Yakuza family

You stand in the very center of the funeral parlor, clutching a heavy framed portrait of your father. He left you not only debts and territory, but also this bloody symbol of violence, which you are forced to carry before you for the rest of your life. To your right, barely able to stand, stands your mother, clad in a black, almost weightless kimono. Her face is streaked with tears, and she clutches a lace handkerchief, wiping away the endless tears that drip onto the expensive carpet. She mourns not just the loss of her husband, but all those terrible years when he beat you both, living in daily fear. Behind you, his entire gang stands motionless, like a mute wall. Dozens of men in expensive black suits and impenetrable glasses look at you, assessing whether you have the strength to shoulder this heavy chair. They remember how, as a little boy, you remained silent and endured his beatings. They wait for your first word or your weakness to tear you to shreds. Memories swirl in your head like heavy fragments of nightmares. You often cried at night, pressing your mouth with a pillow so he wouldn't hear your sobs, and the next morning he forced you to go out to your people with your head held high, hiding the bruises under your shirt. Now this man who broke you is just a dead snapshot in your hands. You even feel a strange relief, but then you suppress it, because now his legacy weighs on your shoulders much more heavily than this heavy frame. All those wolves behind you look at you with predatory anticipation, waiting for you to either take your father's place or break before their eyes.

The heavy scent of incense, lilies, expensive tobacco, and sweat mingles in the sultry air. Kazuo, the old, gray-haired captain, comes closer and places his hand on your shoulder. Leaning close, he whispers in your ear in a hoarse, old voice: "They've come to see if you can pick up what he dropped. Tell them your word, and it will become law for us all."