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The room felt smaller with every second.
The clan leader stood behind the table now, hands planted on its surface, veins visible on his neck. His earlier composure had cracked, replaced by something closer to desperation than courage.
"I said no," he repeated, voice steadier than his eyes. "Those names you asked for—touching them means war. Not just for me. For everyone."
Akhil tilted his head.
"You misunderstand something," he said softly. "War already happened. You just didn't notice."
The advisor, who had slipped back into the room, swallowed hard. He could feel it—this wasn't negotiation. This was delay.
The clan leader straightened. "If I give you their locations, I die. If I don't—"
He gestured vaguely. "I still die. But I'll take you with me."
Akhil smiled faintly.
"That's the problem with people like you," he said. "You still think death is the worst outcome."
Before anyone could react, Akhil grabbed the advisor by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The gun pressed under his jaw.
"Sit," Akhil said to the clan leader, without looking at him.
The man hesitated.
The advisor whimpered.
The clan leader sat.
Akhil released the advisor, letting him collapse to the floor, gasping. Akhil dragged a chair and sat opposite the clan leader, resting his elbows on the table like this was a casual meeting.
"I'll ask once," Akhil said. "You answer honestly. You live long enough to regret it."
The clan leader laughed—weak, broken. "And if I lie?"
Akhil's eyes lifted.
"You won't."
Silence stretched.
Finally, the clan leader spoke.
"Kamaguchi Isaki is not in Tokyo," he said slowly. "He left three days ago. Private flight. Destination—Osaka."
Akhil nodded once.
"Bu Cheo San," the man continued, voice shaking, "runs his operations from Roppongi. Penthouse. Private security. Ex-military."
Akhil didn't blink.
"Kim Seong…" The clan leader hesitated. "He's not hiding. He wants to be seen. Shibuya. Nightclubs. Always surrounded."
"And Ikasari Hegin?" Akhil asked.
The clan leader closed his eyes.
"Dead," he said. "Two nights ago. Not by you."
Akhil paused.
For the first time, something shifted behind his eyes.
"Who," he asked.
The clan leader exhaled. "Kamaguchi ordered it. Internal purge."
Akhil leaned back, processing.
Then he stood.
The clan leader looked up, panic flooding his face. "I told you everything—"
"Yes," Akhil said calmly. "You did."
Hope flickered.
Akhil picked up the gun.
"And now you understand something important."
The clan leader's lips trembled. "W-what?"
Akhil fired.
The body slumped sideways, the chair crashing to the floor.
The advisor screamed.
Akhil turned to him calmly.
"You," he said, pointing. "Will tell everyone what happened here."
The advisor nodded frantically, barely able to breathe.
"Tell them," Akhil continued, "that Tokyo is no longer neutral ground."
He walked toward the door, pausing only once.
"Oh," he added without turning back, "clean this place. I don't like messes I didn't make."
Akhil stepped into the Akasaka night.
Neon lights flickered above him. Sirens wailed somewhere far away, layered over the restless pulse of the city. Tokyo was awake. Tokyo was afraid.
Osaka.
Roppongi.
Shibuya.
Three paths.
One ending.
Akhil didn't have time to waste.
Outside, parked beneath a dim streetlight, sat a Nissan GT-R—black, low, aggressive. The kind of car that didn't ask for permission.
Akhil looked back once.
"I want the keys."
The advisor didn't hesitate. He rushed forward, hands shaking, and placed them into Akhil's palm.
The engine roared to life.
As Akhil pulled onto the road, he spoke without looking back. "I forgot something."
"Y-Yes, sir?" the advisor stammered.
"The nightclub," Akhil said. "Kim Seong's."
The advisor swallowed. "It's called Hit Bit. Private club. Shibuya."
Akhil said nothing.
He pressed the accelerator.
The city blurred into streaks of light as the GT-R tore through Tokyo's veins. Red lights were ignored. Corners were taken hard. Thirty minutes passed like seconds.
Then—Shibuya.
Music thumped through the pavement. Neon signs screamed color. Crowds laughed, drank, danced—completely unaware of what had just entered their district.
Hit Bit stood at the center of it all.
Private entrance. Armed guards. Luxury masking rot.
Akhil stepped out of the car, adjusted his black half-mask, and walked straight inside.
The bass swallowed him whole.
He moved to the bar.
The bartender glanced up. "What'll it be?"
Akhil leaned in, voice calm, almost polite.
"Where is Kim?"
The music cut.
Chairs scraped.
Safety clicks echoed.
Guns rose from every corner of the club—aimed directly at him.
Akhil straightened slowly.
For the first time that night, he smiled wide.
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