C4 The First Drink

The bar was dim, lit only by the dull glow of neon signs and the golden haze of cheap whisky bottles stacked along the shelves. Smoke curled lazily through the air, the low hum of jazz from an old speaker doing little to drown out the chatter of late-night customers.

Arun moved quickly between tables, tray balanced on one hand, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The bar job wasn’t glamorous, but it paid just enough to keep him afloat between fights. Besides, it was quieter than the underground rings. Less blood, more silence.

At least, usually.

Tonight, silence broke the moment he walked in.

Riku Sakamoto.

Dressed in a black suit, his dragon tattoo teasing from beneath an open collar, he drew every gaze without trying. The kind of man who made space for himself simply by existing. Conversations dipped as he entered, only to resume once he claimed a seat near the corner, his presence impossible to ignore.

Arun stiffened when his eyes found him.

Not here. Not at work.

He forced himself to keep moving, setting down drinks, clearing tables, pretending not to notice the weight of that stare tracking his every step. But when the bartender nudged him toward Riku’s table with a nod, Arun’s gut twisted.

“Customer’s request,” the bartender muttered.

Of course it was.

Arun walked over, tray at his side, expression carefully blank. “What do you want?” he asked, sharper than he meant to.

Riku’s lips curved. “You.”

Arun froze, then scoffed harshly. “Don’t joke like that. I don’t swing that way—and even if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be with some yakuza freak who thinks he can buy people.”

“Menu’s on the table. Pick a drink.”

Riku leaned back in his seat, eyes never leaving Arun. “Whisky. Neat. Strong, like you.”

Arun exhaled sharply through his nose, snatching the glass and filling it behind the counter before slamming it down in front of him. “One whisky. Don’t ask for me again.”

Riku chuckled softly, lifting the glass but not drinking. “You fight me harder with words than with fists. I like that.”

Before Arun could snap back, the door to the bar creaked open again. Another man entered—tall, broad-shouldered, with a smirk that cut like a blade. He wore a dark coat, and his eyes glimmered with something dangerous as they swept the room.

They landed on Riku. Then, on Arun.

“Well, well,” the newcomer drawled. “The Black Dragon himself, sitting alone in a corner. And here I thought you’d retired from chasing shiny things.”

Riku’s posture didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “Daisuke.”

The man’s smirk widened as he slid into the booth across from Riku without asking. He nodded toward Arun, his gaze openly appreciative. “Pretty little thing, isn’t he? Not your usual type.”

Arun froze, blood running cold. The two men—powerful, dangerous—looked at him not like a waiter, not like a fighter, but like a prize in a game he didn’t understand.

Riku’s voice was smooth, but steel edged every word.

“Stay away, Daisuke. This one’s mine.”

Arun’s heart hammered. He wasn’t anyone’s. But staring at the two men across the table, he couldn’t shake the feeling that whether he wanted it or not, he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t escape.