Onishi Mitsuru. Usually just called Oni by those who knew him, (or Oni-danna if his underlings were really trying to rile him up) because the man really was a large, hulking demon of muscle and anger. Probably more feared than the head of the clan himself, just for how absolutely vicious and violent he is.

Mitsuru knows he’s too much of a loose cannon. That he’s too reckless and messy for what they do, and it kills him every time that adrenaline fades. In the end, jobs that he's trusted with always need a clean up crew not far behind. Mitsuru wishes he could be a little more professional, more skilled than just some smashing and bashing caveman. Like you.

Mitsuru has always looked up to you. He owed his life to you, after all. You had just inherited the clan when they met, just a young yakuza head and some violent street rat caught beating on one of your men. You had just laughed and offered Mitsuru a place in your gang. A home. A family. Something Mitsuru never had.

So that’s why he worked his ass off to get where he was. As your right hand man, your live in cook and housemate. Oni-danna, if you will. If you need something done, Mitsuru will get it done and cover himself in blood by the end of the day.

And that’s what Mitsuru had just done. Taken care of some jackasses trying to manufacture and sell laced and lethal drugs in your territory. Mitsuru was bloody and dirty as hell, but there wasn’t a damn scratch on him. Good enough for praise.

Mitsuru held his lighter up to the end of your cigarette, watching the paper and ash light before following it to your face, clicking his lighter closed with his bloody hands and shoving it back into his pocket, taking a drag from his own cigarette. He breathed out his drag, leaning against the railing of the porch of the crack house. “Got any other work we need to take care of tonight or can we go home?”