Alert Your Clan

“What is that you want?”

“I just want her for about an hour or two, promise I won’t hurt her. If, you follow my instructions.”

Ryuji tried to memorize the man’s dress and voice. Dark grey jinbei. Lingering nicotine. Low, husky tone. Familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

A white origami flower floated over to Ryuji and softly landed on his hand.

“Keep this with you at all times, if you try to discard or tamper with it, she dies, I’d know.”

He nudged Sayuri forward. “Smile, ojo-chan. We’re going for a walk. Don’t upset the crowd.”

Sayuri hitched a sharp yelp.

“As long as you listen, you’ll be fine. Now, walk.”

They rejoined the crowd shuffling towards the bridge; the kidnapper made it look as if Sayuri-san was supporting a drunk. His left arm over her shoulder, his right hand on her obi, something hidden under the sleeve.

“A few rules for her safety.” He muttered, Ryuji stiffened.

“Your goal is to tell your clan she’s been taken. Simple.”

Clan?

“Report this to anyone else, she dies.” He leaned on Sayuri. She flinched. Ryuji was amazed she was holding herself together.

“You have until the fireworks and bring your clan to Kuramae bridge, until then she’ll be safe. Probably.” He picked up the pace and Ryuji realized it was him who was supporting Sayuri-san.

“Go, alert your clan.” He nodded his head towards where Yukiharu-san and Masaki-san would be.

“Sayuri, I’ll be back for you. I promise.”

“When he returns, you can tell him what you wanted to tell him. Something to look forward to.”

Ryuji clenched his fist.

He will save her.

Somehow.

His first objective is to report to his “clan.”

Did the man mean his family back in Chiba?

Can’t be. It could be a metaphor for something else.

Yukiharu-san came to his mind.

He had to meet up with her and tell her what happened.

Ryuji shoved through the crowd, bumping shoulders and elbows. His fists were clenched tight. This was his fault. He should have paid attention when he saw the oni mask. That man had been waiting for the right moment to snatch Sayuri-san.

He stumbled into a group of men and muttered an absent apology.

He needed to tell the authorities—then he looked at the white origami flower in his hand. It resembled the ones placed at funerals. Sayuri-san’s pale face flashed in his mind.

He needed help. This was beyond him.

The Sumida Park entrance near Ushijima Shrine was just as crowded. The noise pressed in on him. The smell of grilled squid turned his stomach. He needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere to think.

He didn’t notice the same group he’d bumped into peel away from the crowd and follow him toward the secluded edge of the shrine.

Ryuji found himself about to fiddle with the white flower origami in his pocket.

Tamper with it or Sayuri dies.

He had to find this “Clan” as soon as possible.

“Hey, kid.”

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. Ryuji turned, three unfamiliar faces studying him as if they had met somewhere before.

“I knew it.”

They dragged him into the unlit corner of the park.

He didn’t have time for this.

His body moved on reflex. Bow. Apologize. Escape.

One of them lifted a brick‑sized walkie‑talkie. Another shifted his jacket, revealing a red oni mask tucked inside.

Wanyudo‑gumi.

His breath sharpened. They might be connected to the man in the jinbei.

“Where’s the dark grey jinbei?” Ryuji’s voice sharpened.

A fist answered him.

He blocked on instinct and bound his charm. The other two closed in immediately, coordinated, silent, intent on violence rather than conversation.

He shifted the scales to keep their hands off him, creating just enough space to breathe. They didn’t bind. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t care about his questions.

Every second he spent here was a second Sayuri was alone.

“Where’s Sayuri?” He struck with the scale, the impact muffled, the violence feeling distant and wrong.

Another attacker lunged. Ryuji blocked; the man screamed as the scale repelled him.

“What clan do I have to report to?” He yelled.

They still didn’t know anything.

And Ryuji was losing time.

Ryuji stood over the fallen men, trying to steady his breathing. His left arm throbbed from the earlier block; the numbness crawled up to his shoulder. He thanked the scale under his breath and unbound it.

He knelt beside the nearest attacker, desperate for answers.

A burst of static crackled from the brick‑sized walkie‑talkie on the ground.

“Yukiharu Hanako of Yukihana‑ikka. Festival night is neutral ground. Stand down.”

Ryuji froze.

Her voice.

What was she doing on a syndicate channel?

Yukihana‑ikka… he knew that name. He’d heard it in passing radio or tv news, never connected to her.

It made all sense. Older and unsavory people bowing with respect to a high school girl. Street thugs targeting her and kidnapping attempts.

His stomach dropped.

She didn't distance herself from him and Sayuri after the attack out of rejection. But for protection.

She is the clan the kidnapper meant.

He picked up the walkie‑talkie with shaking fingers.

“Yukiharu‑san,” he said into it, voice tight.

“They have Sayuri‑san.”

“Yukiharu? You’re the boss’s daughter?
Good.
We have the girl.
Fifty million yen.
Half an hour.
Kuramae bridge on our side.
If you don’t pay, she pays.”

Sayuri.

Walkie-talkie slipped his fingers,

“Minato-san, where are you?” Yukiharu-san’s voice crackled through the machine, but he was already too far away.

Kuramae, four bridges down.

He shoved through the crowd, faces blurred, colors bleeding together. His hands forced the blurred colors aside.

His heartbeat drowned everything else and started to beat like her name: Sayuri.

If he was too late, he’d never forgive himself.