It was the first moment when Akira's eyes had clashed with mine, glinting against the poor light of the alley in the heart of this fabled city, this city of dreams that was Tokyo, and something had broken within me—a ancient fissure I had never known I possessed. I, who had lorded over the greatest of heaven's hosts, I, who had dared to challenge God Himself, had been bade to bow down before God's creatures born of clay.
However, on a daily basis, observing Akira, I began to comprehend the decree.
They disobey not once, in one flaming moment of defiance, but thousands of times, quietly, matter-of-factly, without cease. They deny His existence over morning coffee, in the dusk of traffic, in greedy monuments to what they call "progress." Yet still, no lightning bolt strikes. No chasm yawns open, swallowing them whole.
I sinned once. Once. And I burn forever.
These beings sin as naturally as they breathe—and He holds back the fire.
I never dreamed that my ancient power, born from the wars in heaven, would ever use to fix humanity but i would not denied that i was enjoying seeing that what human can do with my divine powers.
....
Night had shrouded the safe house in a heavy silence, disturbed only by the distant hum of neon seeping behind fractured blinds. I lounged against the wall, invisible to anyone but him, arms crossed, twitching tail signaling impatience.
"So, what's your next move, Akira?" My voice sneaked through the air, low and mirthful. "I'm finding this boring."
He didn't look up at me, still engrossed in washing the blood from beneath his fingernails. He had a faint smile on his lips, and it was-dangerously tight
"Curiosity doesn't suit you," he whispered. Then his gaze rose, black and impassable, and pinned me to my spot as I floated. "The purpose of your kind is to drag souls into sin. And yet, here you are, watching me with such relish to clean up your damned world."
I crept closer, the air growing icy around me. A wicked grin worked its way across my unseen face.
I slid my arm across his shoulders, and though I weighed nothing, I could sense the pressure, the heat of damnable influence. "Oh, to corrupt is pure bliss," I whispered against his ear. "But to confess. there's a certain rush to see my own minions bleed out. at your hand, with my power."
He froze. Slowly, purposefully, he shook my arm off, his eyes clenching shut as if to hold back a tornado.
"So you enjoy watching humans die," he said, his voice deep and cold as a grave. "Fair enough."
I threw back my head and laughed—a sound like the shattering of glass in the darkness. I didn't deny it.
"Exactly."
The door creaked open. Yura entered, her pale complexion and grip on the tablet resembling a shield against the bright light above her. Her eyes locked onto Akira.
"Aki," she said with a tight voice and a sense of urgency. "The President has locked down all approaches to your next target. Yasahi Kodwa—the man who owns half the casinos in Tokyo—now is untouchable."
Akira leaned back in his chair, unruffled, fingers steepled. "As I expected."
Yura paused, swallowing hard. The next time she spoke, her voice was trembling, barely above a whisper.
"Aki… may I ask something?" She took a shaky breath. "Yasahi Kodwa… he was one of them, wasn't he? One of the men who killed your mother?"
The room was like a statue of silence. The sounds of the bustling city outside receded into the background.
The response came low, almost hidden in the shade.
"Yes."
He reached for the remote from the table and turned on the TV.
The screen erupted into life on a news channel. Breaking news banners flashed "red" across the bottom of the screen.
The anchor's voice remained breathless, laced with panic:
"–repeat, devastating attack on Japan's largest casino district earlier tonight. Thousands of elite guards, personally deployed by the President just hours ago, confirmed dead. Special forces are now being mobilized with shoot-to-kill orders on the terrorist known as 'Akira.'"
And then they switch to the live footage, which is grainy from the security cameras and timed just a few minutes ago
A figure in black, hooded and masked with the snarling face of a black oni, stood amidst the glitzy casino floor, amidst the thronging crowd of bodies. He held the bald, terrified man, Yasahi Kodwa, by the collar, lifting him off the ground with one hand.
The other hand of the masked individual thrust forward, their fingers ending in impossible claws of darkness. These went right through Kodwa's chest.
Blood spouted from his wound like a crimson waterfall, staining the costly carpet. Kodwa's mouth had widened into a silent scream, his eyes bulging with bestial fear.
The masked man tore his hand away and let the body slump.
He turned to address the camera, his voice muffled but amplified, ringing out over the speakers like a tolling bell:
"Oh, humans…. Consider me the revenge for your actions."
The camera was jerking violently—someone running in terror—before the screen went black.
Yura's hand shot to her mouth. She turned to Akira, who was sitting still, fixated on an empty screen.
"But… you're here," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You've been here all night. Then who—who was that?"
Akira's fingers clinched the remote control till the plastic squeaked. His response issued in one frozen exhalation of breath, deep and lethal and flavored with something far darker than anger.
" HE'S VERNON."