FIRST KNOT
People think the worst part of killing is the blood. Fucking amateurs.
Blood is easy. Blood cleans off with hot water and citrus soap. Blood smells like metal and it’s annoying after a while, sure, but it doesn’t cling if you know how to scrub. You get used to it. You even start to crave the sting in your nose when it’s fresh, like the moment before a lightning strike.
No. Anyone who killed before will say the worst part is the sound.
That tiny little gasp when someone realizes they will really die. That soft flutter in the throat, when the knife sinks too deep or the bullet rips through something vital. That fucking sound lives in your bones if you’re not careful. It sets up shop somewhere between your molars and your spine and it waits. Justfucking waitsfor the right moment to torment you.
But for me, that’s the best part.
Tonight, I add another gasp to the collection.
He’s barely twenty, and fucking stupid, wearing fake leather and gold like he’s top of the food chain.Tch.My boot hits hisstomach with a wet thud and he folds like a lawn chair. I don’t even break a sweat.
“Please. I didn’t mean to—”
I twist his wrist until I hear the pop. That’s another sound I like, the popping. It’s honest.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I say, pressing my knee into his ribs. “You sold crank two blocks from the Xpider pachinko. You thought I wouldn’t find out?”
He’s crying now.
They always do.
People always cry when I use thecalm voice.
I could stab him and save the trouble. But the Boss said,“make it a message”,so I don’t rush. Fuck rushing. This isn’t some back-alley mugging, anyway. This is the long, drawn-out kind of punishment that teaches you how deep fear can settle in the gut. I want him gagging on his own tears before the first real cut. I want him to remember my face every time he closes his eyes.
I pull out my tanto—sleek little bitch of a blade. It glints under the alley light grinning at me. It’s an old blade that I use when I want to feel something. She loves me and I love her.
The guy’s eyes go wide when he sees her. Cries harder.
I push the tip into the soft meat of his cheek.
He screams for me loud and beautifully.
I make him sing like this for a few more minutes, because I can’t silence him like I wish I could. But the singing is good too. Second best thing.
When I’m done, I leave him breathing in a mess of blood pooling on the floor. His breath comes out wet. His fingerstwitch. He won’t talk again. Won’t eat right. Won’t even fuck without hearing my laugh echoing in his head.
My blade’s clean after I use his shirt as a rag. My boots too, after wiping them on his crotch. Message delivered.
Tokyo’s air tastes different after a job. It feels alive under my skin, crawling with heat and rot, making my chest buzz in a way I wish I could carve it open and rip the frenzy out of it myself.
I light a cigarette and walk down the alley, stopping to pet a stray cat that’s over a dumpster. His fur is black and his eyes glow yellow. I decide to name him Kai—after me, of course.
My name’s Kaito Arakawa. I’m twenty-three and I’ve slit more throats than I’ve shaken hands. I’m part of the Dokugumo-kai, the biggest gang in Tokyo, and actually the right hand of the boss, Kobayashi-sama.
People say I’m a monster, call me an “Oni”, and I like it. Monsters sleep easier than men.
Or they used to.
Lately… it’s getting harder.
Sleep is a fucking myth for me. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the popping of joints, the soft choking of people dying, that fucking dove-flutter-gasp. My brain plays it on repeat, making me want more of it. Every time I lie down, I want to get up and find someone to play with. Beat up. Cut up. Kill.
And so, I keep killing. Keep drinking, too. Keep fucking. It doesn’t help.
