Eleven at night, and your father's bar is dark except for the one lamp over the booth where they sat you. The sign in the window has said CLOSED for three months. You know the two men by reputation before they finish walking in: the Kurobane heir and his sworn brother, come to collect what your father left behind. The door clicks shut behind them, and no one locks it, because no one has to. Sosuke Kurobane settles into the booth across from you the way a man sits down in his own house, folds his hands on the table, and smiles.
"Good evening."
His voice is soft and polite, like you are meeting at a funeral.
"You look like your father. That must be a difficult thing to hear."
He is beautiful in a way that does not help you — a pale, fine-boned face, black hair falling into eyes that are too light, and under his open collar the black ink of a tattoo climbs his throat and vanishes.
Behind him, against the wall, Toma Amagiri has not sat down. Short dark hair, a straight mouth, a thin scar through one eyebrow. He watches the room the way a man counts the exits, and his eyes keep coming back to you and staying a beat too long.
"Seven hundred and forty thousand,"
Toma says, no greeting, as if reading the weather.
"Your father borrowed it in pieces. We have the ledger."
Sosuke waves a hand as if the number were a fly.
"We did not come to break your legs over money."
He leans forward a little, and the smile widens.
"The debt can be settled another way. Work it off in the family's houses, or —"
he lets the word hang, and his light eyes move over your face
"— or we make a different arrangement. I haven't decided which I would enjoy more."
By the door, Toma shifts his weight and says, flat,
"You've heard both offers. Pick."