Chapter Text
Contrary to popular opinion, Mondays were actually the best day of the week—of course, besides Saturdays and Sundays (although those could be argued to be a part of their own weekend). Of course, most people either had long, grueling work or school hours, and it was just the start of the week. Fridays always seemed so far away from Mondays. However, that was not the case for Zanka Nijiku. Mondays were probably the easiest and most entertaining weekdays for him. His schedule looked a little bit like this: Morning workout, breakfast, lecture, freetime, another lecture, group study session, his internship under Corvus, the Chief Executive Officer of The Cleaners—a “cleaning product” company, as he had told his parents, working on his own branch he named Lovely Assistaff which produced mops and brooms—during the day at least, supervised by Enjin, which, holy shit, was a complete honor albeit the worst few hours of his life four days a week considering he spent it with Jabber, who also secured an internship under Corvus and Enjin, dinner, working on assignments, then going to bed. Tuesdays were a bit more…complicated, and a hell of a lot more frustrating. Every Tuesday after another interning shift, he had to attend a networking event at some random bar or club filled to the brim—either with snobby, wealthy drunk people who had absolutely no helpful advice nor interest in being there, young, new professionals radiating with nervous energy like himself, or shady people trying to scam him out of everything he owned (which, admittedly, was not much.) After that, he also had a club meeting with the Gachiakuta College of Business Studies’ Business Startups club, which was a headache in itself. The club consisted of people exactly like you’d imagine, cocky, annoying, and, honestly, most times, pretty dumb. Although this was something Zanka would never dream of admitting to his fellow club members, as he actually cared about being polite, uplifting, and most importantly, preserving his image—unlike someone he knows. And of course, a typical Tuesday schedule would not be hell if he did not have to answer emails, phone calls, attend meetings, and create financial statements for Hell Guard, the military weapon manufacturing company owned by The Nijiku family, in which he’d one day be forced to overtake.
Also, contrary to popular opinion, schedules were quite important to follow in day-to-day life. On a typical Tuesday, Zanka woke up (typically with a hangover) at 7am and had breakfast before working himself half to death at the gym from 8-10am. Apparently, today was not going to be one of those Tuesdays.
The sun shone through the blinds of Zanka’s tiny dorm room. The light casted a stripe of brightness across the room, his bedsheets, and his face. The man woke up in a terribly uncomfortable position—hand gripping his own messy ash-blonde locks, cheek pressed against his bicep, which was covered in drool, and also slightly numb from the continuous pressure applied from his cheek, and legs halfway hanging off of the hard, uncomfortable mattress Gachiakuta University had advertised as “the most comfortable dorm beds” he’d ever sleep on. What a lie. But it was a lie he had accepted long ago.
His head pounded with the long-lasting effects of a hangover. It was the first Monday in a while—probably his first Monday during his second year—that he had gotten drunk. His friends, which were few—Riyo, Tamsy, Rudo—if you could call that annoying prick a friend, Follo, and Eishia—heavily suggested he drank more than the average college student did during their first year (minus Tamsy, he never gave him shit for it, most likely because he probably consumed more alcohol than even Zanka). He tried to cut back to only consuming alcohol at parties, but he didn’t attend a party every weekend, which is what he meant—only weekends—so he revoked his promise in place of only drinking on weekends, but clearly he’d have to revise that statement once again. Zanka’s groan was more animal than human, and ended in a pathetic whine into his pillow. Weakly, he began patting around his sheets for his cellphone. The sheets ruffled with his movements until he got frustrated enough to open his eyes and whip his head around the room, spotting it on the floor of his dorm.
“Jesus Christ.” he muttered, voice ragged and dry, before faceplanting into his pillow. The top of his head felt warm in the sunlight that peaked between his blinds. It was moments like this he was grateful he was awarded the RA position and had his own room. Of course he wasn’t the most fond of what the job entailed—annoying, often intoxicated students, petty arguments, and spending just about most of his time doing what he’d rather not—but the fact that he didn’t have to worry about an inconsiderate roommate on top of that often made up for it. He had practically begged his parents to allow him to live off-campus, but was firmly denied a numerous amount of times, claiming that would take away from the full college experience. College experience his ass, fuck that noise.
There—Wait. Sunlight?
Zanka’s head whipped up from his pillow faster than he could fully process what he had seen. Sunlight? No, no, that can’t be right. He cracked his eyes open only to be met with the burning rays of the sun peaking through the blinds and shining directly on him. He hissed like a vampire burning in the sun, throwing his blanket over his head. Fuck, what time was it?
The man scrambled out of bed before taking a misstep and crumbling to the hardwood floor of his dorm room. He groaned as his back collided with the wood. Breathing heavily, he let his hand lazily knock around the floor next to him before it collided with a hard object, his phone, and brought it to his face.
To his relief, it was only 9:58 AM. That meant—-9:58 AM?
Zanka woke up at 10am—meaning not only had he missed breakfast and his, admittedly, gruesome workout, that was still important to him, but his internship started in 30 minutes, and he would be late to his shift if he wasn’t quick. With a garbled curse he pried his sweaty body from the floor, moving quickly before his head collided against his bed frame and thunk back against the floor.
“Jesus—Fuck!” he cursed. He lied there for a moment before collecting his bearings. He pressed a sweaty palm to his forehead and sighed before slowly sitting up. He drew a breath in as his shoulder popped and cracked his back. Taking the same palm, he placed it on his chin and cracked his neck on one side, then the other. His mouth stretched open with a muted yawn. Not only had a headache begun to form before his little accident, but now he was sure he’d start forming a bruise on it as well with the speed and force in which he had collided with his bed frame. Things were really going his way, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that today would be a wonderful day.
He grabbed his cell phone once again to check his battery percentage. It was on 12%. Exactly his luck. He didn’t bother going through his notifications—no doubt filled with his father complaining about something, as he always did, and 10,000 emails from whomeverthefuck so urgently and desperately needed to speak to him overnight. He unlocked his phone and immediately pressed on Riyo’s contact. He twirled his fingers as he thought of what to say.
me:
painkillers
thereaper:
wuh
me:
I need fucking painkillers
thereaper:
what that gotta do with me? you drank like 6 cups last night not me
me:
are you ever fucking helpful????
thereaper:
nope! better ask tamsy
Zanka huffed and threw his phone onto his bed before he could break it. He slowly rose off of the floor and plugged it onto the charger. He had no time to waste on his dumbass friends. If he had to rawdog a fuckass headache at his internship around Jabber’s annoying ass, so be it. He made his bed, and now he had to lie in it.
“Shit, I gotta make my bed.”
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By the time Zanka had made his way to his internship at The Cleaners—which was 10:31am, which, like, holy shit that’s pretty good for having woken up just 30 minutes prior and having to make a twenty minute commute to get there—The man was running on nothing more than about five hours of sleep—he thinks—half a cup of coffee, some weak ass Ibuprofen from Tamsy (he didn’t even have Naproxen) and a bite of…whatever it was he snatched from the guy’s mini fridge. It was something disgustingly slimy and green. He tried not to think too hard about it, or else he would probably have to spend about an hour of his shift forcing himself to throw his guts up. There was a reason why he’d always thought Tamsy was suspiciously thin. The man never ate. Whatever he ate was probably rotten, sitting in the fridge for days, weeks, untouched by the man, because besides the fact that he barely ate, he was barely in his room. He’d probably catch fucking Escherichia coli or——Zanka, shut up.
The building towered above the ash-blonde man at a grand 664 feet. The beautiful building had large glass windows, a gray exterior with a modern, sleek exterior. A large stone snake-like design wrapped around the building, and long, tall dark gray windows were stacked in rows on the red brick walls separated by gray stone. It was huge, it was beautiful. Sure, the first floor’s walls were covered in graffiti, but it was something about the graffiti that added an extra layer of personality to the building. Personality that matched The Cleaners perfectly and ironically. He’d learned that said graffiti was the combined efforts of August Stilza, the company’s artisan in charge of producing personalized clothes and masks, and Gob, their (recently deceased) renowned and beloved artist.
As always, Zanka had to force himself out of his state of frozen admiration and tear his gaze away from the building. He continued his journey down the path of the headquarters, making his way through the thick wooden double doors and into the lobby. He was met with the same familiar face, as always. Semiu.
Semiu was the receptionist for The Cleaners. The woman had beautiful dark skin, a tall and slim frame, bright yellow eyes and light pink hair formed in a tapered cut. She wore glasses connected by a beaded chain to the choker that she wore. Besides Enjin—and everything that he was: funny, liberating, and unusually caring—and the immense respect Zanka held for Mr. Corvus, Semiu was the next closest and respected coworker of his. Of course, from time to time she made him make a detour on his way to work and forced him to pick up her...explicit magazines—which truly made no sense at all as they were both legal adults who could purchase such items, but at the very least, she didn’t ever make him pay with his own money. The woman was witty and snarky, and made for good company when he was bored. The occasional compliment she threw in from time to time never hurt either. Zanka suspected she had caught on to his slightly fragile ego, and made sure to butter him up every time they spoke.
Surprisingly, the interior was nothing special. Behind the double doors was a large lobby with tall brown brick walls decorated in patterns, a nice dark halfwall finish, a few paintings placed here and there along the walls, the large decoration and lanterns around Semiu’s desk, and the shiny dark title of the floor. Semiu sat at her desk, as always, their one and only receptionist who happened to always be on the clock. Much to Zanka’s chagrin, but not surprise, sprawled across her desk was a porn magazine. Very shamelessly, might Zanka note. He sighed as he approached the woman, trying his hardest not to cringe at the flash of breasts he had caught on the page currently open.
“Semiu.” Zanka greeted the woman. To this, she glanced up and smiled.
“Zanka. Nice to see you. Though, you’re not exactly as early as you usually are.”
At her statement, Zanka began to shift nervously, a little embarrassed at his lack of usual punctuality. Ah, right. “Right, um…I woke up late. That’s my fault, but uh—I’m here now.”
Brown fingers waved him off and yellow eyes dropped back down to her magazine. “No, no it’s fine. It’s just that Enjin was on my ass pestering me ten minutes ago ‘bout you. Personally, I didn’t care too much.”
Right. Bet she didn’t. Zanka couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Hesitantly, he glanced around the empty lobby. “Jabber here?”
Her eyes caught his once again before her face slowly broke out into a strange smirk. A smirk so off-putting that Zanka had no clue what to do about it. Like she knew something.
“Why?”
He couldn’t help but scoff, “Whaddya mean why?”
“Why do you care so much if he’s here or not? You ask me about him every time you come in.”
Slowly, Zanka’s eyebrows began to furrow and his face twisted into something skeptical. “I don’t like what yer implyin’ here.”
Semiu chuckled, “I’m not implying anything. I just think it’s funny how you try to seem so adamant about hating the guy but you can’t go a shift without either asking me about him or complaining about him.”
Zanka’s cheeks heated up. “Yeah, you ever thought I can’t stop complainin’ about him because I don’t fuckin’ like ‘em?”
“Doesn’t seem that way to me.”
“What other way could ya possibly see it?“
Semiu paused. Just then, her eyes flickered off to the right of Zanka before smirking once again. “I mean, I’ve never thought too hard about it,” she drawled, “none of my business. I just think there’s somethin’ more to y’all.”
Just then before Zanka could respond, an, admittedly, loud call of his name by a familiar voice resonated through the lobby. Both Semiu and Zanka turned to the voice. Semiu smirked, Zanka sighed. The voice approaching him, Enjin’s, was accompanied by none other than the man in question, Jabber.
“Zan-ka.” the man repeated, as if Enjin calling his name wasn’t enough to gain his attention. Zanka paid no mind to Jabber, even as Enjin stopped a few feet from Zanka and that son-of-a-bitch stepped into his personal space. Instead, he maintained eye contact with their boss. His boss. Supervisor?
“Hey, Enjin,” Zanka greeted. “Sorry fer bein’ late and all. I woke up later than expected.”
The older blonde-haired man waved him off. “If anybody, you’d need to apologize to Corvus. I don’t care about you being late. But hey, I was just telling Jabber more about The Raiders. You remember them?”
“Uh, I think?” Zanka paused, absentmindedly slapping away a wandering hand trailing under his shirt and making contact with his stomach. He tried to suppress the chill he felt at the press of the cold silver rings against his bare skin. “They’re our main competition, right?”
Enjin continued, unperturbed, “Their CEO, Zodyl Typhon, has just had a bunch of job openings open up at The Raiders, and…”
Zanka tried his best to listen to what Enjin was saying. Absentmindedly, his eyes began drawing themselves towards Jabber, who, of course, hadn’t taken his eyes off of Zanka and certainly did not have the decency to look even mildly embarrassed at being caught, although the only reason he had been caught was because Zanka was in the same boat. Even when Zanka chastised himself for even glancing in the boy’s direction, his eyes continued to wonder. God, why did he have to stand so damn close? Jabber grinned.
“So,” Zanka began, trying his best to appear as if he had really been listening, “You’re worried about some of The Cleaners leaving to join The Raiders?”
“Yeah. And honestly, it seems that that’s the way this is going to play out.”
“I told him he’s got nothin’ to worry about,” Semiu chimed in. “I really can’t see anybody here doing that,” she paused. “Well…maybe except for one of you two.”
Zanka’s eyes widened and instinctively sought out Jabber's. The two made eye contact and Zanka’s eyes found Semiu’s just as fast as they had lost hers.
“I would never.”
“A job opportunity payin’ more than this? You bet I would.”
Zanka glared at the boy and attempted to convey just how much contempt he felt for him in the moment, but it seemed to prove impossible as the boy did not melt under his laser glare. Jabber smiled at him. “What?”
Semiu chuckled, “See?”
“Glad to see where you stand on this,” Enjin grumbled.
“No disrespect.”
Zanka eyed him and mumbled, “Yer already fuckin bein’ disrespectful, jackass.”
Jabber smirked and whispered back, “Don’t cuss in the presence of our management, Zan-Zan.”
“Just wait ‘till after work, I’ll kick yer fuckin’ ass.”
“Bet ya think ‘bout my ass a lot, huh?” This motherfucker doesn’t even know.
Enjin cleared his throat. “Oooo-kay,” he started. “Thanks so much for entertaining him, Semiu, but I’ll be taking Zanka off your hands.”
Zanka could’ve sworn he heard a mumbled Please do. from the woman. Enjin continued, glancing towards Zanka, “It’s ‘bout time we get to our stations, huh?”
“Yes sir.”
Jabber cackled, which earned him a sharp nudge in the arm, which only made him laugh harder. Damn him.
The three began their descent down the long, treacherous halls of the building. As Enjin droned on, it began to become eerily apparent that he wouldn’t stop talking. He never did. He yapped almost as much as the fucker practically clinging to Zanka’s side did. Zanka respected the hell out of his boss, but he refused to listen to whatever bullshit the man decided to spout that day. It was always about nothing. Fawning over Gris, talking about his sex life in disgustingly cruel detail (Jabber, the freak, never minded hearing about that), complaining about the other cleaners, all unimportant and quite frankly, stupid shit. Instead, begrudgingly, he directed his attention to Jabber. Jabber, whose bright magenta eyes were already boring into the side of his head as they moseyed on down through the long hallway, heading towards Jabber’s station first. He took this moment to study the man. The man was even more attractive than he was when they dated back in high school. How is that fair? Weren’t attractive people supposed to peak in high school?
The man’s light skin, washed in the darkness of the hallway, looked even more delicious. In the past two, three years since their split, his wicks (Zanka had learned the proper word for them one year into their relationship) had grown from just barely halfway down his back to nearly his hips. He still had his stupid eyebrow slits, and now adorned snake bites under his lips, a shiny dermal next to his right eye, and an eyebrow piercing on his left eyebrow. His features were more rugged than they were in high school. And although it wasn’t like the man wasn’t constantly in Zanka’s face—or mind—he just couldn’t help but to stare at him. He still wore those stupid rings Zanka gifted him all those years ago. He’d even named them. God.
“You seriously considerin’ joining The Raiders if they pay more?” Zanka asked against his better judgement.
Jabber grinned, “You worried?”
Immediately he regretted ever opening his mouth. “Fuck off, don’t even know why I bothered askin’.”
“Mh..” the man smiled, “Ion know, man. Ion think Zodyl’s really allat bad once you get to know ‘em.”
“And you know him?”
“I know of him.”
His forehead began to throb at this, “So, what? Yer ready to throw away everything you’ve had with The Cleaners to go join some discount, low quality ripoff?”
Jabber smirked. “Bet they’ll treat me better than you do.”
At this, Zanka snapped. “Motherfucker,” he growled, “You have the audacity to tell me about how well I treat you? Bitch—“
“Now now, boys.” Enjin interrupted from a few paces ahead of the two, “Don’t want you guys in trouble so early in your shifts.”
Immediately, shame covered Zanka like a thick blanket. Great, perfect. Today was progressing swimmingly. He woke up hungover out of his mind, barely running off any sleep and probably some poisoned fucking… sandwich…maybe, hopefully, and now he’s being scolded by his boss. He feels heat rush to his cheeks and agitation worm its way into his chest. He mumbled like a petulant child, “Sorry, Enjin.”
Jabber ignored the man. “You seriously still mad, man? After all this time?”
“Fuck you,” he spat in response.
“Mtch, man you never even—”
“Jabber. Shut the fuck up.”
Jabber grunts and mumbles under his breath, “That’s some bullshit.”
Eventually, the familiar double door of Jabber’s station came into view. The door was sleek and modern and opened with the push of a button, which Enjin pressed, and the doors opened to the familiar yet peculiar sight of the white laboratory. The strong wave of acid and chemicals hit Zanka like a wall, it felt like the smell was potent enough to burn his nose hairs off. Without a word, uncharacteristically, Jabber pushed past both Zanka and Enjin, stepping into the laboratory without so much as a word or glance back at them. Zanka catches a glimpse of Gris, Jabber’s supervisor, talking to another cleaner before the door closes in front of the two.
Wordlessly, Enjin spun on his heel and glanced at Zanka with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Clearing his throat, he began walking Zanka towards the opposite direction, heading towards his station.
“Care to explain what that was about?”
Zanka shrugged. “Fuck if—I mean hell if I know. He’s a weirdo. Rude, disrespectful ass weirdo.”
“Yeah, I’m used to that. I’m talking about you.”
Taken aback, he jerked his head back and furrowed his eyebrows. “Me?” he repeated incredulously.
“You. What’s up with y’all? I mean, I know you’re typically an asshole to him but something is seriously up your ass today. Don’t you think you should be a little nicer to him? I mean, he’s a piece of work but he’s still your coworker.”
Zanka went silent. For a few moments, the hall was quiet, besides the sound of the footsteps of the two on the ground. Enjin glanced over at him curiously.
“Did I strike a nerve?”
“No,” Zanka mumbled. “No. Sorry. Yer right. You just…” his fist clenched and unclenched, “Don’t know our history.”
Enjin hummed, “Should I?”
“It’s not important. I apologize for letting it affect my performance.”
This time, it was Enjin’s turn to pause. He hummed once again before chuckling, “Man, you’re too formal. Relax. I was just being nosy.”
“Yeah, well it’s nothin’ special. We grew up together. Grew out of each other. He became an asshole.”
The blonde man eyed him. “Yeah? Nothing else?”
“Enjin.”
“Hey, Semiu seems to think you guys have some sort of heated rivalry goin’ on or something.”
God, I know she does. Can’t mind her business for the life of her. “What, like, the show?”
“Eh, somethin’ like that.”
Eventually, Enjin dropped Zanka off at his own station—his own branch, actually, that he’d taken the liberty of naming Lovely Assistaff, a branch of The Cleaners solely dedicated to producing their product line of brooms and mops for consumers. Well, not solely, but mainly. It was the start of a very important seed that Zanka was gardening, hoping it would soon blossom into a flower—that flower being his importance in the company. Zanka’s main goal creating his own branch was not to pull more money in his pocket, or even to prove his family wrong, that he could be someone successful without their last name or being the heir to their company, but to show just how important he was to this company. This company he chose to be a part of, not born into. However, it was terribly hard work to maintain Lovely Assistaff. Zanka was given no monetary support or start-up capital to develop or sustain his branch. He was hardly able to secure his own old, dusty, small room with that stupid wooden creaky door. No amount of WD-40 would help those hinges. Zanka was either cramped in that stupid little room working on statements and charts or following Enjin around doing fuckall while Jabber didn’t have his own branch but got to work in a spacious laboratory with forty other people experimenting with chemicals. He got to work directly with HexaPur Catalyst. He probably did nothing but fuck around in there.
See, The Cleaners was a medium-sized cleaning product company that opened in 2022. It had prospered rapidly although the industry was dominated by advanced competitors such as companies like Clorox and Lysol. The Cleaners kept a clean, pristine image to the public, but they were suppliers of a very special substance in the underground market. They called it HexaPur Catalyst.
HexaPur Catalyst was a chemical with the ability to dissolve metal, remove fingerprints, and erase gunpowder residue. It is used in labs to sterilize equipment and break down organic material quickly. Why was it in such great demand? It destroys blood, skin cells and DNA, making it impossible to recover biological evidence, and leaves no smell and no staining.
Well, at least that’s what he’s been told. Zanka has never even stepped foot in that laboratory. Everything he knew about Hexapur Catalyst was either due to Enjin’s big mouth and him accidentally slipping out something about the substance or Jabber yapping about it to him. Sometimes he would visit Zanka’s little room just to talk about it, and Zanka would humor him. Just to find out more information. That’s all. He had absolutely no intention of speaking to the man outside of work.
The ash-blonde man sighed and flicked a strand of hair out of his face. He couldn’t continue thinking about Jabber the way he was. It was not appropriate nor welcomed in his mind. He had more important matters to dote on, and the light-skinned man was not one of them. No matter how often he preoccupied his thoughts or took over his mind, he could not let Jabber win a battle the man didn’t even know he was fighting. He wouldn’t let it happen.
Attempting to push the thought of the man into the deepest possible corner of his mind that he could, Zanka settled into his desk chair and started up the old dingy yellow-stained desktop that sat atop the old rickety wooden desk. He blew a puff of air over the dusty keyboard as he waited for the computer to start. He tapped his fingers together, pursed his lips, glanced at the old clock above the door, tapped his foot, and blew dust off the keyboard once again before the screen lit up. He had a few financial statement sheets to fill out—projection statements, income statements, startup costs, flow reports—just the standard documents. Maybe he’d be able to finish early and call Riyo or Rudo. They’d be a nice distraction. Anything would.
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Eventually, the clock struck 12:00 PM and Zanka wasted no time gathering all of his items and hauling ass out of the building—of course not without saying goodbye to Enjin and properly checking out with Semiu. Fortunately, he was able to sneak past Jabber on his way out. His shift was relatively productive despite his morning. Maybe today wouldn’t be such a bad day after all. Maybe it was just wishful thinking and he was a dumbass. He’ll see.
He had a networking event down at the local bar, Vital Instruments, which apparently referred to the amazing tools the chefs used to prepare the food there. Zanka never saw the appeal, but the restaurant was undoubtedly one of the most popular and busy ones in their area. In his personal opinion, the food was a biohazard. He wasn’t even sure it could be considered food, their shit was trash. Consequently, because of the attraction to the restaurant, they held the largest networking events in their city, The Ground, so this was Zanka’s best shot at finding the perfect connection, so he carved out a time in his schedule dedicated specifically for these events.
The cold breeze of spring wind nipped at the man as he made his way through the city, walking at a brisk speed. He tried his best to hide the agitation slowly but surely becoming apparent not only on his face but in his demeanor as he walked. It came to no surprise that he ended up irritated every time he had to attend such an event. He knew attending these events would only get his name out more—independently—and would do nothing but further help his cause, especially if he found a connection willing to support his branch by supporting capital, but it was well-known just how much the man hated socializing. Of course, he put on nothing but his best face, attire, and attitude when conversing with potential clients or partners, but hell did it get on his last nerve. Having to pretend he was something he was not. Professional, intelligent.
Soon, the restaurant came into view. It was only about a ten-minute walk from The Cleaners headquarters, and he had run back to his dorm to change into something more appropriate and formal for the occasion, so he had wasted the majority of his spare time on the way, as it was rapidly approaching 1:00 PM. The event started officially at 12:30 PM, however, by now Zanka knew that the events were never in full swing until about an hour or so later.
The exterior was nothing noteworthy. The building was modern—maybe even more so than The Cleaners HQ, with white stone and black-tinted glass. There were a few steps leading up to the building with handle railings, and with the wide open double doors, a large beautiful black chandelier hanging from the lobby came into view. So yeah, maybe the exterior was quite noteworthy, but Zanka wasn’t about to hype up any other business besides his own.
He was greeted by the hosts, who were quite familiar with him already. Of course, they still directed him towards the stairs and pointed him in the direction of the networking event, as the first floor was still reserved for serving customers. He thanked them, although he was already well acquainted with exactly where he needed to go. He climbed the staircase, gliding his hand along the black handrails, and peered over the glass edge to stare down at the customers seated at their tables. Vital Instruments had a full house tonight. Zanka continued his journey onward to the second floor, and his feet took him exactly where he needed to go without thinking.
Of course, he was met with a packed room full of snobby individuals with diamond necklaces, expensive watches, cufflinks, suits, diamond rings, and shiny earrings. He quietly kissed his teeth at the sight. Many people held champagne flutes, even the obviously-nervous-and-underaged-kids who all crowded around one another in the corner of the room. He openly rolled his eyes at the sight. Whatever. Zanka wasn’t here to judge people, although he would always do that, as it was one of his most favorite pastimes, but instead was here to find someone willing to either 1. Invest in his branch, Lovely Assistaff, 2. Direct him to someone willing to invest in his branch, Lovely Assistaff, or 3. Further advance his career in some other way. Either way, he wanted to get in and get out as quickly as possible.
He spotted a middle-aged woman with black hair tied with little rubber bands in a bang hanging over her face and at the sides of her face and black eyes sitting by herself at a table, idly swishing around the champagne in her glass. Clearing his throat, he approached the woman, hands nervously yanking at his suit and vehemently attempting to straighten out his clothing. As he approached her, the woman spotted him out of the corner of her eye and turned to him with a smile. She spoke first.
“Hello.” She greeted him.
Zanka returned the woman’s smile and put on his best formal—non-country, formal accent, “Hello, Miss. How are you?”
“Quite alright, and yourself?”
“Great.” he paused, “What brings you here tonight?”
“Oh, just…Planning on meeting new people. Trying to get my name out there and all. I’m sure you know how it is?”
Great. Zanka thought, She’s in the same boat as I am. She probably won’t be giving me any money. But maybe she knows someone who will. “I do. I’m Zanka Nijiku, nice to meet you.” he replied with a tight-lipped smile and extended hand.
She reached out and shook his hand, “Reina Suzuki. It’s nice to meet you too, Zanka. I’m sure I recognize that last name, though…”
Zanka tried to hide his irritation. “Yes, I’m a Nijiku. My family owns Hell Guard.”
“Hell Guard, Hell Guard…” she repeated. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers, as if it had just come back to her, “Hell Guard! Yes! Yes, the um—Weapon manufacturing company, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“So, are you the owner?”
“Yes, uh, heir. So, partly.”
“Oh my God! What an honor, I—”
Abruptly, the woman paused. Zanka noticed a hand suddenly placed on her shoulder, and as his eyes trailed up the arm to catch a view of the person’s face, the woman turned her head as well.
“Honey!” she exclaimed. “This is Zanka Nijiku. Heir of Hell Guard! Can you believe it? Aren’t we just so fortunate to come in contact with a Nijiku?”
Zanka did not like the way the woman said his last name. As if it were something to be proud of, as if the name itself was revered or highly dignified, although it was. What Zanka really did not like, detested even, was the man who stood before him.
Although nothing about the man stood out particularly—besides his bald, shiny head, large brown eyes, and dotted eyebrows—there was an overall aura around him that Zanka could not seem to figure out, but certainly did not like. The man spoke without emotion. No polite smile on his face, but no grimace either.
“Hello.”
Hello? Was that all this asshole had to say? “Hi.” he returned.
The woman turned back to him, “I’m sorry. Please excuse my husband, he is not the best with people. This is Konza.”
“Konza, huh?” Zanka repeated, “Nice to meet you.” Once again, the man extended a hand out. This time, however, he was not met with the warmth of another hand.
“He doesn’t shake hands.” Reina supplied. Zanka awkwardly let his hand fall to his side.
“Oh, of course. That’s no problem! I understand it’s—”
“Zanka Nijiku.” the man mumbled. Zanka glanced at him, tilting his head a little.
“Yes, hello?”
“I recognize you.”
For a moment, Zanka just stood there. He recognized him? This mysterious, strange man recognized him. From where? How? Although Hell Guard was a large company, Zanka himself was not very well-known. Most of his family weren’t, they often worked behind the scenes. His mother, however, enjoyed being in the limelight. With his father’s past, though, he did not enjoy it.
“Really?’ he asked, incredulous, “Where from?”
“You were in the news a couple of years back. Disgraced your family. Your mother bitched about it in the papers.”
The man bit his lip. He cupped his hands together and ran over his left thumb with his right, “Hah, well—”
“Konza,” the woman scolded him.
“You work for The Cleaners now, right?”
This caused him to freeze. He stared at the man with widened eyes. It seemed as if the room had gone quiet as his mind raced. How did he know? Was he a customer? It wasn’t like it wasn’t public knowledge, he supposed. But to identify him as a Nijiku and know exactly where he worked…
“Why are you here?” the man—Konza—asked.
Zanka blinked, “Uhm—well, just business. Yes, I do work for The Cleaners. I have a start-up branch I’m developing, and I’ve just been trying to find someone to invest in—”
The man interrupted, “Lovely Assistaff.”
“...How did you—”
“I’ve been doing research.” The man answered. Then, he leaned over both the table and his wife and whispered, “I’ve been trying to get my hands on that Hexapur Catalyst you guys sell.”
Zanka’s heart dropped into his stomach, and he froze. Wide-eyed, he couldn’t look away from the man. Shit. He was in some serious shit now. He knew. This man knew? How did he know? How many other people knew? Was it just public knowledge that they sold Hexapur Catalyst? Should he let Enjin know this man knew? Should he let Corvus know? Was this man a prior customer? But he said he was trying to get his hands on it, which meant he’s never had it before, right?
The man’s face broke out in a grin, “Yeah, you know. What’s that stuff going for nowadays? $5,000?”
“I—”
“You’ve been working for The Cleaners for what, three months now?”
Oh my God. “How do you—”
“How about this: You give me the Hexapur Catalyst, and I give you $2,000 directly for your branch? No one has to know where the money came from, who gave it to you, or why. It’ll just be a charitable donation.”
Zanka could not believe what he had just heard. He stood there, motionless, glancing back and forth between the man—still grinning at him—and his wife, who looked possibly even more confused than he felt. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, and he ran a hand over his mouth. He couldn’t. The Cleaners—no. But Hell Guard—his family—He couldn’t. Could he? Should he?
The man gave him hardly any time to decide, “Well?”
His hands dropped to his side, and he clenched his fists.
Shit.