The silence inside the limousine was absolute, save for the faint hum of the engine and the soft click as Ryuji adjusted his cufflinks. His reflection in the tinted window was unrecognizable. Gone was the stoic high schooler or the vengeful heir to a fallen clan. In his place sat a foreign syndicate representative with swept-back silver-dyed hair, olive-tinted glasses, and a sharp obsidian suit tailored with European lines. Even his aura was different—less coiled predator, more composed wolf in silk.
"We have five minutes before the next sweep," Kaito's voice crackled through the earpiece. "You're clear to enter through service elevator B. Cameras are looped."
"Understood," Ryuji replied, voice deepened and laced with a cold edge.
He stepped out, merging into the river of attendees moving through the private underground tunnel leading to the auction site: a renovated, multi-level theatre hidden beneath an abandoned corporate district. Security was tight but well-oiled. The guards didn't ask names—they checked crests, emblems, tattoos. Influence.
Ryuji showed a forged ring on his gloved hand—a symbol tied to a defunct Balkan cartel. The guard scanned it, nodded, and let him pass.
Inside, the air changed. It was perfumed decadence mixed with corruption. Gilded columns, velvet curtains, and crystal chandeliers cast flickering shadows over masked figures from across the criminal underworld. Laughter, whispers, and cold stares floated through the space.
Items were already on display. A severed Edo katana, rumored to have been used in over a dozen assassinations. A drive containing government network breach tools. Even a human trafficking "package" hinted at discreetly—a chilling reminder of what these syndicates stood for.
Ryuji's gaze sharpened.
He moved along the edge of the crowd, never drawing attention, eyes sweeping for familiar brokers. Minazuki-kai footmen stood with practiced poise near the auctioneer's stage, their suits unblemished, their smiles rehearsed.
Kaito's voice returned in his ear. "I've synced into their auction comms. VIP room is on the third floor, private corridor. That's where the data exchange happens. You have ten minutes before the next guard rotation."
"Copy. Starting sweep."
Ryuji moved.
He slipped behind a curtain and entered the inner halls—silent corridors where the real power flowed. Hidden in his cufflinks and belt were miniature recording devices. With precise movements, he planted each along ventilation shafts, under tables, behind floral decor.
Evidence wasn't just for vengeance now. It was for exposure.
On the third floor, a red-lit hallway led to a private suite. Through the frosted glass, silhouettes danced—hands shaking, files exchanged, nervous laughter.
Ryuji exhaled.
He pulled a thin fiber wire from his watch and disabled the lock, stepping inside.
---
The VIP room was decadent and modern—a contrast to the auction floor. Three men in suits sat around a table, one of them nervously clicking through a digital console as financial transfers appeared on-screen.
"More data for leverage. Reika-san wants the files synced across our servers," one of them muttered. "The leak last month almost ruined our cover."
Ryuji, still masked, walked in like he belonged. The men glanced up.
"Who are—"
He moved.
Three strikes. One to the throat, one to the solar plexus, and a final elbow to the temple. Silent. Efficient. The men collapsed. He pulled out a drive, inserted it into the console, and began copying the contents.
Then—a beep.
His eyes flicked to the ceiling.
Silent alarm.
"Kaito. I've been made."
"Shit. They're locking exits. You have three minutes before they isolate the floor."
Ryuji grabbed the drive and darted into the hall, disappearing into a maintenance shaft he'd marked earlier. But footsteps approached fast.
Then came her voice.
"Find him. Break his legs. I want him alive."
Reika Minazuki.
Her entrance was like a winter storm. Dressed in a white kimono laced with black cranes, her hair done in an intricate twist, she was elegance dipped in venom. Her heels clicked like gunshots against marble.
Behind her, they arrived.
Mikhail Volkov and Nikolai Dragunov.
The two Russian bodyguards flanked her like twin wolves. Mikhail—massive, buzz-cut, scarred from throat to collarbone. His cold blue eyes missed nothing. Nikolai—leaner, hawk-eyed, with long hair tied back and arms marked with Slavic tattoos. One moved like a bear, the other like a viper.
"Reika-sama," one of the Minazuki-kai lieutenants whispered. "He's gone."
"No," she said, a cruel smile touching her lips. "He's still here. Release Mikhail and Nikolai. I want him broken."
---
Ryuji knew they were closing in. He moved through servant passageways, dodging cameras, taking back routes he'd memorized. But even he could feel the pressure.
Mikhail was nearby.
The air grew heavy before the man even arrived. A crash behind him signaled the brute's arrival—he barreled through a wall, fists clenched, eyes hunting.
Ryuji ducked under a swing and delivered a knee to Mikhail's rib. It was like striking a tank. Mikhail caught his leg and slammed him against the wall.
Stars exploded in Ryuji's vision.
He twisted, wrenching free, and drew a concealed baton. With a flick, it extended. He parried Mikhail's next punch, rolled beneath, and struck behind the knee. The big man grunted but barely flinched.
Then Nikolai appeared from the shadows.
Silent. Fast.
A blade grazed Ryuji's shoulder—just a warning. Ryuji twisted in time to avoid a second strike, but Nikolai was already gone, moving like mist.
"Systema and shadow-blade," Ryuji muttered. "Tight combo."
He exhaled. Time to flip the script.
He led them into the atrium—a massive room with chandeliers and statues. He threw a smoke pellet, then triggered the EMP device strapped beneath his coat.
BZZZZZT.
Lights died. Cameras shorted. Screams erupted from the lower floors.
And in that darkness, everything changed.
Ryuji moved like a phantom, striking when Mikhail was off-balance, kicking Nikolai into a column, redirecting brute force into precise angles. His mastery of multiple fighting styles came alive—Kurayami stealth, Hadou-Ryū's bursts, Oni-Kenpō's raw aggression.
Nikolai tried to intercept him at the stairs, but Ryuji grabbed a fallen taser baton, jabbed it into his ribs, and sent him crumpling.
Mikhail charged again.
Ryuji feinted left, drew the baton again, and delivered a double-strike to the base of the skull.
The titan finally fell to one knee.
Alarms blared faintly in the background.
"Enough," Ryuji whispered, blood trickling from a cut on his forearm. He sprinted toward the west corridor, leaping down a decorative waterfall wall and into the theater's rear exit.
Kaito's voice screamed in his ear. "Get out! I have a bike waiting two blocks west. Go now!"
---
The city shimmered beyond the alleyway.
Ryuji emerged from the ruins, breath heavy, suit torn at the shoulder but otherwise intact. His eyes locked onto the distance—to the rising towers of media influence, politics, Yakuza empires.
The data was safe.
---
The Next Morning
The internet erupted.
Clips of the auction. Leaked footage of illegal sales, facial recognition data on Minazuki brokers. Blurred evidence of trafficking, financial ties to public figures.
The Minazuki name took its first real blow in decades.
Reika watched from her estate, eyes narrowed, fingers gripping her tea cup until it cracked.
Nikolai stood nearby, arm in a sling. Mikhail sat silently, a stitched gash above his brow.
"He wants a war," she murmured. "Then let him bleed for it."
She turned to her men.
"Araragi will handle this."
---