorism."
"It's order." He didn’t flinch. "You think the yakuza survives on kindness? On mercy? We survive because our enemies know that crossing us means extinction. Not just for them—for everyone they love. That knowledge keeps more people alive than any mercy ever could."
"And what about the people on that pyre who did nothing wrong? The wife who didn't know her husband was a traitor? The mother who—"
"They might have known. Maybe not the exact details. But they knew something was up. They saw the additional money that didn’t match the job. They heard the whispered phone calls. They chose not to ask questions because the answers would make them complicit."
"That's not the same as—"
"Isn't it?" He tilted his head. "Ignorance is a choice, Tora. A comfortable one. These families chose comfort over truth, and that choice has a price."
“Or is that what you’re telling yourself, so you don’t feel guilty for killing them?”
He went still.
I frowned. “You’re the Dragon. You're not some middle manager following orders. You're not bound by what your fatherdid or his father did. You are the tradition now. You decide what it means."
"Tora—"
"No. You don't get to hide behind 'this is our way' like you're powerless." My voice grew stronger, fueled by something I couldn't name. "You have more power than anyone in this world. You could burn every tradition to the ground and rebuild them however you want, and no one could stop you."
The dragon-shadow surged behind him and its jaws parted in what looked like a silent snarl.
But I didn't stop. "You chose to burn those families and it had nothing to do with tradition."
I was close enough to see the vein in his temple pulse. Close enough to watch his pupils dilate. Close enough to know I'd drawn blood with words alone.
“Tora.” He sneered. “It had everything to do with tradition—”
“Liar.”
Silence.
Kenji stared at me with an expression I couldn't read. The dragon-shadow coiled behind him, dense and dark, its form rippling like smoke in a wind I couldn't feel.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "No one has ever spoken to me like this."
"Maybe someone should have."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Then, slowly, something shifted in his face. The stone mask cracked—not much, just a fracture—and beneath it I saw something that looked almost like wonder.
"You're asking me to be weaker."
"No." I shook my head. "I'm asking you to be stronger than your fear.'"
