The bathroom floor dug into Nishida's ribs when he came to. His temple throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, a slow heavy ache that spread across the side of his skull. The taste of iron sat on his tongue. His lip felt split and swollen.
He pushed himself upright, gripping the edge of the sink until the room steadied. The broken mirror threw back a dozen versions of him. All of them looked bad. Dried blood ran down his cheek, his hair clung to his temples in dark sweaty clumps, and his face had gone pale in a way he did not like seeing.
He touched the tender spot above his ear. His fingers found a rough cut and he sucked in a sharp breath as pain sparked under the skin.
Then the memory hit him.
He twisted, using the fractured mirror to angle a look at the back of his neck. The chip was still there. Metal set neatly under his skin as if it belonged. The cut around it had stopped bleeding. It looked too clean. Too settled. Like it had slipped deeper while he was unconscious.
His stomach tightened. The last time he touched it, he hit the floor. He was not doing that again.
He steadied himself and moved back into the main room. The kitchen faucet wheezed before it spat out rust-colored water. After a moment it ran clear. Nishida cupped his hands and drank, the cool hit of it grounding him. He splashed more across his neck. The water ran pink down the sink.
He grabbed the least filthy rag in his pile and pressed it against his temple. The bleeding had stopped, but the cut burned.
Three loud hits shook the door.
He froze.
The wood trembled in its frame. Someone on the other side slammed their palm against it again.
"Open up, Nishida! You know what day it is."
Nishida's breath caught in his throat.
Payment day. Rent. Protection. Whatever name they wanted to give it this week.
With his heartbeat thudding in his ears, he reached for the handle and pulled the door open.
Fujimori filled the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of an expensive leather jacket that did not belong in Tower Twelve. A thick gold chain rested on his chest, the kind only people with rank dared to wear in public. Behind him stood two younger guys. Both had that hungry look, the kind that meant they hoped someone fought back.
"I paid last week," Nishida said, stepping back without meaning to. "It's not due until next month."
"Market shifted." Fujimori's gaze drifted past him into the room, casual and cold. "Got someone who wants this spot and is offering triple. That is how business works."
"You can't just kick me-"
Fujimori's hand shot forward and closed around Nishida's collar. The goons surged in, each grabbing an arm. Their grip tightened until it hurt, lifting him off balance as they yanked him into the hall.
"Actually, I can," Fujimori said.
They threw him down hard. His shoulder hit first, then his hip. Pain burst up his side. His palm burned as concrete tore skin. He tried to push up, but a boot smashed into his ribs. Breath tore out of him in a sharp, broken gasp.
"Nothing personal, kid." Fujimori stood over him with a tired sort of disappointment. "You kept quiet. Never started trouble. But money speaks louder than you."
Nishida did not think. His fist moved before he even saw it leave his side.
His knuckles crashed into Fujimori's mouth with a solid crack. The man's head jerked back. A spray of blood arced through the air. Something hard bounced across the hallway and rolled to a stop. A tooth.
For a heartbeat the world froze.
Fujimori touched his bleeding mouth. His eyes were wide, stunned, almost disbelieving.
Then everything snapped back.
Both goons hit Nishida at once. One grabbed a handful of his hair and drove his skull into the floor. Stars flashed across his vision. The other punched his stomach so deeply his body folded around the impact. Another punch followed. And another. They settled into a rhythm, trading hits like they had done this a hundred times.
A fist slammed into his jaw. A boot crushed his thigh. Something inside his chest shifted with a sickening pop. He could not even scream. His breath came out in ragged, choked sounds as the hallway spun around him.
"Nice threads for a trash pile like this," a deep voice echoed down the hallway. "Someone important backing you? I'm guessing not Kurogane-Kai. They'd at least teach you how to throw a proper punch."
Nishida couldn't see who was speaking. Blood smeared his vision, each breath sending knives through his ribs. He could barely lift his head.
Fujimori turned away from Nishida. "Mind your fucking business-"
A blur of motion cut him off. Fujimori's expensive shoes left the ground as something hurled him through the air. He crashed into the hallway wall with a sickening thud, plaster cracking behind him.
One of the goons dropped near Nishida, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. The second spun around, fist raised, only to be thrown aside like a rag doll. The impact when he hit the ground shook the floor beneath Nishida's cheek.
Heavy boots stepped into view. Someone knelt beside him. Nishida forced his eyes to focus on a man with hard features and calm, calculating eyes. He wore a plain black shirt under an open jacket, a thin red line embroidered along its collar.
"Senda Haruto," he said, voice low and measured. "Aketsuki family. Got a reputation to uphold, so I can't walk past three assholes beating a kid in my territory."
Nishida tried to speak but only managed a wet cough.
"Don't get the wrong idea. I'm here to take something from you." Haruto's expression remained neutral. "You should thank me. I'm doing you a favor."
Haruto reached toward Nishida's neck. His fingertips brushed the metal chip.
Brilliant blue electricity arced from the implant. Haruto jerked back with a sharp hiss, shaking his hand. The air filled with the smell of ozone.
Blue windows flashed across Nishida's vision. Text scrolled by too fast to read before stopping at:
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 17% COMPLETE]
[USER AUTHENTICATION: PENDING]
[DEFENSIVE PROTOCOLS: ACTIVE]
Haruto didn't react to the floating displays. He couldn't see them. He just stared at Nishida, rubbing his fingers together where the electricity had burned them.
"Well," he muttered, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That's interesting. Very interesting."
Haruto crouched beside Nishida, studying him with unnerving intensity. "How old are you, kid?"
Nishida tried to sit up, wincing as his ribs protested. "Fifteen."
"Where are you from? How'd you end up in this shithole?"
"North." Nishida's voice came out ragged. "I'm a runaway."
Haruto's eyes narrowed. "And that thing in your neck? How'd you get it?"
"It... attached itself to me," Nishida said. "At the museum. Something in the dark-"
"Don't lie to me." Haruto's voice dropped dangerously low. "Those aren't toys you find on the street."
"I'm not lying." Nishida met his gaze. "I didn't steal it. It found me."
Haruto considered this, rubbing his singed fingertips together. "Here's the thing about these implants. They're easy to remove if stolen. They only function for their rightful users." He gestured to Nishida's neck. "But yours just defended itself from me. That means it recognizes you as its user." His eyes hardened. "How is that possible?"
"I told you," Nishida insisted, "it forced itself onto me. I tried to remove it and passed out."
Haruto fell silent, his expression unreadable. Finally, he asked, "Want to join the Yakuza?"
The question hit Nishida like a bucket of ice water. "What?"
"I can't retrieve that chip. And if you die, it'll deactivate permanently." Haruto's gaze was steady. "So you have two choices. Stay here, waste your life getting beat up by trash like them," he nodded toward Fujimori's unconscious form, "or come with me and risk dying for something that actually matters."
Nishida stared at him, unable to form words. The man who had just saved him was offering to pull him into a world he'd spent years avoiding.
"You have until tomorrow to decide," Haruto said, rising to his feet. "I'll be back at the same time." He straightened his jacket, the red embroidery catching the hallway light. "Think carefully, kid. Opportunities like this don't come twice."
Without waiting for a response, Haruto turned and walked away, boots echoing down the hallway. He stepped over the groaning bodies of Fujimori and his men without a second glance.
Nishida watched him disappear around the corner, the blue text still hovering at the edge of his vision:
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 23% COMPLETE]