The next day dragged like a hangover from hell. Fei Long's men treated me like furniture, fetching his dry cleaning from some high-end shop in Harajuku, enduring their smirks and low whispers as I carried the pressed suits back to the penthouse.
"Boss's new b***h," one muttered, chuckling. I kept my head down, the collar hidden under a jacket, but the thong chafed under my jeans, a constant itch reminding me of the night before. By evening, when his text summoned me to his private club in the underbelly of Ginza, anticipation twisted with dread in my gut.
The club pulsed with heavy bass, smoke thick as fog curling from hookahs and cigarettes, suited thugs nursing drinks at shadowed tables. Neon signs in kanji and English flickered, casting red and blue glows over tattooed arms and scarr
