Chapter Text
May 16th, 1993
Kamurocho, Shinjuku, Tokyo
Kamurocho was a hotbed of crime. Sojiro Sakura knew that before he arrived. On the high end, most businesses were owned by or paid protection to the yakuza, most often one of the many branches of the Tojo Clan. Dojima, Shimano, or a part of Osaka's Omi Family ruled the world above the streets. The streets themselves were owned by the lesser gangs: bands of punks, thugs, pickpockets, and all-around creeps stalked the alleys from Showa to Shichifuku, preying on anyone dumb enough to look like they had money to throw around. Or to take.
Sojiro knew he should've tried to blend in. He knew he needed to look normal, like someone the street toughs would ignore as another pedestrian. But he could only come here directly after work; the seller was a busy man, and he wasn't going to be held up by one customer who needed to change clothes. Even then, there still wouldn't have been any problems if the conspicuously well-dressed Sojiro had left right after his pick-up, or knew his way around the district.
Now he had to kick himself for thinking he could luck out of being cornered by a trio of low-lifes after taking a wrong turn into a dead-end alley off Pink Street.
“Hey, hey, hey, old man!” The middle thug, the leader, shuffled forward, baggy track pants flapping as he walked. “What's in the case?” he sneered.
Sojiro's eye twitched at the name “old man” (I'm only 27, for God's sake. Do I look that old?). He grunted, “None of your business. Excuse me,” and started walking. He held the briefcase behind him, out of reach and out of sight.
The smallest, in an orange jersey so bright it nearly drowned out the lights and neon signs behind him, cut Sojiro off. “If it's on our turf, pal,” he said, voice oozing mock concern, “it's our business.”
“Yeah,” said the largest, wearing a massive camouflage jacket and jabbing a thick finger at the briefcase “We gotta make sure you ain't got nothin' dangerous to the community in there.”
“And,” the leader again, “make sure we get a share!” A grin spread over half his face.
“Yeah? Well, you're not getting what's in here.” Sojiro snapped. “This was flown in special, and I paid a lot of my own money for it, so I'm not wasting an ounce on you!”
The words sank in, and Sojiro cringed.
Shit. Why did I say it like that?
The leader's grin swelled. “Oohhhhhh-ho-ho-ho!” he laughed, “we got some of that good imported shit, do we?” He glanced at his partners, jerked his head at Sojiro. All three started slinking down the alley in unison. “If that's so, then we'll be taking it off your hands, my friend!”
“Don't worry,” added the small one, flicking open a switchblade, “we'll get you your cut of the profits...”
“If you don't hand it over,” the large one finished, cracking his knuckles, “you'll get it a lot sooner...”
Sojiro's mind raced. Damn it, Sakura, you screwed yourself with this one. They don't look smart, but there's three of them and they're armed. What the hell are you gonna do next?
He backed further away. The gang came closer. Every second cut off his escape route more and more...
Then a random wild idea blinked into Sojiro's brain. He scoffed at himself.
Sakura, that's the dumbest thing you could do right now. But, desperate times...
“Alright already!” Sojiro stood still and raised his hands. The trio stopped. “Take the damn case. Do what you want with it.” He held the briefcase out to them.
The leader beamed at his friends and swaggered over. “You see, guys? All you need to get some respect from the elderly (Sojiro's eye twitched again) is a little common understan--”
He swiped at the briefcase, but it was now out of his reach. Presently, it was swinging through the air directly into his head.
Sojiro felt the impact through the handle into his arm, but the rattling of the contents inside made him wince more. The leader fell to the side, yelling and cursing. The other two were frozen, too shocked to move. Only one of them tried to snag their victim's suit jacket as he slipped past them into the alley.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why'd you get yourself into this in the first place, Sakura?! You were done, you had what you came for, you just had to leave and wait for your train! But you had to play tourist, didn't you?!
Briefcase tight against his chest, Sojiro sprinted through the narrow back streets. He took corners at random, right, then left, then right again, trying to weave a path away from the thugs.
Where the hell am I, anyway?! I need to get back to that main street, what was it...? Nakamichi! That one! Plenty of people, maybe a police officer!
He reached another intersection, identical to one he'd left behind
God, this place is a damn maze!
Sojiro rounded a corner, and slammed into a wall. His head pounded as he staggered back; his foot slipped in a puddle, and he fell, legs flailing, onto the concrete. Dazed and dizzy, his back damp and aching, Sojiro blinked, adjusted his glasses, and sat up to face the wall.
But the wall had stepped out of the alley and was staring at him with dark, narrowed eyes. The wall looked massive, easily half-a-head taller than Sojiro on his feet. The wall wore a gray suit a few years out of style, with a deep red dress shirt underneath. The wall had a slicked-back mane of dark hair, and a hard, defined face.
Another one? Oh, this is perfect...
“I told your friends back there you're not taking this!” he yelled, curling around the briefcase, “So back off!”
The wall, now clearly a person, stepped back, raised a heavy eyebrow.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” His voice was deep, but very confused.
Three sets of footsteps thudded behind them; the would-be robbers were here. The big one was gasping, the little one was panting, and the leader was pissed.
“Hey, big guy!” He called to the newcomer, wiping a trail of blood from his temple, “this one's ours! We ain't in the mood to share, so butt out before we bust you up too!”
Sojiro looked from the tall man to the trio. He was completely outnumbered, boxed in, and already on the ground. Clocking the leader had sealed his fate, and now he was out of time to run from it. He'd likely be beaten, and if the beating didn't kill him, the stabs from the little guy would. They'd run off with the case, maybe get pissed when they learn what's in it, but they'd still leave his corpse out here in the alley for some other lost citizen to find. And that, he knew, would be that: the life story of Sojiro Sakura, killed by his own curiosity and lack of direction. Nothing more to say, and no way to avoid it. Moreover, no need to hold on the case anymore; it was practically theirs already, a waste of money he'd never need again anyway. Why not just let them have it?
But, out of either sheer indignation at the circumstances, or plain stubbornness, he refused to give up.
“I told you already,” he said through gritted teeth, “you're not touching any of this! I paid for it, I need it, and I'm keeping it!” The young man wrapped his arms around the case and hugged it tight, the water soaking through his clothes mixing with his clammy sweat. He expected fists and kicks and stabs to rain down on him, and strong arms to rip the case from his dying body. All his fault, and all over something as worthless and stupid as--
"Here."
Sojiro looked up. The stranger was looking at him, speaking to him. His hand was stretched out to Sojiro. His face was stoic, solid and unexpressive, like flesh-toned granite, but his eyes...his eyes...
Something glinted behind those eyes. At first it was a spark, a tiny gleam in an wide, dark space. Then it grew stronger, like a match striking off. While Sojiro stared, he remembered an old physics lecture from high school. The teacher had mentioned potential energy, the "storing up" motion of any action: compressing a spring, raising a hammer, pulling back a fist.
This guy was storing up for something big.
One arm clutching the case, Sojiro grabbed the man's hand. He was pulled to his feet; it made him feel like a bale of straw being lifted and heaved around. He watched Sojiro steady himself, then spoke. “Nakamichi is just around the corner. You shouldn't have to look long to find a cop. I'll take care of them until you get back. Got it?”
Sojiro stared blankly. This guy looked like he was getting ready to punch through a brick wall, he probably could too, and he was...helping him?
The big man's brow twitched. “Do you get it?” He sounded testier than before. Ignoring him would only make it worse.
Sojiro nodded shakily, but he didn't run. He quietly stepped back, pressing flat against the wall. The stranger nodded back, turned to the trio, and walked forward.
“Hey, punk!” the leader called, tensed and hunched like an angry rat on its hind legs, “Didn't you hear me?!”
The stranger stopped in front of him. “I think you're the one who's deaf.” He spoke calmly, completely measured; that energy he was storing was totally invisible. “He's not giving you his briefcase or anything in it. Get lost.”
The leader's eyes bulged out and his bloody face went redder. His teeth looked ready to crack from grinding on each other.
“Stuck-up prick!” he hissed. “Thinkin' you can talk to me like that!” He jabbed a finger into the the stranger's chest. He barely moved.
“Last warning,” the stranger said, still calm, still controlled. “Back off. Now.”
Behind him, both of Sojiro's arm wrapped around his briefcase to stop from shaking against the wall. Down to his bones he felt the change in the air; it was buzzing, alive with tension radiating like heat from a flame off of the man's broad shoulders. He didn't show it, but that spark in his eyes was now burning over his entire body. Flat against the wall, Sojiro asked himself:
What the hell is this guy?!
“Aw, shut up!” The leader whined. He shot a white-knuckled fist up to the stranger's jaw.
Less than a second. That was all the time he had before impact. It took him less than that to change his stance completely: shoulders squared, knees bent, right foot behind him, left foot planted. He arched backwards. The thug's fist sailed past its target. By the time he recovered, it was too late to react.
That potential energy had already been released.
WHAM-WHAM-WHAM!
Three punches, right-left-right, flew into the leader's face. Behind him, his friends flinched at each blow. He stumbled back, dizzy, half-blind, but too pissed to be knocked down. Blood dribbled out of his swelling nose, and he spat a thick mouthful of it on the ground. He screamed, "GET HIS ASS!". The others held back; they weren't blind with rage, and they knew the stranger was still ready for another attack. But like loyal soldiers, they charged, flanking their leader. Part of Sojiro understood what they were thinking: it was three against one. He might get some good hits in, maybe even knock one down. But between their leader's anger, the big one's mass, and the little one's knife, they could take him. How much trouble could one guy be?
Thirty seconds later, that part of Sojiro shut itself up. The leader was the only one left conscious, half-curled on the ground, writhing, groaning, clutching his jaw with one hand and his stomach with the other. The big one lay on his back a few feet away, surrounded by parts of what used to be a nearby bicycle twenty seconds earlier; still breathing, but he'd be out until sunrise at least. As for the little one, his legs now hung out of a pile of trash on the left side of the intersection. From the way he screamed, Sojiro assumed his switchblade had jammed into his thigh before the stranger swung him through the air one-handed, and let him fly.
For as long as the fight had lasted, Sojiro stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the man. Right now, he was stretching out his arms, cracking his neck and knuckles, adjusting his flared collar. A full-blown three-to-one street brawl he ended in under a minute, and he treated it like some light exercise, maybe a little warm-up. Trembling more than ever, Sojiro asked again:
What IS this guy?!
He turned around. Sojiro shrank back against the wall, holding his briefcase even tighter.
“Hey, I told you to find someone.” His tone was more annoyed than angry, and as Sojiro calmed down, he noticed the man's posture was more relaxed too. That fire that had coursed over his body was gone; his eyes were normal again, dark, clear, and surprisingly calming.
You needed help?!, Sojiro wanted to say, but chose not to. “Sorry,” he pushed his heart out of his throat to reply, “I...couldn't move.”
Nice one, Sakura. Make yourself sound like a coward in front of this guy.
“Most people know you don't talk back to the gangs, or walk into alleys at night, especially when you have something to take.” The stranger's expression didn't change, but Sojiro still had to look away, embarrassed. “You don't live around here, do you?”
Sojiro cleared his throat. “No, no. I live down in Meguro. I made a detour here on my way home.”
“Meguro...” The stranger tugged back his sleeve (somehow spotless after the fight), revealing a silver wristwatch with a black leather strap. He treats fights like they're nothing and wears a watch like that?!, Sojiro thought. He must be crazy.
“The last train doesn't leave for another half-hour,” he said, reading the watch. “If you leave now, you can catch a taxi on Showa Street and make it to the station in time.” He looked up from the watch, back to Sojiro. His eyes scanned him up and down; it was a little uncomfortable. “Are you sure you can find your way there?”
“Hey, I'm not a total idiot,” Sojiro protested, “It's just a walk down the street. How bad could it be?”
“If you're asking that,” the stranger replied flatly, “you really don't know Kamurocho.”
Sojiro shut his mouth. He had a point. “Fine,” Sojiro said dryly, “I call uncle. I underestimated this place, it's a dangerous hellhole big-city types like me can't handle. Now what do I do?”
The stranger was already walking by the time Sojiro finished. “Just follow me,” he said, and gently shouldered past.
Sojiro watched him walk away. He didn't have much reason to trust this guy. Sure, he'd helped him with the gang, even wanted him out of harm's way before the fight started, but if the district was as dangerous as he said, so dangerous that just walking down the street and looking like you had money to spare was too risky to do alone, why should Sojiro trust him? How did he know he wasn't gonna lead him to some friends around the corner? Or maybe just turn around and knock him down on his own? Three men couldn't stop him; one alone would be like an ant on the sidewalk.
“Hey!” The strangers shouted from the corner. “Unless you want to spend the night here, hurry up!”
Sojiro jumped at the voice. The man still wasn't angry, just irritable that someone wasn't listening. Unless he was secretly a fantastic actor, he sounded genuine, like he really wanted to get him out safe. Standing and thinking for a little longer, Sojiro realized that while he didn't have much reason to trust the giant man, he could still use a guide, and had too few options right now to be picky. He'd have to take his chances. Finally, briefcase tucked safely under his arm, Sojiro jogged down the alley to where the stranger waited for him.
----------------------
Back in the glittering lights of Nakamichi: glaring neon signs, pop songs blaring from every storefront, pedestrians buffeting each other, barkers calling out their respective clubs and bars. It wasn't to Sojiro's tastes; he always preferred a night in with something to read or listen to. But it was crowded, it was bright, and it didn't have bands of thugs hunting him, so it was perfect. The stone-faced street brawler striding next to him was awkward at first, but Sojiro had to admit, he felt safer with the man nearby than anywhere else. With someone like him showing the way out, the investment sitting in his briefcase might have a chance to pay off.
Speaking of, I hit that creep pretty hard. Better check if the goods made it out alright...
Sojiro pulled out the case, clicked open the latches, and cracked the lid to peek inside. Everything was in place: no leaks, no spills, no damage. He closed the case, relieved. Then he glanced up at his guide. The stranger was already looking down at him, and his expression was finally different, almost, and Sojiro could hardly believe it, worried.
“Um,” he looked around the crowded street nervously, “it's none of my business what you have in there, but whatever it is, I wouldn't show it in public. Someone...” he scanned the crowd again for a blue uniform, “someone might get the wrong idea.”
“What?” Then Sojiro remembered the thug leader's reaction to the case, and what this would look like to someone from the outside. At that, maybe from lingering nerves or how relaxed he felt in the open, Sojiro broke out laughing. Pedestrians in both directions walked around them, avoided eye contact, thinking he was another drunk businessman celebrating a sale or nursing a loss. The stranger became even more worried.
“I-hahahaha! I think--*Cough! Cough!*” Sojiro cleared his throat as his laughter finally wore out. “You have the wrong idea, pal. Look at this.” He pulled his guide out of the crowd, stopped by a store window. While the other man looked totally lost, Sojiro, his dark eyes bright, held the briefcase out, and opened it wide.
The stranger stared into the case. “Are those--?”
“Yeah,” Sojiro said breathlessly, “the absolute top quality, some of the finest blends and origins in the world. I talked the guy down and it still cost me a week's salary.”
Sojiro watched nervously as the man reached in, lifted up a small glass vial with a piece of tape marked with scratchy handwriting. He shook the vial gently, listened to the contents rattle against the glass. Slowly, he put it back down, and stared at Sojiro in disbelief.
“You were gonna give your life,” he said haltingly, “for beans?”
Sojiro snapped the case shut. “Didn't you hear me?' He asked, shocked and offended. “These are the best of the best! The finest, richest, most varied coffee beans you can find! Hell, I think some of them, most people don't know about. Probably why they were so dear, even un-roasted...”
Re-stowing the case, the two men merged back into the foot traffic. “So,” the stranger asked, “why come to Kamurocho for them? Wasn't there anywhere safer you could pick them up?”
Sojiro shook his head. “I looked forever,” he replied, “called every place I could. No one had what I wanted, and I almost gave up before I found just the right guy. He wasn't keen on telling how he got 'em, but that didn't matter. We worked out the price over the phone, but he would only meet me here for the pick-up. If you ask me,” Sojiro glanced around, leaned closer to the stranger, “he might've had some yakuza ties. Smuggling, black market, that kinda thing. Not something I'd usually support, but since I was running dry on options, and with how pricey this kind of import can be...” He shrugged, nearly dropped his case out from his arm, and scrambled to grab it. Straightening up, Sojiro swore the stranger had muttered, “Are we doing that kind of smuggling now?”
“What's that?”
“N-nothing.” He looked straight ahead. “I didn't say anything...”
Hmm. Maybe it was someone else...
“I still don't get why these beans are worth risking your life.” The stranger changed the subject. “You don't look like you own a coffeehouse or anything.”
Sojiro laughed, and said. “Nah. Not yet, anyway. Right now, it's kind of a hobby. Well, was a hobby, before I got dared into taking it to the extreme.”
“Dared?”
“Well...” Sojiro paused. He'd already said more about this than he'd ever said to anyone else, even the guy who sold him the beans. Why not drop the subject here? Oversharing was something he hated from most people, barring one, so ranting on about something this silly would be embarrassing and pointless. The stranger certainly didn't look like he cared; he kept his eyes ahead, his mouth flat like a chiseled line, sometimes turning his head to watch Sojiro as he spoke. Nothing in his expression told Sojiro the stranger had a real interest in his story.
If that was the case, though, why did he keep asking questions? He could've dropped the conversation and led Sojiro to the end of the street in silence after seeing inside the briefcase; he'd gotten his answer, as weird as it was, and didn't need to know anymore. But he still asked more about what he saw, and if anything, he sounded more curious than before he knew what Sojiro was carrying. Sojiro could understand why, you don't see men risking a painful back-alley death over coffee beans every day, but beyond that, the stranger may be curious because, and this was hardest to believe, he was actually interested. Day after day of the same dull small-talk, current events, pop culture slop, vague questions about each others' lives, and here was another person who truly seemed to care, who was bothering to actually listen.
Wonder if this is how she feels when we talk...
“Well,” Sojiro continued, “a...friend, from work, noticed how much I talked about beans and roasts and blends and everything, so she pushed me into a dare.”
“To do what?”
Smirking, Sojiro said, “'To make the best cup of coffee in the world'. Her exact words. It's not too much of a dare, to be honest. She's helping me with it, but I've helped with her little passion project, so it's only fair.”
“What's her project?”
“Curry. By now, it's as much mine as her's, but she started it and roped me in.” Sojiro shook his head softly and smiled. “It's amazing she makes any time for it with how much she has on her plate. Or,” he caught himself, and reeled from the accidental pun, “not on her plate, I suppose...sorry, that was terrible.” He stopped talking, wondering if the stranger would react to a line that bad.
The stranger didn't laugh, but the corners of his mouth lifted a little. “It looks like that dedication wore off on you, since you went so far to protect those beans.”
“Yeah,” Sojiro chuckled. He stayed quiet for a moment, let the noise of Nakamichi Street surround him. That kind of big city chatter usually drove him crazy; now it felt like a cocoon, barely noticeable while he looked inward, truly thought about this whole dare and everything he'd done as part of it for the first time. It all sounded ridiculous to him now, but still...
“Y'know,” he finally said, “it's kinda funny. If you told me a few weeks ago I'd go this far for something this small, I'd think you were crazy. I didn't care this much at the beginning; I just kept with it to stop my friend from bugging me. But then...then I started caring. I liked researching blends, learning how to work a roaster, finding the differences between grinds, writing down the perfect water temperatures for each blend, for God's sake!” Sojiro laughed briefly. “I write down notes and figures for a living every day, but doing something that dull in my spare time actually made me...well, happy. It's like I finally had something real I could work on, something with a purpose behind it. And once my friend started helping me out, I wanted to go even further, do whatever I could to make the time we put into this whole thing worth it. So,” he shrugged, more carefully this time, “here I am. Crazy, isn't it?”
“...not at all.”
The stranger's voice was different: softer, kinder, not just mildly curious but fully invested. Before Sojiro could respond, the stranger said, “You found a passion, just like your friend and her curry. It's something you want to work on for its own sake, not because you're paid to do it, or other people want you to. And better yet, you can share it with someone who enjoys it like you do. It doesn't matter how small it is. It's yours, and you want to keep moving forward with it. There's nothing crazy about that.”
Once he'd finished, Sojiro, stunned and silent, looked up at the stranger...
...and he was smiling. It was still subtle, not an open-mouthed grin, but it was warm and earnest; absolutely, unflinchingly genuine. Sojiro nearly stopped dead on the sidewalk, it was so unbelievable. This was the guy who, less than ten minutes ago, was tearing through an angry and violent group of street thugs; now, he looked like a gentle father listening to his child talk about their day, and giving them advice about a problem they had. The difference made him a little uncomfortable, but it was impossible to be completely upset by it. Sure, it was a disturbingly extreme shift, but it felt so gradual, and so real, that Sojiro had to smile too.
“That doesn't mean you need to get yourself killed over it,” the stranger said. His voice returned to normal, but his smile was still there. “It might mean everything to you, but you can't move it forward if you're dead.”
Sojiro rolled his eyes. “Heh. Yeah, I know, I know...”
-------------------------
Finally at the taxis, Sojiro turned around at the open car door. “I should've said this earlier,” he admitted with a grin, “but...thanks. You really did save my life back there.”
The stranger shook his head. “Don't thank me. Just be more careful if there's a next time.”
“If there is,” Sojiro replied, “I will. Don't worry.”
At that, the stranger turned and started back up Nakamichi with a hand in his pocket, and Sojiro climbed into the backseat of the cab. Suddenly, he froze, half in the car, earning a sleepy-eyed but disapproving stare from the driver. Sojiro pulled himself back out and looked at the man who stood head-and-shoulders above everyone around him.
“Hey, you!” He yelled over the crowd between them. Thankfully, the stranger heard him, and half-turned to the cab.
“My name's Sakura, by the way! Sojiro Sakura!”
The stranger listened closely; Sojiro wondered if he had heard him yell, until the man loudly replied:
“I'm Kiryu. Kazuma Kiryu.”
“Well, Mr. Kiryu,” Sojiro shouted back. “If I see you again someday, remember: your first cup's on me!” He raised his briefcase, and gave it a gentle shake.
Kiryu half-smiled back. “I'll try to.” With a wave goodbye, he carried on back into the bustling district ahead of him. Sojiro watched him a little longer; he wanted to remember what the man looked like in case they met again. A gentle, insistent “Sir” from the driver pulled Sojiro away, and he remembered he was in a hurry. Climbing inside the car, Sojiro settled into the seat as the taxi merged into traffic, his wet jacket stinging his back, and the briefcase secured in his lap. He glanced down at it again, and chuckled to himself.
What a wild night, Sakura. And what a weird guy.
But not a bad one. Not at all.
I hope I meet him again. Especially after I start experimenting with some of these.
Which should I go for first? The Yirgacheffe looks great, but I like the sound of that Hawaiian Kona...
Soon, Sojiro Sakura was already planning out his next few stages of coffee research, and all thoughts of friendly-neighborhood street brawlers were tossed out of his mind like a scrawny, tiny punk hurtling into a pile of garbage.