The heavy summer heat presses down, cicadas droning relentlessly in the thick, still air.
Outside, narrow roads wind past weathered wooden homes with tiled roofs, and rice paddies stretch toward the distant hills. Inside, the low hum of cheap standing fans and the occasional passing car fill the otherwise silent room.
On this slow fall day, only an old woman and a drunkard remain, seated quietly in a restaurant that looks like it's been passed down for generations. The furniture is barely holding itself together. Creaky wooden chairs surround the counter in the middle of the room.
A young boy is working the counter. His short brown hair falls over his face as his sharp green eyes dart around the room. The guests can barely see his uniform, a white tank top covered in grease stains, and a pair of old green shorts over the counter as just his head and shoulders peek over.
The drunkard loudly calls out for more sake. With a groan, the boy grabs a bottle from behind the counter and brings it to him.
The boy looks at the drunkard in disappointment and asks, "Naku, why do you spend all your time here drinking up all of our alcohol, and why do you always bring that weird thing with you?"
"Young Jiro," he slurs, "there are many questions that do not be asked right now, and those are all of them."
"Tch." Jiro pouts.
"I'll tell you one thing. This here thing... is my gourd, and it's very convenient for many things besides carrying sake." Naku snickers to himself.
"Like what?" the boy asks with excitement.
"Ah, Jiro, again with the questions. I am done answering, so take them somewhere else. Now are you going to refill this weird thing or not?"
"…my dad says that if I don't do good in school that, I'll turn out just like you."
A large man loomed behind Jiro, the shade of his hair matching the boy's. His slightly accented voice breaks the quiet as he reaches out and snatches the bottle from Jiro's grasp, "What did I tell you about touching this? You're going to get this whole place shut down."
The boy groaned under his breath, "It's only Naku."
The large man chops Jiro on top of his head. "Ow" the boy winces.
Then he turns to Naku and apologizes placing the bottle on the table, "Sorry, Naku, we greatly appreciate you choosing our restaurant to drink at. "Please forget whatever nonsense my son was spewing; he has quite the imagination."
The front door swings open before Jiro can contest his father. The ring of bells on the door alerts everyone inside. Jiro's dad's voice echoes through the nearly empty restaurant: "Welcome."
Naku and Jiro turn their heads as three young men in suits walk through the door. Two have dark, slicked-back hair, led by another who's head is clean-shaven. Tattoos snake up their necks and disappear beneath their collars—intricate dragons and koi fish etched in ink. Scars mark their faces and hands, and the hard demeanor in their eyes leaves no doubt: they're yakuza.
Jiro's father steps behind the counter, forcing a smile. 'What can I do for y'all today?' he asks, though a slight tremble in his voice betrays his unease.
The bald gangster leading the men curls his lip in disgust and snarls, "You know why we're here. Payment's gone up."
"Payment? For what?" Jiro's father asks, his tone caught somewhere between confusion and dread.
"Don't make this more difficult than this needs to be. The boss is going to need more money if we're going to continue all the security we've been providing."
Jiro's father stammers, clearly thrown off. "Protection? This town is…"
Before he finishes his sentence, the bald man kicks one of the standing fans to the floor smashing it to pieces.
The man's glare sharpens, and the muscles in his jaw tighten as he fixes Jiro's father with a hard look. "Accidents happen all the time. Peaceful towns just like this can turn ugly real quick. The wrong people start coming in, and then there's no more peace. What keeps the peace is us keeping those folks out. So I'm going to ask you again—where's our payment?"
Turning swiftly to his son, Jiro's father said under his breath, "Go into the other room now."
Jiro hesitates for a moment but reluctantly slips into the other room, pressing himself against the doorway to watch silently.
Casting a quick look at Naku, he noticed that he was ignoring the chaos, carelessly chugging from a bottle of sake.
Turning back to face the men, Jiro's father pleaded, " I don't want any trouble just give me some time and I can get you some money."
The gangster quickly approached Jiro's father and slammed his hand on the counter.
"This isn't a negotiation. We want the payment now! Don't make us bring your boy into this. Our boss has a... special interest in kids like him. Maybe he'll take him as payment instead." The gangster let out a low, chilling giggle.
Jiro gasped, fear tightening his chest, as he scrambled behind the door for cover.
With a glance in his son's direction, Jiro's father sighed deeply, defeated, and then moved toward the register to gather whatever money he could scavenge.
While his father frantically collected the cash, the gangster sneered, "See it wasn't that hard. Now be a good dog and make sure you don't leave anything behind. And make sure you can cough up more than this next month. This is the only warning you'll be getting. Don't make us repeat ourselves."
Away from the counter, one of the men drifted toward Naku's table, sweat dripping from his brow. One of his pinky fingers was missing as he wiped the sweat from his face. He reaches across the table, fingers closing tightly around the half-empty bottle of sake in Naku's hand.
Naku tightens his grip on the bottle and, without meeting the gangster's gaze says, "Last time I checked this bottle was mine… Oh well" Naku suddenly releases his firm grip sending the bottle crashing to the floor.
The gangster jerks back, then lunges toward him. "You got a death wish, old man?!"
Naku sits there, unfazed, eyes fixed on the shattered bottle. He sighs. "Shame, that was some really good sake…"
"Tch. Useless old man." He turns his back and starts walking off.
Halfway through his turn, he lashes out with a sudden, blind punch at Naku.
The punch comes fast—but the drunk is faster.
Without rising from his seat, he catches the man's wrist mid-air. In one fluid, almost lazy motion, he twists and yanks—slamming the thug to the ground with a heavy thud.
The room goes still.
Naku takes a heavy swig from his gourd, staggers upright, then wipes his chin with the back of his sleeve.
"Alright," he slurs. "Which one of you is next?". He can barely raise his fists—limp hands, arms wobbling and swaying like a ship caught in a storm.
The other two men stand in shock before charging him. They close in fast. The bald one strikes first, throwing a heavy swing at Naku. At the last second, Naku drunkenly stumbles to the floor dodging the blow.
The second man lunges with a vicious kick aimed at Naku's ribs, but before it lands, Naku spins sharply, sweeping the man's opposite leg out from under him with a swift kick , sending him crashing flat on his back.
Naku gets to his feet, rocking unsteadily. He lifts the gourd for another swig, loudly exhales, and taunts the other man with a lazy grin.
"I thought you boys were in a hurry?"
Enraged, the bald man lunges for a wooden stool, gripping it with both hands. He hoists it overhead, ready to bring it down in a bone-breaking swing.
But in a staggering blur, Naku rips the stool from midair, spins it loose, and drives it hard into the thug's gut. As the man groans on the ground, Naku plops into the seat and takes another drink.
"Ahh," he grins. ""You boys need a break, or should I keep going?"
Breathing heavily and clutching their injured limbs, the two men exchange a look and reluctantly back down.
The bald one curses loudly, "Damn old man, we'll kill you for this!" With a final glare, the two grab the incapacitated third and haul him toward the door. Limping and grumbling, they stumble out of the restaurant.
Baffled, the father looks at Naku and stutters, "Thank you so much. How can I repay you?"
Naku shakes his head and simply points to a fresh bottle of sake on the wall.
Jiro runs out from the doorway in absolute awe. "How did you do that! You're amazing! Can you teach me! Pleeeease! Pleeeeease!"
Naku burps then states, "Kids don't need to worry about such things."
"I'm not a kid! I'm thirteen years old." Jiro responds with a pout.
Naku sighs, grabs the bottle, and then proceeds to stumble out of the restaurant.
"Jiro, are you okay?" His father asks. Jiro quickly responds and asks, "Why did you just give up and give them the money?"
His father looks down in shame, "I just wanted to keep you safe, Jiro."
"Well, you didn't! It was Naku who did that! Ever since mom died, you've just been moping around and letting everyone walk all over you. I don't even recognize you anymore. It's like you're a completely different person! Like c'mon, even Naku fought back, and he could barely even stand!"
As Jiro talks, the father looks over at an old family portrait hanging on the wall. With a much younger Jiro smiling on his lap and a young Japanese woman with jet-black hair and a pretty smile throwing her arms around an entirely different version of himself. He looks down in sadness.
Watching his father, Jiro walks over to the front door and mutters before leaving, "… whatever, you're pathetic". Jiro grabs his old bike covered in rust from the side of the broken-down brick wall by the door and speeds off as fast as possible.
As the door to the restaurant closes, Jiro's dad looks back at the family portrait.
Jiro, peddling his bike up a steep hill, finally arrives at the top and reveals a breath-taking view of the ocean. The sun is starting to set. The sky is painted with tones of pink and yellow. Jiro's eyes light up.
He gets off his bike and takes his shoes off. He sits on the cold, wet sand, digging his feet into the earth. He stares off into the distance in hopes of something more.