Man, sometimes things just get out of hand, huh?
One minute you're at the top of your game and the next, you're lying under a bridge, a knife wound under your ribs as your best friend tries desperately to stop the bleeding.
I remember that day vividly. I was with the guys, as I was every Sunday, but this was different. It was a Sunday that had been building for far too long, but, hey, I'm getting a bit carried away. Let's go back a second. My name is Sato Mashida, and back home, they call me the demon of Shinjuku. I'm seventeen years old; my favourite food is karaage and I'm the leader of a gang, the Midnight Oni. There are roughly twenty of us, and we run the place efficiently. We deal with any bullshit that comes up, in the only way we know how, with our fists. That's why, on this day, I didn't think any differently, a couple of guys from the Black Stars were sniffing around, saying they were tougher than us and would kill me if they ever saw me. I'm not big on ignoring challenges like this, let alone threats. It must be this way if you want to stay on top.
So yeah, that's the setup. We were lounging like kings on a shithole throne: busted crates for chairs, an overturned vending machine for a table, our faces lit by the kind of neon that makes all your problems look cinematic. Sundays were for wasting time and talking shit, and we did both really fucking well.
The Black Stars were a different itch altogether. Low-level, loud mouths, and full of get-rich-quick bravado. They'd been poking at our borders for a while, trying to find where our patience ended. Trouble is, when you run a patch of street long enough, you get used to people testing you. It's like a reflex by then, someone mouths off, you step forward, fists tell the rest of the story. That's how respect gets carved out in this city: one bruise at a time.
I told the boys to cool it at first. Let 'em talk. Let them think they own the air for a minute. Makes the real work easier. You stir up a little bait, see who bites. The ones who bit that day were not clever.
We walked down to the river after dusk because that's where the Black Stars liked to show. The bridge throws a shadow like a blade, and the water underneath smells of rust and old cigarettes. Perfect place for a meeting that was supposed to be just that, a meeting. Proper face-to-face. A conversation. Shit never stays polite though, does it?
I kept my eyes on the leader. I knew his type. Cheap jacket, expensive attitude. Eyes that thought fear was something you bought, not earned. I kept my hands in my pockets, so they'd think I was relaxed. They saw an opening and they took it. One of the Black Stars stepped forward with that smirk like a toast you didn't ask for.
"You Sato Mashida?" he said. "The demon of Shinjuku? Heard you like to play king."
"Say my name right," I told him. "Don't cheapen it."
They laughed like it was a routine. I laughed back, the kind that doesn't let a room breathe easy. My crew should have been behind me, twenty faces I trusted because they'd bled for me, because they'd sung our stupid little song about being better than the world out loud enough to get punched for it. I'm an idiot though, went in with no backup. I'd told the guys to head home. Cockiness got the better of me, and I thought I could handle it with just myself and Kenta. It was meant to be two of us, two of them. A little chat to sort shit out. I laughed when I saw that there were five of them.
The leader didn't like my laugh. He never did. Maybe he expected a bow, a stiff salute, or some trembling worship. He got my smile instead, and that's where it went bad, quickly.
One of their boys grabbed a bottle and cracked it on the ground like he was opening a present. I could see the way the leader's jaw clenched. People like that can't resist proving they're dangerous. It's a fucking disease.
"Boss," Kenta whispered. He was young, always a little too eager to impress. He had this way of worrying that made me think of a little dog waiting for you to throw a ball. He was holding out his hand like he wanted me to take some secret into it, but I shook my head.
"Let him talk," I said. "If he's dumb enough, he'll walk himself into a lesson."
Kenta was like an advisor, being me, damn, I didn't often take his advice. That's when it happened. The leader came close, voice low, breath smelling like stale beer and regret. "You think you're a demon?" he said. "I think you're just a kid with a good story. Why don't you show us?"
Show us. I hated that because it had a thousand meanings. Show us who you are. Show us you're the boss. Show us whether you're worth what your boys think you are. Those words were a slap wrapped in challenge. I could have walked away. I didn't. Couldn't. Pride's heavier than a pocket full of coins when you wear it like armour.
We squared off, as much theatre as instinct. Fists, eyes, breathing, everything lined up. The first hit was ugly and honest. A swing, a grunt, a crack against bone. For an instant the world narrowed to the smell of blood and rain and the pure, brutal survival instinct. I'm not gonna glamorise it; fights are loud, dumb, and fast. You trade damage for time and pray your heart doesn't give out before the other beast.
I remember the taste of metal, that feeling when someone's tooth meets your tongue, or when rain mixes with blood in the corner of your mouth. I remember Kenta's hand on my sleeve like a prayer. I remember him warning me.
Then the knife found my rib.
It was small, cheap, the kind you pick up when you want to look scarier than you are. The blade slid in under my ribs while someone else's elbow knocked the wind out of me. I swear, the pain lit up all the parts of my body at the same time and that made everything else slow down. You don't think of your life in a moment like that. You think of small stupid things. The last roll of cigarettes in your pocket. The disappointed look on your mother's face when she slapped you for the first time. The karaage you had last week that hit like heaven.
Kenta went white-faced, his fingers already at the wound like he knew the only thing stopping the cut from being a headline was pressure and a prayer. He had this panicked, frantic way with his hands. I'm not gonna lie — I'm not a sentimental man. I've been hit; I've hit back. But seeing him there, stupid and shaking, trying to cup my ribs with the kind of care you only give when you're terrified of losing someone who's always been reckless — that stung worse than the knife.
"Boss, stay with me," he kept saying. Over and over like a broken song.
The Black Stars were already running, scattering like cockroaches when the light flips on. Someone screamed something about running, and they were gone, leaving the bridge smelling like sprayed blood and cheap leather. It's funny — I spent my life teaching men to stand, and when the moment came where standing was the only thing that made sense, my legs decided otherwise.
The bridge was empty except for us under it and the river's dull roar. I could hear the city in the distance The rain made everything blurry, like the world. Kenta kept pressing his hands against my wound with both palms and his mouth muttered nonsense, prayers or curse words, I couldn't tell.
"You idiot," I told him, because I had to say something. Voice came out ragged, like gravel.
Someone shouted from the far end of the bridge. Probably someone who saw lights or heard a shout. I coughed and tasted iron. My ribs felt hot like they were being set on fire.
"Boss," Kenta said again, voice breaking. "You gotta… you gotta keep looking at me."
He pressed harder, harder until his fingers went slick with my blood. The sensation was unreal, like someone else's life spilling out into his hands. That kid had always been softer than he wanted the gang to believe. That's the curse of loyalty, it makes you tender in ways you don't plan for.
"Don't die on me," he said.
That line gets under your skin. It's so small and stupid, but when someone says it to your face, it's fucked. I wanted to tell him I wasn't done yet. I wanted to tell him about the plans, the stupid future I always painted for myself while drunk on cigarettes and dreams. I wanted to tell him about the karaage I'd eat when I finally had money, or about the girl who smiled at me on a bus once but whom I never had the guts to see again. I wanted to tell him everything that makes a man want to hold on.
But words are heavy when your lungs don't do what you tell them. Instead, I felt my vision going soft at the edges. Kenta kept talking, filling the air with nonsense. There was a weird calm then, right after the panic. A moment where everything was absurdly clear. All the fights I'd picked, the threats I'd given, the eggshell rules of our little kingdom, all of it stacked up like trophies that maybe meant more to me than to the rest. I thought of my mother, sitting at the kitchen table on a summer that smelled like burnt rice. I thought of my father who left and whose name I never knew and the scar on my thumb from that first time I punched a wall hard enough to break skin.
I thought, and this is the stupidest thing you'll ever hear, of karaage. That sound returns to me every time I close my eyes: the crunch, the steam, the way it made the world feel salvageable. It was pathetic, really. You die and you think of fried chicken.
"Kenta," I whispered, and because I had to anchor myself to something human, I asked the stupid favoured thing: "Promise me you'll tell them the story right. Don't let them turn me into something I ain't."
He shook his head hard, like a man trying to clear water from his ears. "You're the demon, Sato. They'll tell it the way it is."
"Don't make me sound noble."
I wanted to say more. Wanted to say how stupid the whole business of being a boss was, the way we built empires on sticks and glue and the terrified loyalty of lost boys. Instead, I watched his hands for a long time and I let the darkness come in.
There was a noise then, a low hum like something buzzing just behind the world. The rain turned into a smear of light. For a moment I thought, irrationally, that I wasn't in Shinjuku anymore. That maybe, just maybe, the bridge had led somewhere else.
Maybe it did.
"Hey," Kenta said, voice thin. "Stay with me."
I wanted to, I swear I wanted to.
......….
I woke up in a forest of tall blades of grass, a clearing surrounded by oak trees. I stared at the sky for a moment, trying to make sense of it all.
I sat up, with a groan. I looked down at my hands and then at the world.
"Where the hell am I? and, why am I green?"