[Akira — POV]
The warehouse had been dead for years.
Corrosion ate away at its iron framework. The walls exhaled the odor of grease decay and aged blood. This site had previously held goods for people—now it sheltered transgressions too grave, for sunlight. The breeze passed through boards whistling like a caution no one paid attention to.
Tonight, the dead place was alive.
Chuckle resonated within. Glasses chimed. Music pounded like a pulse.
The DRAKANS were rejoicing.
Five years.
Five years of stolen children.
Five years of harvested organs.
Half a decade of women treated like commodities men discarded like trash wealth laundered while spirits were suffocated.
Boxes piled on boxes soaring to ten feet tall creating a monstrous seat. Atop it perched their ruler—concealed under a hood and mask his figure enshrouded in darkness. He showed no laughter. He simply observed, like a predator does, as his hounds rejoiced below him.
I found myself facing the door of the warehouse.
The metal felt icy beneath my hand crumbling rust digging into my glove. My mirrored image gazed back, from the shadow within the steel— mask, eyes blazing behind it leather armor hugging like a second layer of skin. My black cloak whipped fiercely in the breeze, animated uneasy as though it sensed what lay ahead.
I opened the door by pushing it.
The shriek of steel, against steel shattered the festivity.
The music faded. Laughter was stifled. Many faces looked at me—perplexed, irritated inquisitive. The breeze trailed me indoors bringing the aroma of criticism.
I moved ahead.
Every step resounded like a drum, at a funeral procession.
"DRAKANS."
My voice echoed through the warehouse, expansive scaling the walls slipping into every nook.
"The greatest Yakuza gang in Japan."
Quietness deepened.
"Human trafficking. Organ smuggling. Bank robberies. Kidnapping. Drugs. Weapons."
I ventured inside my cape trailing behind like a shadow unwilling to release its hold.
". A few among you " I proceeded quietly "conceal far graver offenses beneath your riches. Offenses against women. Offenses, against children."
Whispers spread among the spectators.
"The disgraceful fact " I stated, raising my gaze to the masked commander overhead "is that the government is aware. The police are aware. The investigators are aware."
My eyes shifted back, to the men beneath.
"All individuals are aware."
I opened my arms a bit.
" People remained silent. Since cash talks louder than honesty.. Dread is more faithful, than fairness."
I stopped briefly.
"So " I murmured gently "lets rejoice."
My tone lowered, intensified.
"Tonight commemorates the anniversary of DRAKANS."
A chair scraped noisily.
One, among them moved ahead—a shouldered man, stocky neck intoxicated by authority and booze. His expression contorted with fury as he directed his finger toward me.
"Who, on earth do you believe you are " he yelled, "to talk that way in front of our boss?"
I gazed at him.
Really looked.
I witnessed it all.
I extended my hand behind me.
Steel screamed as my blade broke loose—old hungry. I turned my body allowing intuition to steer me permitting the strength to surge.
One spin.
One perfect arc.
His neck separated from his torso as if it had longed to detach. Blood gushed out fierce and scalding splattering over crates and faces like a tempest. His head hit the floor with a muted thud.
Quietness turned into terror.
The body arrived afterward.
I rose gradually the blade leaking, breathing calm.
I raised my head.
"I am Justice."
The term reverberated.
And somewhere deep within the rusted bones of that warehouse, fear finally learned how to speak.
The quiet that ensued after the man's passing was so heavy it felt suffocating.
Fear produces a noise.
It does not scream.
It is the inhale individuals often neglect.
I pulled a crate along the concrete ground. The wood screeched as it rubbed the sound intentional like a knife being unsheathed. I perched on it effortlessly leaning my sword against my shoulder the blood still fresh, along its blade.
My eyes rose to the shapes overhead.
"Inform your boss " I spoke quietly my words resonating across the beams of the warehouse "that I want to talk to him."
Nobody stirred.
Several moments went by. Then a man moved ahead his hands shaking even as his voice attempted to appear confident.
"Our astute leader has already arrived " he asserted firmly. ". You lack the rank to see him."
I grinned.
Not with joy.
With pity.
"Then " I whispered, "I guess I'll need to eliminate every one of you. Regrettably."
My eyes tightened. "Reveal his location…. Maybe I'll spare a few of you."
A whisper of fear spread among them.
Suddenly laughter erupted—piercing, derisive frantic.
A man forced his way ahead. His purple hair slipped over his eyes his body covered in tattoos with piercings shining under the lights like cheap stars. He spat on the ground. Gestured toward me.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Do you believe that putting on a superhero outfit turns you into one? You're simply a dim-witted lunatic!"
For an instant I remained silent.
After that I chuckled.
The noise climbed to a pitch echoing throughout the warehouse ricocheting off corroded beams and fractured walls until it ceased to sound human.
"Oh " I gasped, "please… I just can't quit laughing."
I inclined my head examining him.
"I genuinely wish Lucifer was present " I said casually. "Even he has piercings, than you."
The laughter stopped immediately.
A man staggered backward eyes opened wide his complexion turning pale.
"Lucifer…?" he hesitated.
Fear overwhelmed him. He spun towards the others shouting.
"Lucifer!? All of you—apologize! Apologize immediately! He's responsible for the deaths of Yashi Takawa and Mashi Takawa! He isn't human—he's a deity, in the midst of men—he's—"
I extended my arm upward.
Slowly.
And removed my mask.
The atmosphere chilled.
The red metal slipped away, from my face unveiling the man underneath—the eyes, the identical sharp features, the same dreaded familiarity. Shock rippled through the crowd. Some dropped to their knees. Others reeled backward as if hit by a blow.
I glanced at them. Completed the sentence on my own.
"Akira."
The name resonated.
Not shouted.
Spoken like a verdict.
Looming over us atop the stack of crates the masked figure, at last bent forward.
For the first time that night—
The king of DRAKANS paid attention.