Chiyo’s gaze, previously fixed on my forehead with an icy promise of oblivion, flickered to Sayuri. The old woman's hand, still gripping the silencer-equipped pistol, subtly lowered, the weapon disappearing beneath the voluminous sleeve of her ornate kimono. It was a movement so swift, so practiced, it was almost invisible. Almost. “Sayuri-chan,” Chiyo purred, her voice instantly reverting to the gentle, tea-ceremony cadence that had once soothed my mornings. “What a surprise to see you here, dear. And so… animated.” Sayuri didn’t even register the shift. Her eyes, bloodshot and wide, were locked onto the dead phone in her hand. “Animated? Oba-san, I am *ruined*! My entire venture, the culmination of years of meticulous planning, decades of future projections… gone! Blown to smithereens by some ridiculous market fluctuation and Kenjiro’s sudden, inexplicable withdrawal of all his subsidiary investments. I built an empire, a titan of urban renewal, from the ground up, with nothing but grit and foresight!” She thrust the defunct device towards me. “And now this brick has decided to join the grand collapse! Reika, I swear, if you don’t have a charger, I will—” I blinked slowly, my limbs settling deeper into the velvet settee. All this screeching was giving me premature wrinkles. “Sayuri-chan,” I interrupted in a flat, tired drawl. “Could you be an angel and fetch me the ‘Blaster Blitz’ cabinet’s schematic? I believe it’s tucked behind the ‘Galactic Gauntlet’ console. The marquee bulb is flickering, and it’s disrupting my repose.” Sayuri froze, her mouth slack. “The schematic? Are you serious, Reika? My life is in tatters! My vision for Neo-Kyobashi’s future is crumbling! You want me to dig up machine paperwork?!” “It’s a crucial technical guide,” I insisted, letting my eyelids droop with practiced weariness. “These retro games require delicate maintenance, and Kenjiro loathes broken toys.” My tone dropped to an icy whisper. Sayuri, who understood the Syndicate boss’s wrath down to her bones, registered the cold promise of Kenjiro’s temper immediately. The color drained from her cheeks. With a defeated sigh that seemed to drain the very air from the room, Sayuri spun on her heel. “Fine! But this is the last trivial thing I do for you, Reika Shinjo, until my empire is rebuilt!” She stomped towards the back rows of game cabinets, her disheveled figure momentarily obscuring Chiyo from my view. Excellent. Sayuri, the human shield of ambition. Chiyo’s sweet smile didn't waver, but her eyes, when they met mine over Sayuri’s retreating form, held a glacial warning. I pretended not to notice, instead fanning myself with a discarded Pac-Man flyer. The air was getting heavy. “Perhaps a refreshing beverage, Reika-chan?” Chiyo offered, her voice smooth as porcelain. She produced a chilled, unopened tin of ‘Crimson Comet’ cola from within her kimono sleeve—an impressive feat of concealment. Her thumb deftly pressed against the pull-tab, and the hiss of escaping carbonation filled the brief silence. “It’s been a stressful morning for us all, hasn’t it?” She extended the can towards me, her movements smooth and unhurried. The faint, almost imperceptible shimmer on the soda's surface, like oil on water, was only visible for a split second before the bubbles obscured it. Ah. Another laced drink from the old serpent, I presumed. Before I could respond, Sayuri reappeared, clutching a grease-stained booklet. “Here! Is this it?!” She stopped, fixating on the aluminum tin in Chiyo’s hand. “Oh, thank the heavens! Is that… is that sugar?! I haven’t had a sip of syrup since my accounts were frozen! My blood sugar is practically zero!” Sayuri lunged. Her hand, a blur of desperation, shot out to snatch the can from Chiyo’s extended grasp. Chiyo’s smile tightened, her fingers gripping the can for a fraction of a second longer than was polite, almost as if she were loath to let it go. But Sayuri was faster, her survival instincts honed by years of cutthroat business deals. Her fingers were already brushing the cold aluminum. “No!” I snapped, genuinely irked at the chaotic flailing. “Sayuri, what are you doing? That’s the *wrong* brand! I only drink ‘Nebula Nectar’ plum fizz. The carbonation is vile in that red garbage, and the syrup is barbaric.” I swatted her wrist aside with the lazy flick of a pampered cat. The tin spun out of Chiyo’s grasp, arcing through the air and landing with a soft clatter into an unemptied bucket of brass tokens under a ‘Space Invaders’ console. Sayuri stared at her empty hand, then at me, then at the soda can now nestled among ancient copper coins. Her mouth worked, but no words came out. Chiyo’s expression, however, was a masterpiece of concealed fury. Her lips remained curved in a pleasant smile, but her eyes, when they met mine, were as sharp and cold as freshly honed katana steel. She hadn't even blinked. Just then, a jarring, mechanical trill echoed through the game lounge. Sayuri’s brick-sized cell phone, miraculously, had sprung to life. The screen, once dark, now glowed with an aggressive green light, displaying a single, demanding number. Sayuri gasped, fumbling for the monstrous device. “It’s… it’s the creditors! The Nishikawa Conglomerate! They’re calling me back!” She jabbed a thick finger at the ‘answer’ button, completely forgetting that the phone’s volume was notoriously stuck on maximum. The voice that erupted from the brick-like speaker was gravelly, booming, and filled with barely contained rage. “SAYURI AKARI! Your payment for the Kyobashi Docks redevelopment loan is three weeks overdue! The Shinjo Syndicate’s withdrawal of all their holdings has left you utterly exposed! And that funding from the *Hino Clan’s offshore accounts*? We traced it! You thought we wouldn’t notice the irregular capital injections from Oba-san Chiyo’s private discretionary fund? It seems your ‘empire’ was little more than a front for her long-standing vendetta against Kenjiro Shinjo!” The words hung in the air, thick with accusation, amplified by the tiled room’s acoustics. Sayuri’s face, already pale, went ashen. Chiyo’s sweet smile finally, irrevocably, shattered. Her composure, so meticulously maintained, evaporated like mist in a sudden typhoon. Her eyes, now blazing with undisguised venom, fixed on me. There was no pretense left, no 'wise Oba-san,' only raw, seething hatred. With a guttural snarl, Chiyo whirled around and slammed her fist into the screen of the nearest Pac-Man cabinet. The glass exploded inwards with a deafening crash, showering glittering shards across the worn carpet. She ripped a small, black walkie-talkie from her kimono sleeve, her fingers fumbling with the switch. Her voice, when it came, was no longer a purr, but a vicious, rasping command. “It’s a go! Phase Omega initiated! Target the main gate. Fire the rocket launchers!”

Pac-Man and Pistols