"Oyabun—we cannot do this," he pleaded.

  "Fuck off."

  A hard shove sent him stumbling, and then—a gunshot. The sharp crack silenced the lingering screams of torture.

  "Finally, the bitch is dead. Take care of the corpse. Let’s go."

  Footsteps receded into the distance, swallowed by the final, echoing bang of the warehouse’s rusty door.

  He stood frozen, struggling to make sense of the reality before him. His gaze remained locked on lifeless eyes—staring, unblinking, into eternity.

  His ears strained, desperate for any sign of life. But there was nothing—only silence.

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  The adrenaline that had sent his heart racing at breakneck speed now slowed to a torturous crawl.

  He hesitated, then carefully cracked the door open to ensure his boss and the kobuns were gone. Satisfied, he stepped back inside and knelt beside the body, gently straightening it in the wheelchair.

  Tears came unbidden, mingling with the snot he wiped away with his sleeve. Sniffling, he pushed the body out of the warehouse, guiding it toward his car.

  The trunk creaked open. With effort, he lifted the lifeless form inside, folding the wheelchair neatly beside it.

  Returning to the warehouse, he searched for a sack, gathered the remaining mess, and hosed down every trace of the crime. When he was done, he tossed the sack into a fire bin, watching the flames consume it.

  From the same fire, he lit a cigarette.

  He took a deep drag, exhaling slowly, the tension finally unwinding from his shoulders. Alone in the night, he stared into the void, lost in thought, contemplating how to survive another day—unbothered by the dead body in his trunk, the blood staining his clothes, the acrid scent of burning fabric, or the biting cold.