[ closed / complete ]
WHO: Kristoph Gavin [myscarsmiles] and Kazutaka Muraki ]medico_male]
WHAT: A discussion of tobacco.
WHERE: black tie.
WHEN: day 128, evening.
Sometimes, Kristoph appreciated an easy vengeance. He loved long and elegant revenge plots to destroy men, like the restaurateurs who had pointed fingers at him and demanded that 'mafia scum' had no business in food. That had been an ornate, three-year long deal in which Kristoph pulled strings and manipulated everything and watched them slowly dip out of business until they closed entirely. It had been entirely too delightful.
They ate at his diner often, and he always asked if they were going to go back into the food business. They always said no because they always saw the malice in his eyes.
But this plan, this one here and now - simple. As he waited, he sat in a table near the kitchen so he could watch his waiters work.
He was at least vaguely familiar with Kazutaka Muraki, knowing both his front and his true business; he had used the man's services on a couple of occasions. Muraki was slime worse than him - a monster with no class, no control, and no goals. Except, perhaps, to infuriate him. How dare he call Rhode his? How dare he step across that line, to attempt to covet what was so clearly not his?
Wretch, Kristoph thought, as he sharply commented on a poorly designed plate. Muraki would learn better than to step on the toes of Kristoph Gavin. If the good doctor wanted to fuck with Kristoph's ward, Kristoph would gladly bite back.
And such a poor attempt to steal, too. Reborn was vaguely worthy as an opponent. Ichimaru had been a fine enemy. Even Hijikata, with his weakness in loyalty, was fun to fight against. But Muraki - Muraki was a speck of dust compared to those three. Pathetic Muraki, who sought to own Rhode Kamelot with her body. The body was nothing. The body was nothing and because of that, Kristoph allowed Rhode to go where she pleased, do almost whatever she wanted, and spend time with almost anyone, with a few exceptions.
She always returned, as surely as a pet to a devoted master. Murai knew nothing - had nothing - worthless. Muraki could try for as long as he wanted to own her body. But Kristoph would always own her mind, and he knew confidently, that that was all that mattered.
He complimented a dish passing by and smiled at the waitress holding it, his vicious thoughts flawlessly concealed beneath his mask. The waitress - a new one, Marie - thought him a good boss, cute, and perhaps a little odd. She knew nothing of the malevolence and throwing knife under his blazer, knew nothing of the fortune of drugs and corruption Kristoph had used to build this restaurant. She asked him what he was doing, and he replied that he was meeting a friend for dinner.
He did not say he had intentions to kill this man. Likewise, she did not cower in fear or horror. She smiled at him and hurried off, and he nodded, satisfied.
Kristoph folded his hands in his lap. He looked at the small box on the plate in front of him - fine tobacco, as he had said. His glasses gleamed opaque in the light and he watched the door, expectantly.
WHAT: A discussion of tobacco.
WHERE: black tie.
WHEN: day 128, evening.
Sometimes, Kristoph appreciated an easy vengeance. He loved long and elegant revenge plots to destroy men, like the restaurateurs who had pointed fingers at him and demanded that 'mafia scum' had no business in food. That had been an ornate, three-year long deal in which Kristoph pulled strings and manipulated everything and watched them slowly dip out of business until they closed entirely. It had been entirely too delightful.
They ate at his diner often, and he always asked if they were going to go back into the food business. They always said no because they always saw the malice in his eyes.
But this plan, this one here and now - simple. As he waited, he sat in a table near the kitchen so he could watch his waiters work.
He was at least vaguely familiar with Kazutaka Muraki, knowing both his front and his true business; he had used the man's services on a couple of occasions. Muraki was slime worse than him - a monster with no class, no control, and no goals. Except, perhaps, to infuriate him. How dare he call Rhode his? How dare he step across that line, to attempt to covet what was so clearly not his?
Wretch, Kristoph thought, as he sharply commented on a poorly designed plate. Muraki would learn better than to step on the toes of Kristoph Gavin. If the good doctor wanted to fuck with Kristoph's ward, Kristoph would gladly bite back.
And such a poor attempt to steal, too. Reborn was vaguely worthy as an opponent. Ichimaru had been a fine enemy. Even Hijikata, with his weakness in loyalty, was fun to fight against. But Muraki - Muraki was a speck of dust compared to those three. Pathetic Muraki, who sought to own Rhode Kamelot with her body. The body was nothing. The body was nothing and because of that, Kristoph allowed Rhode to go where she pleased, do almost whatever she wanted, and spend time with almost anyone, with a few exceptions.
She always returned, as surely as a pet to a devoted master. Murai knew nothing - had nothing - worthless. Muraki could try for as long as he wanted to own her body. But Kristoph would always own her mind, and he knew confidently, that that was all that mattered.
He complimented a dish passing by and smiled at the waitress holding it, his vicious thoughts flawlessly concealed beneath his mask. The waitress - a new one, Marie - thought him a good boss, cute, and perhaps a little odd. She knew nothing of the malevolence and throwing knife under his blazer, knew nothing of the fortune of drugs and corruption Kristoph had used to build this restaurant. She asked him what he was doing, and he replied that he was meeting a friend for dinner.
He did not say he had intentions to kill this man. Likewise, she did not cower in fear or horror. She smiled at him and hurried off, and he nodded, satisfied.
Kristoph folded his hands in his lap. He looked at the small box on the plate in front of him - fine tobacco, as he had said. His glasses gleamed opaque in the light and he watched the door, expectantly.