The mafia Kings scribe

Chapter 14: The Red Sights

The crimson laser dots danced across your torn servant’s robes, looking like small, glowing embers burning through the dark cotton. One bright dot settled squarely over your heart; another trembled right between your eyes. The sudden, high-pitched thwip of a suppressed rifle echoed through the high metal rafters of the warehouse, and the harbor enforcer beside you slouched forward, his shotgun clattering loudly against the oil-stained concrete.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Your fingers went slack, and the porcelain inkwell slipped from your grasp. It shattered against the floorboards, splashing cold, black ink across your bare feet and mixing with the pooling blood of the fallen guard.

"Get down!" Haruto screamed, his voice a raw, echoing roar over the sudden storm of gunfire.

Before your knees could even buckle from terror, a massive, heavy weight slammed into your torso. Shingen didn't just reach for you; he threw his entire, muscular frame across the distance separating you. His large hand locked around the back of your collar, yanking you violently beneath him as he rolled into the narrow, dark gap between two heavy wooden shipping crates.

A hail of bullets chewed through the concrete where you had been kneeling just a second before, sending sharp stone shrapnel and white dust spraying into the air.

"Stay flat," Shingen hissed against your ear.

His bare chest was pressed firmly against your back, shielding you completely from the line of fire. The intense heat of his skin burned through your wet clothes, and you could feel the furious, rapid thudting of his heart against your shoulder blades. The black calligraphy you had just painted over his silver scar was pressed directly into your shoulder, the wet ink smudging against your skin, binding the two of you together in the dark.

"Haruto! Flank the eastern catwalk!" Shingen commanded, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. He didn't sound panicked; his tone was a calculated weapon, directing his men with absolute, chilling precision.

"Loyalists, suppress the high tier!" Haruto roared back, his heavy automatic weapon barking in rhythmic, deafening bursts that shook the corrugated metal walls of the warehouse.

Above you, the attackers screamed as Haruto’s return fire found its mark. A body plummeted from the high metal walkway, crashing onto a stack of wooden pallets twenty feet below with a sickening, wet crunch.

You curled into a ball beneath Shingen, your hands over your ears, your eyes squeezed shut. The scent of ozone, bitter gunpowder, and the sharp pine soot of the ruined ink filled your senses. You were completely trapped beneath a monster, yet in this terrifying moment, his massive body was the only safe harbor in a world tearing itself apart.

Shingen slowly shifted his weight. He reached down to his waist, drawing his personal katana with a low, metallic hiss that sounded distinct and lethal even amidst the gunfire. He didn't stay hidden. He couldn't. The attackers had the high ground, and if his men didn't clear the catwalks within the minute, they would all be pinned down and slaughtered.

"Listen to me, scribe," Shingen murmured, his deep baritone vibrating against your spine. He leaned down, his lips almost brushing your ear. "The text on my back—did you finish the final character for the port deed before the inkwell broke?"

"Y-yes, Master," you gasped out, your breath rattling in your throat. "The character for possession... it was complete."

"Good," Shingen whispered, a dark, terrible coldness settling into his voice. "Then the docks are legally mine. And everyone in this room who does not bear my crest is already a ghost."

He stood up, leaving the safety of the narrow gap. Through the small space between the crates, you watched him step out into the flickering, yellow halogen light. He didn't have armor. He didn't have a rifle. He wore only his dark trousers, his chest bare, his skin a canvas of tattoos, silver scars, and fresh black ink.

A rogue shooter on the catwalk spotted him, swinging a laser sight toward Shingen’s bare torso.

Shingen didn't dodge. He surged forward with an impossible, terrifying speed, his bare feet sliding across the wet concrete. The shooter pulled the trigger, but Shingen was already gone from the crosshairs. He leaped onto the lower rungs of the metal ladder leading to the catwalk, his blade flashing in a silver arc as he ascended into the shadows above.

A long, agonizing scream echoed from the upper tier, followed by the sound of a rifle clattering down the metal stairs.

You lay in the dust and the ruined ink, clutching your empty brush box to your chest. The gunfire began to thin out, replaced by the brutal, efficient sounds of hand-to-hand execution. Shingen was clearing the high tier by hand, his blade erasing every trace of the Ryu syndicate’s final gamble.

Suddenly, a heavy, dragging footstep sounded right outside your hiding spot.

You opened your eyes. One of the Ryu executives who had been tied to the chairs had somehow managed to cut his ropes during the crossfire. He stood at the edge of the wooden crates, his face covered in sweat and blood, a discarded iron pipe clutched in his trembling hands. He looked down into the dark gap, his eyes locking onto you.

"You..." the executive snarled, raising the heavy pipe. "You're the one who wrote the deed. If I crack your skull, the Yamazaki family has nothing."