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Night had fallen hard on Tokyo, painting the streets in streaks of neon and shadow. Hoshiro stood on the edge of a 12-story building, his coat fluttering in the breeze, his masked face turned toward the chaos below.
The gang from earlier—*Red Fang*—was back at it. Three thugs cornered a street artist in an alley, spray cans stolen, kicks thrown carelessly.
Hoshiro cracked his knuckles. "Showtime."
With one silent leap, he dropped into the alley like a ghost. The moment his boots hit the pavement, one thug turned—too late.
BAM.
A clean roundhouse sent him into a dumpster. The other two lunged, but Hoshiro moved like water—ducking, weaving, striking. His blue eyes glowed faintly beneath the shadows of his hood.
"You picked the wrong night to be scum," he muttered, grabbing the last thug by the collar.
"W-Who are you?!"
"Just a guy who hates bad art," Hoshiro quipped, then knocked him out cold.
From the shadows, someone clapped slowly.
A figure stepped forward—tall, slim, in a purple coat with glowing tech-glasses. "Impressive. Very... flashy."
"Who the hell are you?" Hoshiro asked, staying alert.
"The name's *Kazuki Arata*. I find people like you... interesting. Maybe even dangerous."
Hoshiro narrowed his eyes. "Why are you following me?"
Kazuki smiled. "Because, Mask-boy… you're not the only one with secrets."
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