Takeshi glared at Knight, his eyes burning with rage, while Knight simply stood there, a small smirk curling his lips.
Then Takeshi spoke in Japanese.
"I treated you like a son, taught you everything you know, but you stabbed in the back. You stabbed my mama in the back," he spat. The last words barely left his mouth before the smirk vanished from Knight’s face, and he stepped forward.
"I did not betray her—or you," Knight said calmly. "You said you took as a son, but that’s a lie. If you truly thought of that way, you’d know I would never betray either of you. It’s true, you taught all I know, and for that, I haven’t killed you... yet."
Takeshi scoffed. "Don’t lie to , Knight. I taught you how to lie well. You betrayed , dishonored my mama’s grave with that rug of a skunk butt, and then you killed my only nephew, Eiji. Don’t give that bullshit."
Knight frowned, then turned to the window before facing Takeshi again, his voice quiet but filled with purpose "You’re right. I lied."
Takeshi’s anger faltered for a fraction of a second.
"There was sothing I didn’t tell you all those years ago..." Knight paused, the weight of years pressing down. He had taken the bla silently before—but no longer.
"I’m sorry about Sosa-chan. I loved her like my own grandmother. And the rug—I arranged for one from a white Bengal tiger, but it got switched."
Takeshi stared. "Cut the bullshit. Even now, you still lie."
Knight’s smile lacked humor. "Of course you wouldn’t believe . But do you rember the boy who was always by my side when I worked for you?"
Takeshi’s expression changed. "The Bishop... that’s what he called himself."
Knight moved to the window, pulling aside the curtain to stare down at the glittering lights of Manhattan, their beauty a cruel contrast to the story he was about to reveal.
"You’d rember him, even at your age," Knight said casually.
"Eyyy, I’m not old," Takeshi muttered, though his sharp eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt.
Knight glanced back at him, at the lines etched into his face. Once, he had admired this man—his savior, his ntor. Never had it crossed his mind to harm him. And yet Takeshi’s accusations had cut deeper than any blade. Knight had never denied the rug incident, but Eiji’s death... that had haunted him, the idea that soone he called family blad him.
Knight’s gaze returned to the city below. "The Bishop switched the rug to a skunk butt. I didn’t realize it until the burial day. I was as shocked as you were—but then I discovered it was him."
Takeshi’s voice was sharp. "But why?"
Knight’s brow furrowed. "I asked myself that every day until it hit . He wanted you to get back at , then have mr killed, so he could take my place. When his plan failed, he killed Eiji and made it seem like I did it—because I’d expelled him from my crew. That’s why he did it."
Takeshi’s face went pale. "No... no, that’s not true."
"I knew you wouldn’t believe ," Knight said, "but it’s my fault for taking the bla for the rug so you wouldn’t kill him. When I tried telling you I didn’t kill Eiji, you refused to listen, and I had to flee Japan."
Takeshi’s doubt lingered, so Knight pulled out his phone, tapped a few buttons, and a voice recording began to play.
It was Eiji.
Takeshi’s face drained of blood as he listened.
"Knight... h-help..." Eiji’s voice was weak, pained, barely audible over shuffling footsteps and labored breathing.
"...Bishop... betrayed you... Uncle. It wasn’t Knight..."
A second voice, younger yet cruel—the Bishop from years ago—cut in.
"You talk too much, boy. Your uncle will never know. He’ll hate Knight until the day he dies, and you... you’ll be nothing but a stain on the floor."
A pause, then muffled sounds—Eiji trying to speak again.
"Knight, please keep..."
A deafening gunshot silenced him forever.
Then, faintly, as if the phone had been dropped across the floor, the Bishop’s voice whispered one final command:
"Send this to him. Let him choke on it."
The recording ended.
Takeshi’s fury evaporated, replaced by shock, disbelief, and a dawning horror. His eyes fixed on Knight, the weight of the truth finally sinking in.
Knight stood silently, phone in hand, the city lights casting harsh lines across his face. His voice was calm, cutting through the tension.
"I carried that recording for years... waiting for the day you’d finally shut up long enough to hear it."
"And the day I get back at Keenan," he added, "for what he did."
Takeshi’s eyes shimred with tears. He had hated Knight for decades, and unknowingly done business with the real culprit.
Before he could speak, a gunshot pierced his skull. Blood spurted, and he gasped, staggering forward.
Knight lunged, catching him before he fell, pressing his hands against the wound as warm blood spilled through his fingers.
Takeshi’s breathing was shallow, eyes glassy but locked on Knight.
"...Knight... I was... wrong," he whispered.
Knight shook his head furiously. "Save your strength, old man..." but he knew there was nothing left to do.
A faint, almost peaceful smile touched Takeshi’s lips—the one Knight rembered from years ago.
"Protect... our family... finish it... make him pay..."
His fingers twitched once, gripping Knight’s wrist, then fell limp.
"...Sosa... would be proud..."
The light left his eyes, leaving only the mory of that quiet smile.
Knight closed his eyes, jaw tight, and gently lowered Takeshi’s head to the floor. When he looked up again, the smirk was gone—replaced by sothing far deadlier.
Keenan was going to die.
But then, as he stood up, a gunshot cracked through the air.
Knight staggered back.
He looked down.
Blood blood across his shirt.
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