Chapter Text
Wasuke
Hidden away within the shadows of Tokyo, there is a world that can only be found by those who know where to look.
Away from prying eyes, it lives and breathes in the darkest corners of the city. Filled to the brim with dangerous, bloodthirsty monsters. An underground kingdom built upon the backs of those too weak to make a name for themselves. It is a world made of blood and power and war, ruled by four ancient families, whose very names bind the fates of every generation unlucky enough to be born into their bloodlines.
To the North, the snakes slither through the grass, learning and listening, trading secrets to secure their own power over others and saving their venom for those who truly deserve it. To the South, the ravens soar overhead, high above everyone’s heads where they observe the world below and fly where the winds of opportunity may guide them. To the East, the dragons live, dangerous and mighty, protecting their hoard with savage strength and burning all those who draw near, without a second thought for mercy. And to the West, the tigers lie in wait— watching, always watching— until the opportune moment to strike.
It is a world of death and danger, secrets and lies— a world of masks.
And for those who are not born into it— who do not have vengeance carved into the marrow of their bones, nor violence running through their veins from their very first breath…
There is no hope of surviving it.
***
The Ryoumen fighting pits are the best, worst kept secret in the city.
Deep in the heart of Hino, a warehouse sits in a crumbling lot. Built nearly four decades ago, it is a new structure to cover what has been hiding there for generations. Beneath the asphalt, the earth has been hollowed out to make room for the blood sport that draws in crowds from far and wide. A stadium in its own right, the rows and rows of wooden bench seats encircle the space. Angled to provide a perfect view of the center ring, scuffed and stained with the blood of those who dare to step into it.
Tonight, the pits are empty— nearly empty.
Devoid of any passionate cries from a gathered crowd and without the stench of fear and adrenaline filling the air, the space feels far larger than it ought to be. And in the ring, beneath the swell of too-bright lights, a lone tiger advances on its cowering prey.
The hard smack of wrapped knuckles meeting flesh harmonizes with low grunts of pain and echoes up to the shadow steeped rafters. Over and over again, the hits are relentless— brutal. The tiger lets loose a bone chilling growl as he ducks beneath his opponent's swing and spins effortlessly into a twisting kick. His foot collides with the side of his opponent’s head, heel clipping the corner of the other man’s jaw and sending a spatter of blood spewing from their mouth onto the mats. With his opponent stunned, the tiger snaps out with his fists to finish the job. One to the ribs and one to the face— quick and agile. Far too fast for his opponent to have any hope of blocking it. The opponent staggers backward beneath the blows, letting loose a bellow of pan.
Blood seeps into the stark white wraps around the tiger’s knuckles, his fangs bared and flashing in the bright lights overhead as he advances on its prey. Crimson eyes alight like embers in their face, the tiger shows no mercy.
At the back of the hall, sat on one of the wooden benches curved around the uppermost spectating section, two men sit, shoulder to shoulder. In silence they watch the tiger as he savagely beats his opponent into a pulp. Spilling blood without any restraint, despite the fact that their opponent has already fallen and gone limp against the mats.
Smoke curls in plumes from both men’s mouths. Dressed in fine black suits, they are mirror images of one another. With graying hair that has long since lost the remnants of light pink and dark undertones, their faces are carbon copies of one another’s, though while one face is marked by stark black lines of ink, the other remains totally bare.
A roar of fury leaves the tiger’s mouth, filling the empty hall with a sound of such savage desperation that any lesser man might go running. However, the two men sitting in the back do not so much as flinch. Though the young tiger’s rage is palpable, they can both hear the grief that cuts beneath the emotion. And even from their place in the back of the hall they can both scent the sorrow that curdles the edges of the young tiger’s scent of cedar wood and gunpowder.
With his opponent unconscious and no more outlets for his fury, the young tiger rages— paces back and forth along the edge of the ring. Drenched in blood and sweat and sadness the young alpha is reduced to nothing more than a rabid, caged animal.
The man with the tattooed face releases a sigh, smoke passing hot and acrid up their throat alongside their disappointment. Bitterness drenches their low, rumbling tone as they say, “He lacks control.”
Wasuke Ryoumen can’t help but agree as he watches his son pace in agitation while someone drags the unconscious form of his opponent out of the ring.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“He has not been himself since…” Wasuke trails off quietly, unable to finish his thoughts.
“It should not make a difference,” Watashi replies harshly. “He is not a boy. A loose canon is the last thing this clan needs.”
Wasuke tilts his head to look upon his twin. The mirror image of his own profile greets him, though marred by the deep, symmetrical lines of dark ink spread along his cheekbones, jawline and brow bone. There is a tightness to the lines of his face, etched into the wrinkles that have gathered more in the last few years— for both of them. A leash on the beast that stirs just below the surface— so similar to the one that lurks within Wasuke.
Wasuke draws a long breath, his gaze once more set upon his son— drenched in the blood of another man, shining with sweat and emanating a dark fury. Another beast beheld in the skin of a mortal man. And the very essence of their ancient lineage… For whatever it was worth.
“He is grieving ,” Wasuke murmurs, treading carefully as his twin stiffens almost imperceptibly beside him. “He lost two brothers—”
“And I lost my sons ,” Watashi snarls, turning to look his twin in the eye. Crimson red eyes glitter with rage. “My heirs. Both gone in a single night! Yet you do not see me risking the future of this clan for the pain that I am suffering.”
Wasuke’s shoulders feel heavy as the reminder settles against him of his nephew’s deaths. He keeps quiet for a moment as his brother’s fury emanates in black waves of grief, his scent swelling around them to near toxic levels. It is a small mercy that there is no one else in the pits to witness it. Then again, Watashi’s control is nearly impeccable and only Wasuke himself has witnessed his brother’s emotions to such an extent.
Watashi takes his silence as a cue to continue, using his words to cut deep. “My heirs are gone and all that is left of the future of our bloodline is an undisciplined child.”
Wasuke bristles, allowing his lip to curl in a snarl and reveal his own sharp fangs. “Jin has the blood of a tiger, the same as Kaede and Masaru.”
“No,” Watashi argues back. “My boys were strong . I raised them to have iron wills— to know how to lead. You have always been too soft with Jin. Let him get away with too much. He has lived his life unchecked and now I have no choice but to name him my heir. And that softness… That weakness is going to be the death of us all.”
“You do not give him enough credit,” Wasuke snarls, fury wafting off of his own scent. “Jin was raised beside your boys and yet you doubt that he did not learn the same as yours? You have always underestimated him and now you condemn him for being unworthy when no one could have anticipated a day that he might have to live up to your delusional standards.”
“Do not lecture me,” Watashi says, the words imbued with such raw and terrible anger that the floor beneath their feet seems to tremble. As though the earth itself shudders to hold the weight of Watashi Ryoumen’s grief.
Like all members of their bloodline, Ryoumens are nothing but savage. Like the beast made a man by the Sun God in the legends that speak of their family’s origins, there is not a Ryoumen alive who does not have the heart of a tiger beating within them. Strong and fierce and dangerous, they are driven by the same brutal instincts— and sometimes fall prey to them as well.
When Watashi became head of their clan at the age of nineteen after their father had been killed by a rival clan, he had stepped into the role with unmatched determination. Not just to keep their family’s legacy alive, but to outmatch it. And for the last forty years he had ruled over their clan with strength of character and an iron will. He had led their family to a place of power that nearly rivaled the Gojo clan— something thought to be almost impossible.
And while Wasuke could understand his brother’s reticence of watching his own legacy pass to another— one that he had not anticipated, nor trained for the role, he could not help but think that his brother was being particularly obstinate about the matter.
Still, Watashi’s crimson eyes glow like embers in the dark between them— fury burning bright in their depths— and Wasuke has long since learned how to navigate his twin’s more foul moods.
Rather than press the matter, Wasuke lifts his cigarette and takes another drag. His knuckles still ache where they are mottled with dark bruises, curled loosely around the delicately rolled paper. A remnant of how he’d spent the last evening interrogating some underlings who’d sought to skim some of their profits off the top of a shipment and provide false numbers. Wasuke had been merciless with them, though he figured they wouldn’t pose an issue anymore now that they were scattered across the ocean floor in little, bite-sized pieces.
He glances back at the ring and finds that Jin has settled in one of the corners, perched with his arms hung over the ropes on either side of him. His own bloody red eyes pinned on the twitching body of his unconscious opponent. Ever the predator— watching and waiting.
“Do you think it wise to accept the Kamo clan’s offer?” Wasuke asks, smoke pouring from his mouth as he speaks. He watches his brother’s face with careful scrutiny as the question lingers between them and it is only from a lifetime of looking at that face— the same as his own— that he can detect the minute shift of displeasure that seems to ripple beneath the surface of his expression.
Watashi takes a drag on his own cigarette and breathes out a plume of smoke before answering. “We have little choice. Masaru was our key to attaining a match in the Zenin clan. They made it clear they won’t accept anything less than an alpha ranked as Special Grade for a pact. And that damned Gojo bitch presenting as a beta went and fucked all of us.”
Privately, Wasuke agrees with his brother’s words, though it's foolish to think that the matter of presentation is anything other than a matter of genetics and luck. Many a rumor had reached Wasuke’s ears about the circumstance of their girl’s birth. All signs had pointed to her presenting as a Special Grade alpha and yet… Fate always had another plan. It was the bed that the Gojos had made— putting all stock in their first born daughter becoming the next Honored One — and now, they were all meant to lie in it.
“I cannot help but think their timing of suggestion to be suspicious,” Wasuke says.
“We are not in a position to be skeptical of their motives. Not when our own reasons for accepting the mating pact go beyond anything ethical. The Kamos are our last hope to breed with another highly connected family,” Watashi replies.
“The omega comes from good stock,” Wasuke concedes, “An omega from one of the four families is nothing to scoff at.”
Watashi hums in agreement. “Perhaps the next generation will be more successful in their aspirations for mating pacts. The omega will make good breeding stock to further our bloodline. As long as they can deliver a pair, then I shall be satisfied with the alliance. Damn whatever schemes the Kamos might be plotting in the shadows.”
“I do not believe the Kamos would offer up their only omega with so little hesitance if they did not think—”
A loud roar of anger echoes through the empty pits and both brothers look down to the ring. The unconscious body had been dragged out of the ring by two others, now leaving Jin to face a new, fresh faced opponent.
Even from their place up in the highest section of the seats, Wasuke can scent the fury of his son’s scent melding with heart wrenching grief. Cedar and gunpowder sits heavy in the air— violent and terrible and sorrowful in a way that calls out to Wasuke’s buried heart in a way that only a child can do to their sire. And he knows that his brother, for all of his posturing and fury and brutality , is grieving just the same.
It had only been a matter of weeks since Watashi’s sons were killed in a firefight beyond the boundaries of Ryoumen territory. What should have been a routine meeting to go over shipments in neutral territory had turned into an ambush done by some small, upstart gang. And despite the fact that the Ryoumen heirs were a deadly and powerful combination— one that perhaps might rival Shoutaro Gojo if word on the street was to be believed about the default Gojo heir— they had bled out in a matter of minutes. Just the same as anyone else might have.
Killed in cold blood in the middle of the day. Shot by a boy whose name would not be remembered— and whose body would never be found.
They had been like brothers to Jin. The three of them had grown up together, with less than three years between them all. Masaru, the eldest, had been Watashi’s pride and joy— his heir. A Special Grade alpha with the raw, savage power that truly belonged to a Ryoumen. And his twin brother, Kaede, who had presented as a beta, but was no less for it. Level headed and wise beyond his twenty six years, he had been the voice of reason in Masaru’s ear. Where one went, the other was not far behind. And though Jin was three years younger, they had treated him as an equal in standing.
But with Masaru’s death, the agreement to mate with a Zenin omega became null and void. The clan of north Tokyo having made it very clear that they were only willing to accept a potential match that could provide a better chance at providing Special Grades in their own lineage. And now, without an heir and without a mate to further their bloodline, Watashi’s hand was nothing less than forced to accept the Kamo’s offer.
And Jin would be the one to suffer for it.
Below them, in the ring, Jin fights as fiercely as any other caged animal. Brutal and vicious, he does not pull his punches. Landing hits with deadly accuracy and terrifying force, it is a matter of minutes before his second opponent hits the ground and fresh blood seeps across the mats.
Jin’s chest heaves with exertion, his face speckled with blood. Fangs flash in the bright lights overhead as he snarls down at the unconscious body before him.
Watashi lets out a sigh. “If all goes well, the match with the Kamo omega will set our family back on the right path… But is your son prepared to face what is to come?”
Wasuke bristles. “Jin can take care of himself. He is—”
“The blood of the tiger,” Watashi mutters gruffly, conceding that much at least. “Yes. As we all are. But tell me, brother, how long will you use that as an excuse to avoid admitting your son’s faults?”
“I am well aware of Jin’s faults,” Wasuke snaps back, glaring harshly at the mirror image of his face.
“Are you?” Watashi asks, genuine curiosity alighting in his tone.
“Of course I am,” Wasuke replies, “Our sons are nothing if not a reflection of our own faults. We give them our hope that they might become better than us.”
Watashi hums in the back of his throat. “You have coddled him.”
“I have not.” Wasuke glares.
“You have,” Watashi condemns with a dip of his chin. “Nearly twenty four and not a single stripe to show for it. He is soft and you were the one who allowed it. I can only hope that our bloodline will not have to pay the ultimate price for it.”
Rage flares hot and bright inside of Wasuke’s chest.
“I cannot bring your boys back, Watashi. They are gone . I will grieve for them until the end of my days, but it is not Jin’s fault that he must shoulder a burden never meant for him in the first place. We could not have known this would happen.”
Watashi’s tattooed face goes stone cold with his own frigid fury. For a moment, Wasuke believes that his fist will meet his flesh in swift retribution— as it would not be the first time. However, his brother merely lifts his cigarette and takes a long drag. Nearly burning the tips of his fingers as the ember eats away at the delicate paper and tobacco hidden inside.
“No, we could not. But what’s done is done. My sons are dead… And yours will lead our clan into a new generation of power. So tell me, brother,” Watashi finally says, blowing smoke between them. Eyes as red as the glowing ember on the end of his cigarette. “Do you truly believe he can do it?”
Wasuke says nothing as his gaze settles back on his son and the silence is answer enough.
Watashi drops the butt of his cigarette to the floor as he stands up. Crushing it beneath the heel of his shoe, he walks away without a word, leaving Wasuke alone with his damning thoughts.
The only remnant of him left is his heavy scent, lingering in the air around him—
Sakura petals and blood.
***
Barely a month after their conversation in the fighting pits, Wasuke stands on his brother’s right side and watches the clock.
Shoulder to shoulder, they appear as merely reflections of one another. Watashi’s tattoos are the only discerning feature between them, along with the difference in their eye colors. For where his brother’s gaze was the crimson red of a true Ryoumen, Wasuke’s muted gray gaze spoke of their mother’s genes.
It is silent enough in the grand entryway of the Ryoumen estate that one might be able to hear a pin drop. Behind them the highest ranking members of the clan fan out in a veritable wall of human flesh. Silent and brooding, they stand guard. And to Wasuke’s right, Jin stands tall. His own crimson red eyes pinned on the large doorway that marked the entrance of the estate— waiting and watching.
The watch on Wasuke’s wrist tells him that the Kamo delegation is late. The seconds-hand ticks frantically around in circles as the minutes pass by with nary a sign of the Kamo leader or their prized omega in tow.
On his left, Watashi’s hand twitches toward the pocket of his suit pants. Exactly where his cigarettes are stashed, Wasuke knows. Though Watashi stills himself before he can pull one free. Ever an alpha who finds that first impressions to be an artform. And while the Kamo delegation is only six and a half minutes late, Watashi remains the picture of stoic calm, rather than the furious boil of rage Wasuke knows must live beneath his brother’s skin.
Another minute passes.
Jin fidgets slightly, but Wasuke makes no move to condemn him for it.
It has been nearly nine minutes past the allotted meeting time when an attendant suddenly rushes into the entrance and stops before Watashi. A ripple of awareness rolls through the rest of the room as the attendant offers a low bow and murmur that the Kamos have finally arrived.
Wasuke allows his shoulders to go loose, letting the tense anticipation roll off of his figure. In a heartbeat a mask has slipped into place upon his features— one that cannot be seen by the naked eye, but is there nonetheless.
Gone are any traces of the man that Wasuke might have been in a different life. A kind man. A good man. And in his place, stands the stone cold right hand of the head of the Ryoumen clan—
The Tiger of West Tokyo.
“Showtime,” Watashi mutters under his breath as the scent of blood and sakura saturates the air.
The doors suddenly open on the other side of the entryway, falling inward like enormous dominoes and bringing the chill, fall air into the estate. A group of well dressed figures ascend the stairs beyond the door and make their way into the estate with measured steps. Their dark, inky hair is a telltale sign of the lineage from the Kamo clan. Black as the raven’s wings, for which the clan claimed symbolism with. And yet, the small party of a mere four people is far less grand than the procession that an omega bride might usually be presented with.
Though given the fact that Jin is not the coveted prize that the Kamos may have hoped for, it is perhaps more fitting. Both Jin and the Kamo’s omega are nothing more than consolation prizes— tools to leverage their families forward in the world.
Sacrifices.
The group is led by the head of the Kamo clan— Noritoshi Kamo. With his dark hair receding from his round head and a pinched expression on his wrinkled face, the bitter old man hobbles his way into the grand entryway. His pale, frail hands are lined with veins and the man looks far too old to still be presenting omegas for mating, though he does not seem perturbed by it.
Flanked on his right there is a gray haired female alpha, dressed sharply with a keen gaze that sweeps around the room. Surely his second, if not some other high ranking member of the clan. And on Noritoshi’s left, stands a young man, perhaps a bit older than Jin himself, with dark hair and a placid smile on his face. A small amount of facial hair lies in a neat, trimmed line above his upper lip and though there is most certainly a smile on his face, Wasuke cannot help but to feel as though something about it is wrong.
Wasuke has looked into the mirror— looked into his twin’s face— and has witnessed darkness enough times to recognize it in others. And there is little doubt in him now, as he watches the young man come to stand beside the hunched figure of Noritoshi Kamo, that he is filled with darkness.
The doors close behind them, well and truly entrapping the Kamo delegation within the tiger’s den. However, rather than cower in the face of such an unyielding show of power like the one that lingers at Wasuke’s back, Noritoshi Kamo merely bows deeply to Watashi.
“Ryoumen-sama,” Noritoshi says as he dips low. “We are honored that you have accepted our proposal to bond my only daughter to your new heir.”
Watashi hesitates for a single moment, looking upon the head of the Kamo clan with shrewd intent before he finally returns the bow— albeit more shallow than Noritoshi’s.
“Indeed,” Watashi says as he rises again. The Kamo leader follows suit almost immediately. “And to you, Kamo-san. We are honored that you would allow your only omega to bond into our family.”
The expression on the boy beside Noritoshi seems to flicker. Like a guttering flame beneath a gust of wind, it shudders for a moment. But it is just long enough for Wasuke to get a good glimpse of the utter rage that lingers beneath. And yet, it is gone in an instant and it is a testament to the conviction of the Tiger of West Tokyo that he does not flinch when the young man’s eyes lock onto his.
And he does not look away.
“Yes, yes. Quite the auspicious occasion we have made for ourselves. We Kamos come from such humble origins and could not have dreamed to one day acquire the status of mating into the Ryoumen bloodline. Why, I remember whe—”
Wasuke resists the urge to roll his eyes at the useless pandering. The deal had already been made, though the mating had not commenced. And there was little that could stand in its way at this point. Noritoshi’s rambling words merely made him look more pathetic in the long run, though despite that pathetic nature, the words are not an outright lie.
“— But that’s enough about old times.” Noritoshi meanders back to the point. “I suppose we should not waste anymore time… May I present the Kamo omega…”
Beside him, Jin fidgets again. Red eyes burning bright as they watch the small delegation step to the side. Parting like a curtain, they reveal the slender figure that had been hidden behind them. With long, raven black hair that falls like a waterfall down her back and a heart shaped face that is consumed with a solemness that makes the female omega look far older than she surely is— she is pretty. And though it may be a small thing, Wasuke cannot help but feel a bit of relief for his son.
Together the clan watches as the Kamo omega steps forward. Despite the quiet sorrow in her expression, there is an unyielding courage that Wasuke sees in her as she moves without a shred of hesitation. Walking forward to meet her destiny with her chin raised high. Her honey gold eyes remain locked on Watashi. Hardly daring to waver as she comes to a stop a few feet away from the head of the Ryoumen clan.
“Kaori Kamo,” Noritoshi finishes.
Kaori bows deeply to Watashi, hair falling around her face as it hangs toward the floor. “Ryoumen-sama. It is an honor.”
The room is silent and for a moment Wasuke wonders what his brother might do.
However, it is not his brother who makes the first move.
On his right, Jin twitches again, though rather than being a simple random movement, the young alpha takes a step forward. breaking protocol and moving out of rank— something that has the rest of the Ryoumen clan on edge as he takes a few steps up and comes to stand before the Kamo omega.
Watashi opens his mouth, but Wasuke moves subtly to grab at his brother’s sleeve. The insubordination of interrupting the head of the clan is something he knows he will pay for later— most likely with blood — though he cannot bring himself to care.
Not when he watches his son look at this omega with wide, dumb struck eyes. Burning red as an ember and awe etched into every corner of his face. Not when the Kamo omega looks back, a softening in her face as her honey gold eyes seem to melt. Not when, in an instant, all too telling, the scent of ripe peaches, gunpowder, cedar and sunshine began to meld together seamlessly… Creating one scent of contentment that leaves everyone in the room stunned.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Noritoshi Kamo says, a savagely pleased grin pulling on his old, weathered face. “They’re—”
Mates.
The unspoken word ripples through the room as Jin and the Kamo omega stare at one another as though the rest of the world has fallen away.
Beside him, Watashi breathes out long and slow. And then turns his gaze back to the Kamo leader.
“I suppose that speaks for itself… Shall we finalize the paperwork and be done with it?” Watashi says. And though it is a question, Wasuke knows that his brother will not accept any other answer other than the one he wants.
Wasuke catches sight of the expression on the young Kamo boy’s face and finds that same terrible expression now laid bare.
Rage.
Icy cold and penetrating, it takes hold of his face before his dark eyes flicker away from the scene of his sister and Jin staring at one another in awe and whispering quiet words to each other. The rage is gone in an instant, but Wasuke knows what he saw. As a man who has worn a multitude of masks, he understands intimately just how easily some people can hide behind them. There is little doubt in his mind that this Kamo boy wears a mask, the same as him...
And he wonders what it might be hiding.