antipathy

1 - antipathy

Yeah, it was cold.

It was cold and Kenma, as with most things, hated it. Though Kenma did much prefer the cold to the heat; The cold was crisp, clean. The heat blended everything together into one big, messy sweat-blob. Definitely not Kenma's style.

Rain drizzles delicately from the clouded sky, allowing a mesmerizing sheen to coat the asphalt beneath the occasional street lamp. The moon didn't dare make an appearance tonight, not with the event taking place just down the road.

The smell of the rain calms Kenma's oddly jumpy nerves. Kenma wasn't typically skittish, he was usually able to keep a level head and stay observant of the situation. But---tonight was different.

The shoulders of Kenma's tux were a bit wet, which sent chills down the skinny boy's small body. He had a small form, one that was agile, and usually able to fit through narrow places. He reminded himself, and many, many others, of a cat in this way. Not to mention Kenma's prominently feline-like features.

He, in no way, was a cat—-he just resembled one so fiercely that it's not like you couldn't recognize it.

This exact reason was what made it so easy for the boy to slip through the slender window propped open in the back of the building. Obviously, someone had made a simple, yet vital, mistake by leaving the opening available.

Kenma was sure it'd get whoever did it killed, but that wasn't Kenma's problem, so it wasn't his concern.

After adjusting his sleeves and checking up on the 9 mm pistol he has strapped to his ankle, he wanders out of the bathroom he'd landed in and out into a hallway.

Yeah, Kenma didn't really know where he was going, but he wasn't too worried about that. Kenma was never really worried about anything, to be honest.

Kozume Kenma suddenly finds himself walking into a room stuffed full with people. Mostly men, but a few women wander around, wearing elegantly designed dresses.

From a street-view, this was nothing but a run-down warehouse. But on the inside, down a level, this was an intricate ballroom, built to harbor banquets for Tokyo's most elite mafia groups. He knew because Kenma was just a boy when this was built, running around these hallways, while his father talked plans on the design of the building. Kozume Kenma knew practically every in and every out of this warehouse.

Kenma lines the outer edges of the ballroom, fulfilling his known role as the wallflower he is. He watches everyone from a distance, gathering new intel.

To anyone else, they'd feel terrified being stuck in a room full of A-list mafia families. But Kozume Kenma was not just anyone.

Kenma was the son of who would be called the "king" of the Japanese mafia within Tokyo.

The name? Satsujin.

Kenma, however, hasn't been a part of his own syndicate since he was sixteen. He's eighteen now.

And as far as anyone in the Japanese mafia was aware, Kozume Kenma had been dead for two years.

So, keeping a low profile was essential for Kenma in this crucial moment to gather intel.

Kenma often slithered into these events, just to keep tabs on new mafia groups that happened to pop up. It was important to keep himself educated about this particular thing, so he knew which areas to avoid.

Plus, no one could ever recognize Kenma now unless they paid especially close attention. The teen had died his hair blonde after being proclaimed "dead" two years ago, and while it may have grown out a bit, it still provided cover. That paired with a spurt of puberty caused Kenma's features to age well within the past couple of years.