The basement of the Onikawa District Bathhouse reeked of bleach, sweat, and broken promises.
Down here, the marble was cracked, the air thick with cigar smoke and testosterone. Cages, rings, and padded arenas filled the underground chambers like a modern gladiator's playground but none of it mattered. Only one arena tonight bore the mark of a sanctioned Court: the red moon sigil scorched into the floorboards of the Ketsueki En the Blood Garden.
Riku Hanabira stepped inside, greeted by the scent of copper and the thunder of fists.
It was fight night in Tokyo's veins.
The audience roared around him. Low-tier family scions, mercenary clans, off-duty enforcers, and twisted socialites all packed into the stands. Bets were flying faster than punches. This was where reputations rose and empires cracked. Not in boardrooms. Here. In sweat, blood, and bone.
"You're late."Kazuya Morita, fight manager and king of cheap suits, waved him over from the bench with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
"Had a party to crash," Riku muttered, pulling off his jacket. The pistol stayed strapped beneath his arm.
Kazuya frowned. "You brought a piece to The Courts? You trying to get me blacklisted?"
"After last night, someone's trying to kill me. Again."
Kazuya sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "You say that like it's new."
"It's not."
Riku peeled off the last layer of formality and stepped into the prep zone concrete, blood-stained mats, and a cracked mirror. He caught a glimpse of himself: shirtless, bruises still blooming from the gala, hair damp with Tokyo mist. A scar ran down his side like an old whisper. He touched it, once.
Then the voice rang out across the arena, filtered through static and smoke:
"Next match: Kurokiba versus the White Dog of Fukagawa!"
The crowd lost its mind.
He hadn't used that name Kurokiba since before the fall. But it stuck to him like a brand. The Black Fang. The fighter with no family, no flag. The one who didn't flinch, didn't beg, and didn't lose.
Riku cracked his knuckles.
"Who's the Dog?" he asked, stepping into the tunnel toward the cage.
Kazuya called after him, "New blood. Fast. Arrogant. Backed by the Aoyama family's security division. He's trying to climb. Don't kill him."
Riku paused.
Then grinned. "I'll try."
Inside the cage, the White Dog was already bouncing on his heels. Blonde-dyed hair, lean frame, full of nervous confidence. He wore the Aoyama crest on his gloves. Brash move.
"You're Riku?" the Dog asked, eyes glinting under the floodlights. "Didn't think they let corpses fight."
"You talk too much," Riku said.
And then the bell rang.
The Dog came in fast a flurry of jabs and spinning knees, the kind of style made to impress in training reels. Riku let it happen, reading the rhythm, the overconfidence. He took two hits to the ribs, blocked a third, and stepped in with a brutal elbow to the throat.
The Dog gagged, stumbled.
Riku followed up low sweep, shoulder lock, palm strike to the solar plexus.
The Dog dropped.
Ten seconds.
The crowd screamed.
Riku turned to the stands, disinterested, just as the boy tried to rise and reached for something in his belt.
Click.
Too late.
Riku spun, disarmed him mid-draw, and jammed the knife into the floor beside the boy's head.
The referees froze. The crowd went silent.
Kazuya stormed in. "What the fuck was that?"
Riku's eyes scanned the boy's gloves again. Under the crest, a tiny stitch pattern. Aoyama make.
"That kid wasn't climbing," Riku muttered. "He was sent to die."
Kazuya's mouth twisted. "You think this is connected to last night?"
"I know it is."
Ten minutes later, Riku stepped out the back of the arena, tension tight across his shoulders.
That's when he saw her.
Leaning against a wall, sipping canned coffee like she hadn't been gone for two days.
"Miki."
She didn't look up. "Heard you made a mess again."
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Training."
He approached. She still wouldn't meet his eyes.
"You disappeared after the gala."
"I do that sometimes."
He reached for her chin, tilting her head. She let him.
There was a fresh cut over her eyebrow. Swollen cheekbone. Finger joints wrapped in gauze.
"What did you fight?"
"Not what," she said. "Who."
He waited.
She finally looked up, her voice barely above a whisper.
"They sent someone after me. I killed them."
His fingers dropped away. "You know who?"
Miki nodded.
"It was Aya's brother."