Resting on Madison’s shoulders was Sugihara’s arm. His thin fingers moved playfully, twirling locks of her hair.

The table was littered with bottles and thick lines of cocaine that had been fashioned with the flat end of a coaster. The ashtray was overflowing with butts that spilled onto the table that only added to the nauseating clutter. Next to Sugihara’s right hand on the table was a chrome semi-automatic pistol with a studded grip and champaign pink trigger.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again, buddy,” Sugihara said, his attempt at English abysmal.

“Kyodai, brother, is that you?” It was a dumb question, but the only thing that came to mind.

“Is this me?” Sugihara replied. “Is this me?” He looke...

Please subscribe to keep reading.