Chapter 15: Kawasaki Rika (2).
In the villa’s sprawling living room, men and women mid-revelry froze as Kawasaki Rika entered. Cheers erupted—uneven, reverent.
Someone scrambled to clear the prime spot: the widest, comfiest leather sofa, gesturing eagerly for her to sit.
Rika strode over on long legs, posture lazy yet commanding, and lounged into it.
Her sharp gray eyes narrowed, scanning the room critically.
Displeasure furrowed her bold brows.
Empty and half-empty bottles littered carpet and coffee tables; ashtrays overflowed with butts; scorched marks marred expensive floors and furniture edges from carelessly stubbed cigarettes.
The air choked with post-indulgence chaos and filth.
Nearby underlings caught her open scowl, smiles vanishing, faces turning grave and tense.
No orders needed—they sprang up, hastily cleaning the mess, desperate to restore order before her temper flared.
Then Rika’s icy gaze locked like a spotlight on a glass coffee table in the corner.
Scattered: suspicious foil and colored paper strips, neatly cut; nearby, stray straws for sniffing.
As gang leader, how could she not recognize drug paraphernalia?!
She shot upright from the sofa, body rigid. Upturned eyes blazed with terrifying chill—two unsheathed blades pinning a gaunt, sunken-eyed, listless woman nearby.
“Murata! You bring this filth?!”
Her voice spiked, authoritative and scathing—like thunder drowning the music.
“Didn’t I make it crystal clear?! No one touches this crap! You deaf to my words?!”
The room hit mute. Everyone froze mid-cleanup, cicada-silent.
Booze and smoke hung thick, music’s thump powerless against the suffocating pressure.
Heads dropped, eyes averted, breaths shallow—terrified any twitch would draw the raging boss’s fire.
“Boss… s-sorry… I know I’m wrong… but… I can’t quit…”
Murata’s face ashen, lips trembling, voice whining.
“That… ants crawling in bones, biting… agony everywhere… worse than death…”
She’d worried about discovery but overdosed, brain fogged; never expected the boss now, forgot to hide.
Rika’s Siberian-tundra eyes glared at the ghost-like wreck—frustrated steel.
Classmates since elementary, Murata was among her earliest followers.
But junior high: hung with adult thugs, got hooked.
Rika hadn’t ignored it.
Countless orders to quit; even beat her for it.
But addiction’s grip—physiological, psychological—like bone cancer. Willpower and force alone couldn’t pry it off.
“You lot, listen up!”
Rika inhaled deep, swallowing complex emotions. Eyes shifted to cowering underlings—voice calm again, but more chilling than her roar.
“From today: if Murata relapses and can’t control, tie her with rope! Douse her in cold water! Whatever it takes—no more touching this! Got it?!”
She’d purged others like trash, but Murata’s loyalty lingered—couldn’t abandon her to rot.
“Yes, Boss!”
The girls chorused instantly.
Rika’s face normalized; she sank back into the sofa.
Only then did the room’s air flow again.
Everyone—girls, their boyfriends—exhaled in relief, nerves easing.
Wary glances exchanged; they sat cautiously, resuming singing, drinking—subdued.
After that display, no return to prior chaos. Voices lowered, movements deliberate.
Rika’s authority was bone-deep—intimidating, absolute.
Yet to the motley teens—sitting, standing, varied styles—her swift command and field control screamed peak “woman.”
Like an alpha wolf ruling the pack: raw, magnetic wildness.
Most boys here were the girls’ boyfriends or hookups—school-ditching thrill-seekers loving this lawless vibe.