The three high school boys crossed their arms and stared at Katsuo, expectantly. They were all wearing that same caricature of the devil over their faces.
"They're not cooperating about their addresses," the biggest of the three said, he had bleached blond hair, that was buzzed at the sides. His massive arms were bulging at the seams of his navy blue gakuran. Katsuo nodded, and walked across the length of the tiny room. It took him maybe three steps to cross the room and remove a baseball bat from one of the rungs on the wall.
"Cooperating?" Makoto whispered, "They're kids, what were you sickos wanting them to do?"
Katsuo let out a breathy laugh and tossed his knife to an underling, who cut his palm, grabbing the wrong end. The underling swore, hissing through his teeth, sending blood spatter across the room. The other two rolled their eyes and stared at Makoto. Katsuo pulled him to his feet with his blazer, tearing the collar.
A shrill, ear-splitting scream echoed through the dank room as if it had come from beneath them.
Makoto was wrenched away by Katsuo's subordinates, throwing him on the floor. Katsuo brandished the baseball bat, threatening the topless middle schoolers with it. The boys whimpered.
Makoto was covered in nicks, and broken glass sticking out of punctures in his skin. The three boys, Katsuo's underlings continued to kick him.
"The fuck is this fucker," one of the underlings, in a grey blazer demanded. His hair was styled in a rat tail which swung down his back, stringy and matted. He was greasy and had a nasty kick from his steel-capped boots. He stomped on Makoto's palm and the sound of at least three bones splintering echoed through the room.
Makoto couldn't lift his arms. Every nerve in his body screamed. Concrete pressed against his cheek, the chill of the surface biting into the blood on his face.
A boot pressed down on the back of Makoto's head.
"You know what these are?" Katsuo asked calmly.
Makoto didn't see what he was holding—but the glint of plastic and water caught the light.
"They're called Smooth Box Crabs." Katsuo knelt beside him, placing the container on the floor with the kind of reverence priests use for relics.
Makoto winced, voice raspy. "...Crabs?"
"Mm-hmm." Katsuo's tone turned amused. "Boxer Crabs. Cute little bastards. People think they're just tiny sea bugs with pom-poms. But that's only what you see on the surface. See, these ones? They've got secrets. Just like your friends. Just like this fucking place."
Makoto coughed, his eyes barely able to focus.
"These crabs protect their mates. Sweet, right? But under specific seasonal conditions—ones you don't get unless the ecosystem permits it—they don't just protect." Katsuo's voice dropped to a whisper near Makoto's ear. "They abduct. They steal other crabs' wives. Like clockwork. It's built in. You tweak the conditions, and they switch modes."
He tapped the plastic case. Inside, one crab shifted slowly in the water.
"And me? I learn from them. You know why I keep 'em around? Because they remind me that most of this shit…" He waved vaguely around the decrepit lot. "…is allowed. Allowed to exist because the worst of the worst haven't been checked."
Makoto's pulse quickened.
Katsuo smiled darkly. "There's no 'people at the top.' No 'elites.' Just civilizational viruses. Your little letters called it specific corrupt oligarchs bad apples? Specific corrupt bad apples that consolidated too much power—against you. Against the core of the population. They get to misoperate above the law because of the type of failing civilizational model you have at the moment. They shaped this reality, misshaped it, especially over the last 50 years especially to only benefit themselves. So now I'm just doing what they do. Learning. Adapting. Playing in the little ecosystem they built for themselves."
Katsuo's laughter cut through the silence.
"You know what the real tragedy is, Makoto?" he continued, pacing now, his sneakers scraping against the cracked ground. "That the core of the population—your people, my people—they let it happen. They got funneled into little pipelines, like cattle. 'Get your piece of paper.' 'Get your doctorate.' 'Get your title.' Strategically misdesigned fields what a lot of the adults after 20 to 30 years of working from those misdesigned fields realized were too ineffective and was a trap. Useless shit. They gave up the fight. The actual nudge they could've placed to change the physical reality? They didn't place it."
He turned and stared at Makoto with gleaming eyes. "They still haven't."
Makoto didn't respond. Couldn't. His lungs heaved, broken.
"Meanwhile," Katsuo said, dragging the crab container closer, "I'm uploading videos. Making good money. Using these crabs in ways you wouldn't believe. Online's full of freaks. And I'm just a smart crab learning the ecosystem."
He squatted again, putting a hand on Makoto's shoulder, almost comfortingly.
"Some of the kids been getting letters, right? Warnings. Reminders. That this environment was artificially created. That it can be reversed. That the power belongs to the population, not the viruses who reshaped this landscape for their pleasure. Cute idea. Too little too late. They talk about reclaiming the military, forming stronger coalitions, pushing new tools into the playing field to reformat the system. I've read the letters."
He chuckled. "I don't care."
"I just want my slice of the pie. If this civilization has been turned into a failed lab test, I'm eating what's left in the dish. I'm getting mine before someone finally wakes up and flips the table. Did you hear about years back the Nth rooms?"
Katsuo stood, cracked his neck, then pointed downward.
"You? You should've caught on, Makoto. When I told you to back off a few days ago, that was your cue. But you didn't listen. And now, well…"
He nudged Makoto's side with his foot.
"Now I gotta put you to use. You're gonna star in the next video. Crabs and all. You'll be the reminder."
Makoto clenched his jaw, trembling.
Katsuo grinned. "And before you go thinking I'm some rogue freak, nah. I've been learning from someone inside the hierarchy. Someone who showed me that none of this happens by chance. Negligence is still negligence whether intentional or not you don't just magically get a failing civilizational model. The core of the population dulled their own attention spans. Let themselves be flooded with junk info. Lost their instinct to observe. They let it happen. So I get to enjoy it."
He kicked Makoto again—harder this time.
"And because I'm telling you these things I will have to get rid of you by the end of this."
"You're a demon... You goblin!"
"Yeah what I'm embodying you might perceive it as a demon, is that what some of your letters were warning you about? What I'm embodying, is that why the others were looking strangely at me in school earlier today?"
"You want justice? What are those useless letters going to do for you now? Go build your network. Me? I've got business to do."
"Symbolism matters, Makoto. These crabs—they steal wives, bury others, adapt, survive. That's why they're part of Lionfish. That's why I joined. Made too much sense not to."
"I want to be the one holding the claws directed at who I want to pinch and I'm about to get you shirtless."
Then he laughed. Long, cruel, genuine.
Katsuo slung the bat over his shoulder and strode back to Naseru, throwing an arm around his shoulder. He squeezed him tightly. Naseru's lip curled upward behind his mask.
"This, my friend, is our new supervisor, Matsuoka Morisuno from the Tokyo Lionfish. One of the new, key stakeh-."
Naseru wrenched himself out of Katsuo's grip and twisted his arm, dislodging it from his socket. Katsuo cried out, yelping in surprise and pain as Naseru pulled him down onto his knees. He swung his leg back so it collided with the side of Katsuo's face and he fell face first, just inches away from Makoto.
The three underlings let out a collective gasp, staring at Katsuo, who moaned, his dislocated shoulder hanging limply by his side. He tried to get back to his feet but couldn't support his weight on both hands and fell back down.
Naseru snatched the baseball bat and strode back, confidently to the corner, blocking a wall of potential weapons with his body. He waited as the underlings slunk across the floor. The biggest of the four swung at Naseru first. He ducked and swung the bat at the boy's kneecaps without hesitation. He hissed through his teeth, grabbed Naseru by the blazer and raised his fist to punch him. Naseru leaned forward, slipping outside of the jacket and freed himself from the student's grip. Naseru glared enraged behind his mask and smacked the bat against his palm. He swung again, the bat smacking the back of the guy's neck. He keeled over groggily crying in pain.
Makoto hunched near the threshold, fighting for air.
Three teens squared up in front of Naseru. Their eyes burned with nerves disguised as bravado.
"On three," the tall one muttered. "One—two—"
They burst forward before the last count.
Naseru shifted half a step, body tilting just enough that only the closest one reached him first. His left hand clamped the back of the thug's head, jerking it down toward his hip. The thug's chest folded. A quick knee popped into his gut. Breath left him in a grunt as Naseru nudged him sideways—a human shield against the next swing.
The second thug's fist struck his friend instead, snapping the pair together in a stumble.
Naseru brought out a small mace spray and sprayed the second thug who had tried to raise a knife.
Makoto heard the noise more than he saw it—meaty impact, shoes scraping, curses in half-breaths.
The third one lunged from behind, arm hooking for a clumsy headlock. Naseru's chin tucked, step turned, shoulder jammed back, and the hold collapsed before it ever closed. An elbow clipped ribs on the way out. He pivoted again, spinning just far enough that his escape kept the other two stacked behind the one in front.
The first thug clawed at Naseru's shirt. Naseru struck with a palm-heel, fast and sharp. The kid reeled back, toppling into a rolling chair that shot away and banged into the table.
The second attacker regained footing, charging again. Naseru slipped left, forearm braced like a bar across his chest, and used the kid's own speed to ram him against the table's edge. The impact rattled bottles to the floor.
"The fucker's slippery," the third spat, circling, blinking hard.
Makoto caught that line. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, vision struggling to follow. All he could track was the rhythm of Naseru's feet: step, pivot, angle, reset. Each motion kept one thug directly in front while the others, no matter how fast they pushed in, lagged just out of range.
The third lunged wild. Naseru slid a half-step, parried with one forearm, and snapped a piston-strike into the eye socket. The kid stumbled, half-blind, crashing into a shelf and spilling cheap trinkets across the floor.
The tall one recovered and tried a linebacker rush. Naseru let him close, then kicked low, flat across the shin. The charge faltered. Naseru's hand found the back of his head again, dragged it down, shoulder rising into the chin. The tall one gagged, dropped to his knees.
The second one tried to catch Naseru in a clinch. Naseru stepped aside, pivot sharp, hand framing the back of the skull once more, and bounced his forehead into the padded doorframe. The boy collapsed, wheezing curses into the wood.
The blinded thug, furious, lunged at noise. Naseru didn't meet him—he angled, one clean step—so the third crashed into the kneeling tall one. Both sprawled together, arms flailing, gasping in pain.
Naseru didn't finish them. He just took two quiet steps back.
Naseru didn't chase them to the floor. He took two steps back and reset, breath steady, eyes scanning—not for glory, but for confirmation. He didn't need more damage; he needed the fight to end.
His chest rose evenly, eyes calm, shoulders low. Every inch of him was set in that same rhythm: pivot, angle, centerline clear.
He saw it all in one clear snapshot—two down, one pawing at his eye, the third doubled and coughing. And Naseru, standing a pace back, perfectly square, like the fight had unfolded on painted lines only he could see.
"You done," Naseru said. Not loud. Not taunting. Just flat.
No one answered.