04
752 Words
The "lesson" always ended with the same ritual—the heavy click of the door unlocking and the squeal of the shower taps.
Arthur was meticulous about the aftermath; he scrubbed Miki’s skin until it was pink and raw, washing away the evidence of the afternoon.
By the time they stepped out of the house, Miki was a different version of himself. He wore a crisp, white polo shirt and those tiny, vintage-style shorts that Arthur favored, his dark curls dampened and combed neatly into place.
The hollow, haunted look in his eyes had been replaced by a shimmering, glass-like excitement.
"If you're a good boy at the shop, we’ll get the double scoop," Arthur promised, his hand resting firmly on the back of Miki’s neck as they walked.
"With the chocolate dip?"
"And the sprinkles?" Miki asked, his voice bright and airy, the trauma of an hour ago already tucked behind a thick, mental curtain. "The rainbow ones?"
"Everything you want, Miki."
The ice cream parlor was a riot of pastel pinks and neon signs. Miki sat at a small round table, kicking his legs back and forth, his tongue darting out to catch a drip of choc-vanilla.
To any observer, he was just a remarkably youthful man enjoying a treat. To Miki, the world was currently narrowed down to the cold, sweet sensation on his tongue. He had forgotten the room. He had forgotten the "rules." He was just happy.
Arthur sat across from him, watching with the satisfied expression of a collector who had just polished his favorite porcelain doll.
Then, the bell above the door chimed.
The atmosphere in the small shop shifted instantly. It wasn't a loud sound, but the presence that followed it was heavy, vibrating with a silent, lethal authority.
A man stepped in, his tall frame nearly brushing the doorframe. He wore a charcoal suit that looked like armor, his features carved with the cold, symmetrical perfection of a Greek god. People at the counter instinctively stepped back, an unspoken primal fear rippling through the room.
The man didn't look at them. He walked toward a small table where a little girl sat, her pig-tails bouncing as she colored in a book.
"Time to go, Eleni," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
Miki, oblivious to the predator in the room, let out a soft, delighted giggle as a bit of chocolate landed on his thumb. He went to lick it off, his head tilting back, catching the light.
The man in the suit froze. His gaze, previously fixed on his niece, snapped to the side. He stared at Miki—really looked at him.
Memory hit him like a physical blow. Eight years ago. An alleyway slick with rain and blood. He had been bleeding out, a rival gang closing in, when a fifteen-year-old boy with messy hair and a defiant glare had appeared.
The boy hadn't known who he was; he’d just started screaming for the police and throwing bricks with such wild, frantic energy that the attackers had fled, thinking a neighborhood watch was descending.
That boy had saved the life of a kingpin.
But the boy in front of him now wasn't fifteen. He was twenty-three, dressed like a schoolchild, sitting with a man whose hand was draped over the back of his chair in a way that made the stranger's jaw tighten.
"Miki?" The name was a low rasp, barely a whisper, but it carried a weight of recognition that sliced right through Miki’s sugar-high.
Miki blinked, a smudge of vanilla on his nose. He looked up, his eyes wide and innocent, staring at the terrifying man as if he were just another part of the scenery.
"Hello," Miki chirped, his voice high and sweet. "Do you want some? It's very cold."
The man in the suit didn't smile. His eyes dropped to Miki’s exposed, pale thighs and then flicked toward Arthur. The temperature in the shop seemed to drop ten degrees.
Arthur’s smile didn't falter, but his grip on the chair tightened. "I’m sorry, is there a problem, sir? My charge is a bit... sensitive to strangers."
The stranger didn't look at Arthur.
He kept his eyes on Miki, searching for the fire he remembered in that fifteen-year-old’s eyes, finding only the hollow, bright playfulness of a child who had been broken into pieces.
...
- Writer
