[PREQUEL] (W) ᴜɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ ♗

11| One man's politican, another man's puppet

His breathing grows heavy.His vocal cords swell to the point of even the simple act of inhaling being quite a struggle for him.

But he sat. And he sat still.

Like the obedient mutt to its owner, the grown man sat in his place.

With the patience of glass, and the very few tasteless minutes that go by, he breaks little by little. Pressure was getting to the politician. It could be heard in the way he bounced his leg up and down compulsively on those freshly waxed marble floors.

At the sound of the entrance doors creaking, even if it was just a sudden gust of wind behind it all, the politician nearly jumped out of his seat. His heart audibly pounding against his chest.

His posture falls.

There's relief in his movement. It doesn't last as long as he'd like.

The back of his head creases with every moment like a ticking clock. Anyone could imagine he was biting his lip in apprehension. He can't get away from this predicament. He is basking in the few minutes his heart could actually serve purpose to the east—at all.

Deep, deep, deep, deep , deep, deep, deep , deep, deep, deep , deep, deep , deep, deep, deep down, Ayumi understood the east had not wanted to kill him.

What other puppet would they have conjured up on such short notice if he had his decapitated head hanging on Naomi's fireplace mantle tonight?

In order to move their agenda forward, his life needed to matter at least somewhat. Didn't mean they couldn't punish the man for the instances in which he crosses whatever boundaries Blackstar had implemented on him.

Unlike previous scenarios, this one had an unexpected push for motivation.

Encouragement.

A poor man's encouragement came in the form of money.

A rich man's encouragement came in the form of mutilation.

Atleast at an underground level. Four years dealing with the structure was bound for celebration. He made it this far without backing out. No matter how constant the glowing red-dot is at the back of his head.

Courtesy of Naomi.

It will always be off with their heads with Himura.

Japanese politician prime minister Joji-Tan Ayumi is heard exhaling out his hope. His shoulder's slump forward as his straightened back relaxes in posture. He knows his health–as he knows it—is as good as gone from the minute those pawns walk through those doors onto the checkered pattern marble.

And with the faint creaking of those double doors in the entry-way, reality dawns upon him faster than initially planned. He can only look down. Bowing his head to whoever steps onto the chess board first.

His eyes don't hesitate to shut tightly. At the sound of those sterling plated handles being ripped in opposite directions to widen the entrance space up further, it was clear to even a blind man; All inanimate beings are on their best behavior, as the empty room patiently awaits its guest of honor to dinner.

.The faint creaking sounds let everyone know the swift gust of a man had entered. His features, so intricate, were meant to exhaust the patience of the alias who had arrived previously. He shuffles into the chair uncomfortably, knees locked at his sides.

He cowers into himself.

The incoming figure's 5 O'clock shadow pursues him with every walking step, the invisible crown on his head showing no sign of tilting ; just proves how much of a stable state he was in all aspects of his current life. With every stride came standard to its highest form. With every blink? Hysteria.