Post by Shoji Wakeshima on May 1, 2015 0:19:04 GMT -5
Time: About a year, year and a half ago, 2014. (Age: 19)
Location: Kyoto, Japan.
"Ahh… ahh…" Shoji gasped and panted, a shudder running down his back as he lurched one last time. Slick fingers slipped from the black-haired man’s mouth, and he choked back before spitting the remnants of vomit onto the ground and wiping involuntary tears from his eyes. His breathing was heavy and the Japanese man wiped the small beads of sweat on his forehead, standing up straight before turning and leaning against the alleyway wall. Unscrewing the cap from a water bottle, Shoji brought it to his lips and swigged before spitting out the cool liquid. Crimson hues stared momentarily at the mess he had made, which was light and nearly entirely liquid-based, before looking back up. A sigh then fell from his lips and the young man closed his eyes for a few minutes, relaxing by his lonesome outside of his place of employment.
Whenever he had a break, Shoji would either make his way outside of the Host Club or to the bathroom, and proceed to purge himself of the copious amount of alcohol he had just previously consumed. His job required him to keep the company of women, to laugh and converse and drink with them, and the more they ordered and the longer they stayed, the more money he and the Host Club made. And Shoji was easily one of the top providers, in the year he had worked there rising up and becoming the number one host and having countless clients.
Every night, the black-haired man gave multiple women a good time, often drawing in groups with his infectious personality, as well as spending alone time with typically wealthier women, often on their own, wishing for him to whisper them sweet nothings and listen sympathetically to their worries, and drank nearly every day of the week more than any man should drink in an entire month, if not more. But so was the way of a host worth his salt, and, to continue throughout the night, the tall Japanese man had learned to frequently forcefully expel the liquor from his system. It hardly mattered to him, as Shoji was earning on average 4,788,200 Yen a month (40,000 USD). On top of his job, he continued seeing wealthy women (and even a couple of men), a few of which were his clients, acting as a courtesan, of sorts, something he had been doing for years despite his young age, earning and receiving even more. He even continued to dabble a little bit with the mafia, distributing drugs to wealthier clients, although had stopped with the human trafficking, something he had thoroughly enjoyed during his stay in Europe, for now at the very least. There wasn’t the time for that at the moment with him in Japan and working full-time as a host. But he made due all the same, making more on his own than he ever did before. For a man as hungry for wealth and pleasures as Shoji was, to continue indulging in the upscale lifestyle he so greatly desired he would do whatever it took, and then some.
The tall Japanese man removed a small bottle of mouthwash from his leather jacket and, as he opened his eyes, Shoji heard the back door of the establishment open. When his red gaze slid over, he found one of his coworkers, Hiro Nakahara, stumble a little into the alleyway, a nearly empty bottle of champagne in his hand, likely the leftovers from a client. Despite the man giving Shoji a glower, the taller of the two flashed Hiro a bright smile before leaning his head back, taking a mouthful of mouthwash and garling. When he bent over to spit it out, Shoji heard a seething, “Fuck you, Wakeshima!”
Shoji stood tall again and blinked, tilting his head to the side with his expression remaining light, despite the animosity. “Hm~?”
Despite acting cordial towards everyone he was acquaintances with, Hiro had an intense dislike towards Shoji, more so than some of the other hosts. The reason was simple enough, and the tall Japanese man was highly aware of it: jealousy. Some of the guys had been working in the club for a couple of years and, quickly after Shoji started, he surpassed most of them. After a few months, he was one of the top hosts, and after a year Shoji Wakeshima had become number one. The manager was more than pleased, and most of the men Shoji had ‘befriended’ there cheered him on, or were at least were indifferent. But a small handful were frustrated with Shoji’s success, something the young man had found to be quite understandable. But he was hardly worried. The same had happened in the dojos the Japanese man had trained in as a child; he had excelled in training and competitions, and swiftly surpassed the other students, most of whom had been there longer than him. Many of the boys had grown envious of Shoji, but, if they attacked out of those feelings, he merely beat them down and quickly made them sorry they had ever attempted to fight against him. At the Host Club, they didn’t fight with bokkens or fists, but most had come to learn that competing with Shoji was silly at best, and trying to surpass him was a fool’s errand. Simply put, his dedication (to wealth and power) was something very few could ever hope to match.
“Don’t act all cute,” Hiro’s words snapped Shoji out of his thoughts and brought him back to the present. The other man had approached him, now only a few feet away. But Shoji didn’t move, his back still against the wall, and Nakahara pointed an accusatory finger towards Shoji, growling, “I know the truth, asshole, and I’m not fuckin’ happy about it.”
Shoji blinked, and his gaze seemed to hold nothing but innocence. Giving a light chuckle, the taller man gave a friendly smile and remarked, tone light and carefree, quite contradictory to the intensity of Nakahara, “Hiro-kun, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t Hiro-kun me, fucker!” Hiro shouted, taking a step forward and grabbing Shoji’s collar. He pushed the taller of the two further against the brick wall. “We ain’t friends! And it’s Nakahara-san to you.”
Red eyes stared momentarily down at Hiro, narrowing in the slightest. Shoji felt an intense urge to grab his coworker’s hand and bend it back until it broke, his screams filling the air, but he resisted, pushing it back. Instead, he chose to chuckle, closing his eyes and smiling. “Alright then. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nakahara-san?”
That only seemed to further enrage the other host, who shook Shoji once, or perhaps it was simply that no matter what Shoji said or did Hiro would be pissed. Looking at the other man, the latter seemed most likely. Fortunately (for Hiro), he released Shoji’s collar and seethed, “You are so full of shit, Wakeshima. So fucking full of it.”
Glaring at Shoji, Nagahara leaned closer and whispered lowly, “I know you’re underage.”
Shoji blinked, and his eyes slowly began to widen. He knew what? His smile remained, but it faltered, just a smidge.
“And I’m in the right mind to say something.”
The Japanese man swallowed and his chest tightened, muscles throughout his tall, strong form tensing. Nothing short of fury twisted at Shoji’s insides, unadulterated, staggering. Shoji imagined reaching back, unsheathing his katana, and cutting Hiro from his shoulder to his hip, clean through. No, that was hardly satisfying. It would go much too quickly. The blade could cut through his stomach, spilling his innards, and Shoji could pierce the sharp blade into him, again and again, leaving nothing but a tattered mess. He could flay him, cut limb from limb, remove his tongue, stab his eyes, his agonized scream piercing the air, blood spattering across Shoji, drenching him from head to toe, spilling across the alleyway.
But… Shoji’s katana was at home, and he wouldn’t do something so terribly foolish. They were out in public, after all, and someone was bound to see. But the fantasized scenes gave him the smallest shiver of pleasure, overriding the rage, both of which he forced down. Oh, if only Shoji had been born in the old days, back when samurai could slaughter with ease and bathe in blood! The thought was enough to cause a corner of his lips to twitch, tempted to curl into a lopsided smile. But… why that would be inappropriate considering the situation, now wouldn’t it?
The Japanese man returned to the present, mind quickly reeling over what to do. Despite only being a year away from being the legal age in Japan, Shoji had lied upon being interviewed for the job, claiming he was twenty-two instead of eighteen, and there was no doubt there would be trouble is news came out. While his manager may not mind, legal action could be taken, and Shoji couldn’t let that happen. He was a careful man, always hiding his dark perversions and his corrupt nature, his dirty deeds, all beyond smiles and false warmth, and he had done so for years, fooling his parents, his older siblings, his classmates, his coworkers, everyone. Everyone who he hid it from, which was the vast majority of people in his life. And Shoji was successful here at the Host Club like he was everywhere else, and his coworker was acting as a threat. The predator within the seemingly ever-pleasant Shoji rumbled.
Fortunately, Shoji didn’t have to say or do anything, as Nakahara went on, taking a step back:
“I just found out a couple of days ago. Did some digging. I haven’t told anyone yet, but… but a bunch of us guys are pissed. You’re here just a handful of months and you already are ranking at the very top, and stealing away some of our clients.”
Shoji continued to smile and remarked, tone still light, almost teasing, “Weeell, to be fair, they asked to move over to me-”
“Shut the fuck up, Wakeshima! Fucking shut. up,” exclaimed the other man, taking another swig from the bottle before throwing it onto the ground. Shoji looked down at his coworker, deciding not to further push him and closed his mouth. Despite everything, the man was surprisingly relaxed. He probably could have acted more intimidated, but fear wasn’t something Shoji particularly experienced. But, at the very least, he refrained from the feigned pleasantness, his smile disappearing and the man instead staring steadily at Hiro, who continued to speak, his voice lowering this time, “I… I might not tell if…. if there are some changes, Wakeshima.”
The taller of the two raised his brows. So he hoped to blackmail Shoji? Well, that was a first, at least for him to be on the receiving end. Nakahara went on to explain how he wanted Shoji to take on less clients, to stop gathering more, to work less, among other things. After a point, Shoji simply tuned him out, making his own plans. No way in hell the underage host was going to follow Hiro’s demands. The very thought was laughable at best, if the idea of someone else trying to have this level of control over him didn’t stir wrath deep within his belly. Shoji hid his aggression and his darker nature quite well, keeping his abuse to those he knew would submit, such as his younger siblings who were back in America. Towards everyone else, and even the younger Wakeshima’s when toying with them, he had on a convincing mask, one he always kept up and sometimes even convinced himself was real. That he was a warm, kind fellow, always genuine and everyone’s friend. It was all a farce, really, as he was a psychopath, the charismatic kind, and Shoji felt an urge he had not experienced for some time, and certainly not to this degree: bloodlust. He wanted this man’s life for daring to oppose him, to try and control him, Shoji.
“Al… Alright, Nakahara-san,” the Japanese man said quietly, feigning nervousness, mimicking the stutter he often heard from his darling sister, Say-chan, when he slipped into her room at night or when the rest of the family was gone, and cornered her to the bed.
This brought a satisfied sneer to Hiro’s face. “Good”
Taking some more steps back, Nakahara turned and started to head towards the entrance, remarking with a wave of his hand, “Well, I’m off. Remember. I. Know. And I’ll tell, too, if there aren’t changes made.”
Shoji gave a nod, acting as though he complied, and he watched the other man slip back into the Host Club. When Hiro was gone, Shoji’s crimson eyes narrowed sharply. For him, anyone, to have the audacity to oppose him, to try and take control of Shoji and his life. He… he was the puppet master. He was the one manipulated those around him, whether they were aware or not. He wasn’t one to be controlled! But, ever the optimist, Shoji saw the silver lining, and his heavy breathing lessened as he settled. Unfortunately, Hiro had made the mistake of letting Shoji know not another soul knew. His coworker was keeping the information to himself and would only tell if Shoji displeased him.
A hand covering Shoji’s face, a cheshire cat grin spread across his lips. It was unlike his other typical smiles, those he frequently gave to others. There was no warmth there, no expertly imitated kindness and genuinity. No, this was sinister and close to manic, and a low chuckle rumbled deep within his broad chest. Despite being furious with the man and his attempt on him, Shoji knew his coworker’s upper-hand wouldn’t last long, in fact he would ensure it. And the thought of what would soon come next was rather... sensational.
Reaching into his pants pocket, the Japanese man popped in a breath mint and sauntered over to the Host Club, opening the door and stepping inside. Giving smiles and nods here and there to his other coworkers, Shoji returned to his table, where two nearly identical girls barely the legal age for drinking sat.
“We have been waiting, Shoji-kuuuun~” one of them exclaimed, pouting her painted lips.
The other bounced up and down in her seat and nodded her head in agreement to her sister. “Yeaaah. We haven’t seen you in so loooong. We’ve missed yoouuu!”
The two Shoji approached were rich twins of a man of great power in Japan, the head of a manufacturing company. They tended to come at least twice a week, if not more, but, from his understanding, they had left on a trip for a month with their family and were now back home in Japan. And, like clockwork, they came to see him the night they returned. It probably helped considering Shoji had slept with them both a few months back. Like lovesick puppies, the girls clung to him and were more than eager to spend their money on him.
As Shoji sat down between the girls, his gaze slid over Nakahara from across the room, who poured one of his client’s a drink with a wide smile on his face, showing no sign of his previous venom. Watching him for a moment longer, Shoji quickly turned to Aika and Aiko and closed his eyes, giving them a bright beam as he extended his arms and wrapped them around their shoulders, “I’m terribly sorry, Aika-chan, Aiko-chan. I was held up on the phone with my mother longer than anticipated. She worries, with all of these late nights and all. My apologies. I would hate to worry two lovely girls such as yourselves.”
“Oh, you~” Aiko swatted his arm playfully.
Aika pursed her lips and seemed to swoon. “Awww~ You still talk to your mom?”
“That is so sweet!”
The three of them laughed and gave back and forths. Shoji kept light conversation, listening to the girls excitedly tell all of their adventures on their trip, all while darker thoughts swirled within his head. It would take some planning, taking care of his… predicament. While occasionally having dreamt of it and feeling tickles of temptation in the past, Shoji had never killed before. Well, humans, anyway. But this… why, it was a necessity, and so there was no point in resisting it. But Shoji was no fool. There was a great deal to think through and prepare in order for this to be successful. He couldn’t just kill Hiro outright. No, no. Shoji would have to make a set-up and ensure nothing could be tied back to him…
But this was hardly the time. Looking between his two clients, Shoji gave a warm smile and inquired with a happy, pleasant tone once there was a pause in conversation, “Now, what would you two ladies like to drink?”
Shoji flexed his fingers, the sound of leather stretching tickling his ears. His hands were gloved, and the Japanese man's black hair had been combed thoroughly earlier, so there would be no loose strands, no hair to fall from his head. A noose casually rested within his covered palms, and Shoji twirled the rope, twisting it. He would have liked to have used his katana, the one he practiced in training for so many years, to see the blood spill, the feel the blade plunge into his flesh. But that would be foolish, and the man resisted his urges. No, this, what he had planned was far better, smarter, and Shoji liked to think of himself as an intelligent man.
It was two days after the threat had been made, and Shoji had kept a low profile the next day, supposedly pleasing his coworker, and today was his night off, whereas Hiro was working. It had been easy enough to break into the man's home; Nakahara wasn't a particularly wise man. It seemed to get the nice breeze of spring he had left open a window, which Shoji had slipped into quite easily a couple of hours before. Starting up his computer, he had written a suicide note, one that sounded convincingly like Hiro Nakahara, that mimicked his voice quite perfectly, if he might say so himself. Hell, Shoji was even proud of the work, spinning a tale, weaving in his coworker’s well-known alcohol abuse problem. It really wasn’t all that difficult. Hiro mostly kept to himself and constantly drank, often falling ill from doing so. For a man such as himself to die by his own hands was something easily believable. There would likely be a minimal investigation.
Time passed by, the man lurking in the darkest corners of the apartment, waiting, biding his time in silence. Around five a.m., Shoji heard his target stumble to the front door, jiggling his key in the door with a muttered curse. The tall Japanese man stalked in the shadows, a predator waiting patiently but ever so hungrily for his prey. Hiro stumbled inside, turning on just a single light, hissing at the shine in his eyes, and throwing his keys on the counter. Most of the home was still dark, and Shoji remained hidden as Hiro went to his fridge and grabbed a beer. The predator hided his time, letting the man finish one, then another. Time had to pass, after all, for everything to add up as Shoji planned, and the more he drank the more accepted the story would be.
About an hour passed and Hiro went to stumble to bed. Upon making the turn for the bedroom, Shoji finally leaped out from the night, a panther striking its prey, and brought the noose over the man’s head. Rope swiftly pressed against his neck with great force, to the point where Hiro couldn’t even make out a sound, his windpipes crushed by the sheer power. With all of his years of athletic training in dojos, Shoji was not only tall but exceptionally strong, and, no matter how much he writhed, Nakahara didn’t stand a chance. His eyes were bulging and Shoji pulled taught with both gloved hands. The struggle against the front of his form, the silent, hopeless gasps for breath, it caused shivers to run down Shoji’s back, and he released a soft, audible moan of satisfaction as he felt the life slip away from his prey, and all by his hands. Nothing… nothing in his whole life had felt so terribly wonderful. The tattered animals of his childhood, and the sprains and bruises from his younger siblings, the wails of the women upon the realization they had been tricked and were going to be sold as sex slaves back in Italy and Europe, and the quiet sobs from his sister Sayuri as he violated her were nothing compared to this, to actually feeling the life of someone, a human being, slip through his fingers, to witness them die from his own hands. He rolled his crimson eyes back and released a huff that was close to a single chuckle through his grin.
“Sayonara, Hi-ro-kun~” Shoji whispered in Hiro's ear, emphasizing his name and adding the friendly suffix as a taunt, one last final jab before the light would leave his eyes, and they did. The other host's body slumped against the taller's front and Shoji could hear his breath fall from his blue lips.
Tears had fallen down the other man's cheeks and, with a gloved finger, Shoji wiped one away and licked it, chuckling as he tasted the saltiness across his tongue. But he couldn't stay and laugh, or succumb to the rising pleasure, that which coursed through his veins. He had work to do.
Shoji tightened the noose, releasing his hold on his prey, the deceased Hiro then slumping to floor. The tall Japanese man moved to the kitchen and brought over a chair and sat Hiro on it. He then threw the length of rope up onto a beam, lifting up the body and tying the rope securely. Afterwards, Shoji tipped over the chair accordingly to make it look like Nakahara had kicked it over, and he then stood to admire his work for a few minutes, savoring it, before, with a sigh, slipping out where he had entered just before daylight broke.
Now his problem was taken care of and he could come back to work without worry of losing his job, or perhaps worse. Shoji had turned the table and had control in the end, snuffing out the fool’s life, and it had felt so intoxicating doing so, flipping on a switch of sorts within the charismatic psychopath. As Shoji casually strolled home, all with a bounce in his step, he couldn’t help but wonder what the future had in store for him, and he laughed.
“Should be fun~” the man purred with a dangerous gleam in his crimson eyes, giving a smirk.
Location: Kyoto, Japan.
"Ahh… ahh…" Shoji gasped and panted, a shudder running down his back as he lurched one last time. Slick fingers slipped from the black-haired man’s mouth, and he choked back before spitting the remnants of vomit onto the ground and wiping involuntary tears from his eyes. His breathing was heavy and the Japanese man wiped the small beads of sweat on his forehead, standing up straight before turning and leaning against the alleyway wall. Unscrewing the cap from a water bottle, Shoji brought it to his lips and swigged before spitting out the cool liquid. Crimson hues stared momentarily at the mess he had made, which was light and nearly entirely liquid-based, before looking back up. A sigh then fell from his lips and the young man closed his eyes for a few minutes, relaxing by his lonesome outside of his place of employment.
Whenever he had a break, Shoji would either make his way outside of the Host Club or to the bathroom, and proceed to purge himself of the copious amount of alcohol he had just previously consumed. His job required him to keep the company of women, to laugh and converse and drink with them, and the more they ordered and the longer they stayed, the more money he and the Host Club made. And Shoji was easily one of the top providers, in the year he had worked there rising up and becoming the number one host and having countless clients.
Every night, the black-haired man gave multiple women a good time, often drawing in groups with his infectious personality, as well as spending alone time with typically wealthier women, often on their own, wishing for him to whisper them sweet nothings and listen sympathetically to their worries, and drank nearly every day of the week more than any man should drink in an entire month, if not more. But so was the way of a host worth his salt, and, to continue throughout the night, the tall Japanese man had learned to frequently forcefully expel the liquor from his system. It hardly mattered to him, as Shoji was earning on average 4,788,200 Yen a month (40,000 USD). On top of his job, he continued seeing wealthy women (and even a couple of men), a few of which were his clients, acting as a courtesan, of sorts, something he had been doing for years despite his young age, earning and receiving even more. He even continued to dabble a little bit with the mafia, distributing drugs to wealthier clients, although had stopped with the human trafficking, something he had thoroughly enjoyed during his stay in Europe, for now at the very least. There wasn’t the time for that at the moment with him in Japan and working full-time as a host. But he made due all the same, making more on his own than he ever did before. For a man as hungry for wealth and pleasures as Shoji was, to continue indulging in the upscale lifestyle he so greatly desired he would do whatever it took, and then some.
The tall Japanese man removed a small bottle of mouthwash from his leather jacket and, as he opened his eyes, Shoji heard the back door of the establishment open. When his red gaze slid over, he found one of his coworkers, Hiro Nakahara, stumble a little into the alleyway, a nearly empty bottle of champagne in his hand, likely the leftovers from a client. Despite the man giving Shoji a glower, the taller of the two flashed Hiro a bright smile before leaning his head back, taking a mouthful of mouthwash and garling. When he bent over to spit it out, Shoji heard a seething, “Fuck you, Wakeshima!”
Shoji stood tall again and blinked, tilting his head to the side with his expression remaining light, despite the animosity. “Hm~?”
Despite acting cordial towards everyone he was acquaintances with, Hiro had an intense dislike towards Shoji, more so than some of the other hosts. The reason was simple enough, and the tall Japanese man was highly aware of it: jealousy. Some of the guys had been working in the club for a couple of years and, quickly after Shoji started, he surpassed most of them. After a few months, he was one of the top hosts, and after a year Shoji Wakeshima had become number one. The manager was more than pleased, and most of the men Shoji had ‘befriended’ there cheered him on, or were at least were indifferent. But a small handful were frustrated with Shoji’s success, something the young man had found to be quite understandable. But he was hardly worried. The same had happened in the dojos the Japanese man had trained in as a child; he had excelled in training and competitions, and swiftly surpassed the other students, most of whom had been there longer than him. Many of the boys had grown envious of Shoji, but, if they attacked out of those feelings, he merely beat them down and quickly made them sorry they had ever attempted to fight against him. At the Host Club, they didn’t fight with bokkens or fists, but most had come to learn that competing with Shoji was silly at best, and trying to surpass him was a fool’s errand. Simply put, his dedication (to wealth and power) was something very few could ever hope to match.
“Don’t act all cute,” Hiro’s words snapped Shoji out of his thoughts and brought him back to the present. The other man had approached him, now only a few feet away. But Shoji didn’t move, his back still against the wall, and Nakahara pointed an accusatory finger towards Shoji, growling, “I know the truth, asshole, and I’m not fuckin’ happy about it.”
Shoji blinked, and his gaze seemed to hold nothing but innocence. Giving a light chuckle, the taller man gave a friendly smile and remarked, tone light and carefree, quite contradictory to the intensity of Nakahara, “Hiro-kun, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t Hiro-kun me, fucker!” Hiro shouted, taking a step forward and grabbing Shoji’s collar. He pushed the taller of the two further against the brick wall. “We ain’t friends! And it’s Nakahara-san to you.”
Red eyes stared momentarily down at Hiro, narrowing in the slightest. Shoji felt an intense urge to grab his coworker’s hand and bend it back until it broke, his screams filling the air, but he resisted, pushing it back. Instead, he chose to chuckle, closing his eyes and smiling. “Alright then. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nakahara-san?”
That only seemed to further enrage the other host, who shook Shoji once, or perhaps it was simply that no matter what Shoji said or did Hiro would be pissed. Looking at the other man, the latter seemed most likely. Fortunately (for Hiro), he released Shoji’s collar and seethed, “You are so full of shit, Wakeshima. So fucking full of it.”
Glaring at Shoji, Nagahara leaned closer and whispered lowly, “I know you’re underage.”
Shoji blinked, and his eyes slowly began to widen. He knew what? His smile remained, but it faltered, just a smidge.
“And I’m in the right mind to say something.”
The Japanese man swallowed and his chest tightened, muscles throughout his tall, strong form tensing. Nothing short of fury twisted at Shoji’s insides, unadulterated, staggering. Shoji imagined reaching back, unsheathing his katana, and cutting Hiro from his shoulder to his hip, clean through. No, that was hardly satisfying. It would go much too quickly. The blade could cut through his stomach, spilling his innards, and Shoji could pierce the sharp blade into him, again and again, leaving nothing but a tattered mess. He could flay him, cut limb from limb, remove his tongue, stab his eyes, his agonized scream piercing the air, blood spattering across Shoji, drenching him from head to toe, spilling across the alleyway.
But… Shoji’s katana was at home, and he wouldn’t do something so terribly foolish. They were out in public, after all, and someone was bound to see. But the fantasized scenes gave him the smallest shiver of pleasure, overriding the rage, both of which he forced down. Oh, if only Shoji had been born in the old days, back when samurai could slaughter with ease and bathe in blood! The thought was enough to cause a corner of his lips to twitch, tempted to curl into a lopsided smile. But… why that would be inappropriate considering the situation, now wouldn’t it?
The Japanese man returned to the present, mind quickly reeling over what to do. Despite only being a year away from being the legal age in Japan, Shoji had lied upon being interviewed for the job, claiming he was twenty-two instead of eighteen, and there was no doubt there would be trouble is news came out. While his manager may not mind, legal action could be taken, and Shoji couldn’t let that happen. He was a careful man, always hiding his dark perversions and his corrupt nature, his dirty deeds, all beyond smiles and false warmth, and he had done so for years, fooling his parents, his older siblings, his classmates, his coworkers, everyone. Everyone who he hid it from, which was the vast majority of people in his life. And Shoji was successful here at the Host Club like he was everywhere else, and his coworker was acting as a threat. The predator within the seemingly ever-pleasant Shoji rumbled.
Fortunately, Shoji didn’t have to say or do anything, as Nakahara went on, taking a step back:
“I just found out a couple of days ago. Did some digging. I haven’t told anyone yet, but… but a bunch of us guys are pissed. You’re here just a handful of months and you already are ranking at the very top, and stealing away some of our clients.”
Shoji continued to smile and remarked, tone still light, almost teasing, “Weeell, to be fair, they asked to move over to me-”
“Shut the fuck up, Wakeshima! Fucking shut. up,” exclaimed the other man, taking another swig from the bottle before throwing it onto the ground. Shoji looked down at his coworker, deciding not to further push him and closed his mouth. Despite everything, the man was surprisingly relaxed. He probably could have acted more intimidated, but fear wasn’t something Shoji particularly experienced. But, at the very least, he refrained from the feigned pleasantness, his smile disappearing and the man instead staring steadily at Hiro, who continued to speak, his voice lowering this time, “I… I might not tell if…. if there are some changes, Wakeshima.”
The taller of the two raised his brows. So he hoped to blackmail Shoji? Well, that was a first, at least for him to be on the receiving end. Nakahara went on to explain how he wanted Shoji to take on less clients, to stop gathering more, to work less, among other things. After a point, Shoji simply tuned him out, making his own plans. No way in hell the underage host was going to follow Hiro’s demands. The very thought was laughable at best, if the idea of someone else trying to have this level of control over him didn’t stir wrath deep within his belly. Shoji hid his aggression and his darker nature quite well, keeping his abuse to those he knew would submit, such as his younger siblings who were back in America. Towards everyone else, and even the younger Wakeshima’s when toying with them, he had on a convincing mask, one he always kept up and sometimes even convinced himself was real. That he was a warm, kind fellow, always genuine and everyone’s friend. It was all a farce, really, as he was a psychopath, the charismatic kind, and Shoji felt an urge he had not experienced for some time, and certainly not to this degree: bloodlust. He wanted this man’s life for daring to oppose him, to try and control him, Shoji.
“Al… Alright, Nakahara-san,” the Japanese man said quietly, feigning nervousness, mimicking the stutter he often heard from his darling sister, Say-chan, when he slipped into her room at night or when the rest of the family was gone, and cornered her to the bed.
This brought a satisfied sneer to Hiro’s face. “Good”
Taking some more steps back, Nakahara turned and started to head towards the entrance, remarking with a wave of his hand, “Well, I’m off. Remember. I. Know. And I’ll tell, too, if there aren’t changes made.”
Shoji gave a nod, acting as though he complied, and he watched the other man slip back into the Host Club. When Hiro was gone, Shoji’s crimson eyes narrowed sharply. For him, anyone, to have the audacity to oppose him, to try and take control of Shoji and his life. He… he was the puppet master. He was the one manipulated those around him, whether they were aware or not. He wasn’t one to be controlled! But, ever the optimist, Shoji saw the silver lining, and his heavy breathing lessened as he settled. Unfortunately, Hiro had made the mistake of letting Shoji know not another soul knew. His coworker was keeping the information to himself and would only tell if Shoji displeased him.
A hand covering Shoji’s face, a cheshire cat grin spread across his lips. It was unlike his other typical smiles, those he frequently gave to others. There was no warmth there, no expertly imitated kindness and genuinity. No, this was sinister and close to manic, and a low chuckle rumbled deep within his broad chest. Despite being furious with the man and his attempt on him, Shoji knew his coworker’s upper-hand wouldn’t last long, in fact he would ensure it. And the thought of what would soon come next was rather... sensational.
Reaching into his pants pocket, the Japanese man popped in a breath mint and sauntered over to the Host Club, opening the door and stepping inside. Giving smiles and nods here and there to his other coworkers, Shoji returned to his table, where two nearly identical girls barely the legal age for drinking sat.
“We have been waiting, Shoji-kuuuun~” one of them exclaimed, pouting her painted lips.
The other bounced up and down in her seat and nodded her head in agreement to her sister. “Yeaaah. We haven’t seen you in so loooong. We’ve missed yoouuu!”
The two Shoji approached were rich twins of a man of great power in Japan, the head of a manufacturing company. They tended to come at least twice a week, if not more, but, from his understanding, they had left on a trip for a month with their family and were now back home in Japan. And, like clockwork, they came to see him the night they returned. It probably helped considering Shoji had slept with them both a few months back. Like lovesick puppies, the girls clung to him and were more than eager to spend their money on him.
As Shoji sat down between the girls, his gaze slid over Nakahara from across the room, who poured one of his client’s a drink with a wide smile on his face, showing no sign of his previous venom. Watching him for a moment longer, Shoji quickly turned to Aika and Aiko and closed his eyes, giving them a bright beam as he extended his arms and wrapped them around their shoulders, “I’m terribly sorry, Aika-chan, Aiko-chan. I was held up on the phone with my mother longer than anticipated. She worries, with all of these late nights and all. My apologies. I would hate to worry two lovely girls such as yourselves.”
“Oh, you~” Aiko swatted his arm playfully.
Aika pursed her lips and seemed to swoon. “Awww~ You still talk to your mom?”
“That is so sweet!”
The three of them laughed and gave back and forths. Shoji kept light conversation, listening to the girls excitedly tell all of their adventures on their trip, all while darker thoughts swirled within his head. It would take some planning, taking care of his… predicament. While occasionally having dreamt of it and feeling tickles of temptation in the past, Shoji had never killed before. Well, humans, anyway. But this… why, it was a necessity, and so there was no point in resisting it. But Shoji was no fool. There was a great deal to think through and prepare in order for this to be successful. He couldn’t just kill Hiro outright. No, no. Shoji would have to make a set-up and ensure nothing could be tied back to him…
But this was hardly the time. Looking between his two clients, Shoji gave a warm smile and inquired with a happy, pleasant tone once there was a pause in conversation, “Now, what would you two ladies like to drink?”
~*~
Shoji flexed his fingers, the sound of leather stretching tickling his ears. His hands were gloved, and the Japanese man's black hair had been combed thoroughly earlier, so there would be no loose strands, no hair to fall from his head. A noose casually rested within his covered palms, and Shoji twirled the rope, twisting it. He would have liked to have used his katana, the one he practiced in training for so many years, to see the blood spill, the feel the blade plunge into his flesh. But that would be foolish, and the man resisted his urges. No, this, what he had planned was far better, smarter, and Shoji liked to think of himself as an intelligent man.
It was two days after the threat had been made, and Shoji had kept a low profile the next day, supposedly pleasing his coworker, and today was his night off, whereas Hiro was working. It had been easy enough to break into the man's home; Nakahara wasn't a particularly wise man. It seemed to get the nice breeze of spring he had left open a window, which Shoji had slipped into quite easily a couple of hours before. Starting up his computer, he had written a suicide note, one that sounded convincingly like Hiro Nakahara, that mimicked his voice quite perfectly, if he might say so himself. Hell, Shoji was even proud of the work, spinning a tale, weaving in his coworker’s well-known alcohol abuse problem. It really wasn’t all that difficult. Hiro mostly kept to himself and constantly drank, often falling ill from doing so. For a man such as himself to die by his own hands was something easily believable. There would likely be a minimal investigation.
Time passed by, the man lurking in the darkest corners of the apartment, waiting, biding his time in silence. Around five a.m., Shoji heard his target stumble to the front door, jiggling his key in the door with a muttered curse. The tall Japanese man stalked in the shadows, a predator waiting patiently but ever so hungrily for his prey. Hiro stumbled inside, turning on just a single light, hissing at the shine in his eyes, and throwing his keys on the counter. Most of the home was still dark, and Shoji remained hidden as Hiro went to his fridge and grabbed a beer. The predator hided his time, letting the man finish one, then another. Time had to pass, after all, for everything to add up as Shoji planned, and the more he drank the more accepted the story would be.
About an hour passed and Hiro went to stumble to bed. Upon making the turn for the bedroom, Shoji finally leaped out from the night, a panther striking its prey, and brought the noose over the man’s head. Rope swiftly pressed against his neck with great force, to the point where Hiro couldn’t even make out a sound, his windpipes crushed by the sheer power. With all of his years of athletic training in dojos, Shoji was not only tall but exceptionally strong, and, no matter how much he writhed, Nakahara didn’t stand a chance. His eyes were bulging and Shoji pulled taught with both gloved hands. The struggle against the front of his form, the silent, hopeless gasps for breath, it caused shivers to run down Shoji’s back, and he released a soft, audible moan of satisfaction as he felt the life slip away from his prey, and all by his hands. Nothing… nothing in his whole life had felt so terribly wonderful. The tattered animals of his childhood, and the sprains and bruises from his younger siblings, the wails of the women upon the realization they had been tricked and were going to be sold as sex slaves back in Italy and Europe, and the quiet sobs from his sister Sayuri as he violated her were nothing compared to this, to actually feeling the life of someone, a human being, slip through his fingers, to witness them die from his own hands. He rolled his crimson eyes back and released a huff that was close to a single chuckle through his grin.
“Sayonara, Hi-ro-kun~” Shoji whispered in Hiro's ear, emphasizing his name and adding the friendly suffix as a taunt, one last final jab before the light would leave his eyes, and they did. The other host's body slumped against the taller's front and Shoji could hear his breath fall from his blue lips.
Tears had fallen down the other man's cheeks and, with a gloved finger, Shoji wiped one away and licked it, chuckling as he tasted the saltiness across his tongue. But he couldn't stay and laugh, or succumb to the rising pleasure, that which coursed through his veins. He had work to do.
Shoji tightened the noose, releasing his hold on his prey, the deceased Hiro then slumping to floor. The tall Japanese man moved to the kitchen and brought over a chair and sat Hiro on it. He then threw the length of rope up onto a beam, lifting up the body and tying the rope securely. Afterwards, Shoji tipped over the chair accordingly to make it look like Nakahara had kicked it over, and he then stood to admire his work for a few minutes, savoring it, before, with a sigh, slipping out where he had entered just before daylight broke.
Now his problem was taken care of and he could come back to work without worry of losing his job, or perhaps worse. Shoji had turned the table and had control in the end, snuffing out the fool’s life, and it had felt so intoxicating doing so, flipping on a switch of sorts within the charismatic psychopath. As Shoji casually strolled home, all with a bounce in his step, he couldn’t help but wonder what the future had in store for him, and he laughed.
“Should be fun~” the man purred with a dangerous gleam in his crimson eyes, giving a smirk.
