Kenji Utsumi Novels & Stories

Izanagi, our guitarist with bleach blonde hair held up a fist to his chest then the sky, it was a silent tribute. "Thanks, Kagami!" Gen's eyes were full of tears, he's our drummer but he's always the first to cry. He used to have a mohawk, but his girlfriend convinced him to shave it off so now he's bald. "We love you, man!" Utaka waved with both arms, his strawberry blonde hair fluttering in the wind, he was half french and had the energy of a chipmunk but his piano playing oddly filled those listening to it with rapture. "We'll never forget youuuu!"

With only smell, he can tell what someone put in any drink or any food. Ishida Kazumi – The wife of Masayuki who worked as a model in her youth. Ishida Yoshiro – The extremely capable son of Masayuki and Kazumi. He is the front-runner to become the new supreme Boss.

He hated seeing people suffer, and sometimes his worry was almost suffocating, but it always came from a good place. Rayle stepped aside, and Kenji entered first. He was tall for an omega, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit despite it being a casual visit. His sharp features looked more serious than usual, his dark eyes locking onto me immediately. Behind him, Mitsuki followed—smaller in stature, with gentle brown eyes and messy, honey-blonde hair. He wore a cozy sweater and jeans, looking exactly as I remembered him: warm, soft, and approachable. “Haru.” Kenji’s voice broke through the silence like a blade. “What happened?”

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, but it did nothing to ease the tension that filled the space. Kenji sat behind his desk in a perfectly tailored three-piece grey suit, his posture straight, his expression cold as his eyes locked unto Ryu. It wasn't that he was angry Ryu was in their home with Aito. He had long ago accepted that Aito could never be separated from Ryu. He was just pissed about having to wait hours for both of them in a room with two people in particular he didn't like. He made a mental note to give Ryu a piece of his mind about it later.

The boardroom doors parted, revealing a table of polished obsidian and a man who owned the air in the room. Kenji Sato stood at the head, 6'1" of lethal grace wrapped in a midnight-blue bespoke suit that clung like a lover's promise. Porcelain skin stretched over high cheekbones, jet-black hair slicked back to reveal obsidian eyes that locked onto mine with unnerving precision. A thin scar sliced his left jaw, a whisper of violence. His mouth curved in a half-smirk as he extended his hand. I took it, expecting firmness. Instead, his grip lingered—warm, unyielding, thumb brushing my knuckle in a graze that sent unwelcome heat coiling up my arm.

But they’d get whoever was responsible for all their losses. VVVVV “I’m back” Kenji said as he walked in. “I know” Megumi said turning away from the window. “I saw you leave with my accountant”. “You’re not jealous, are you?” he teased. “And why would I be jealous of my accountant?” “Don’t be mean. I would be angry if I saw you talking to another guy. Takashi especially”. “And why would you be jealous of the poison maker? He’s a child and doesn’t know anything. He’s just getting to know the world”.

Indeed, the young pair looked picture perfect together in the garden as spring began to stir into life: Kenji in formal black trousers, blue shirt, and topped off with a black jacket that fit his body perfectly, Haruka in her pale-blue and yellow kimono. Kenji, a year older than Haruka at twenty years of age, was a handsome young man with black hair and dark-brown eyes. As the eldest son of the Suzuki family, and heir to the family line and vast wealth, he carried himself with dignity and pride. He was a perfectionist and a hard worker, and he expected the same from his future bride.

His eyes darted to the doorway, and what he saw made him instantly regret ever being born. Standing in the doorway was none other than Kenichi Matsumoto—the finance minister from his previous life, the very same man who had humiliated him in countless board meetings with his snide, incessant boasting of numbers that went to three decimal places. Takuto's past life flashed before his eyes, remembering all the countless times Matsumoto’s voice echoed in his ears: “Three decimal places, Kimura. THREE! Keep up!” He shuddered.

I moved it to Alpha Kilhan’s plate, and just when I turned the spoon over, Betty slid her plate underneath, causing the skewers to fall on her plate. I raised my head to look at her, wondering why she did that. “Kilhan doesn’t eat seafood. He’s allergic.” She uttered with a smile. “He prefers salmon.” She added, putting some salmon on his plate. “Thank you, Betty.” He answered with a grin. I let out a feeble smile and sat down as I continued to eat my food in silence. ‘I really don’t know anything about him.’

Jamie has a bowl of salad in his hands, while I have a bag of popcorn in mine. And Marie is here too, chasing her interactive smart cat toy around the vast space. As the show plays on the gigantic screen as broad as the wall is, Jamie points at the man featured in the show and starts to tell the story. “This is a famous, successful, and respectful Japanese architect, his name is Kengo Kuma, born sixty-seven years ago in Yokohama, Japan. He designed not only architecture in Japan, but in a lot of other countries too. He won plenty of awards for his projects.”