He had many titles. To the gutter-rats of the Kansai region, he was the Mad Dog of Kyoto. To the high-rollers in the north, he was the Dragon of Sotenbori. To those who crossed his path with ill intent, he was simply Death. He wasn't a shadow or an assassin; he was a force of nature that had spent decades carving his name into the bedrock of the Japanese underworld. A former Yakuza who had climbed the ranks through blood and iron, he was a man who believed in a code that the modern world had long since forgotten.
His name was Kenji Yazamoto. And today, that name was all he had left.
The rain fell in thin, icy needles, whispering against the asphalt of a narrow alleyway in Sotenbori, Osaka.
(A/n: Sotenbori is a fictional place in the city of Osaka, Japan.)
Neon signs buzzed overhead, bleeding pink and electric blue into the oily puddles. Kenji stumbled, his breath hitching in a chest that felt like it was filled with broken glass. His white polo shirt, once crisp and expensive, was now a heavy, sodden rag of crimson and rainwater. Deep, jagged wounds marked his torso, yet the old man kept moving, steady as a funeral procession. His vision was beginning to fray at the edges, the world dissolving into a bokeh of city lights.
'How did it come to this?'
His voice was a ghost of a rasp, barely audible over the pitter-patter of the storm. He reached a brick wall behind a shuttered bar and let out a long, shuddering exhale. He slid down the masonry, leaving a dark streak behind him, and settled into the filth of the gutter.
As the cold began to take him, Kenji's mind drifted back to the start of this long, final day.
/ - /
Afternoon — 1984, Japan.
The heat in the Minato Ward was thick enough to chew on, smelling of diesel exhaust, fried octopus, and stale tobacco. Outside a corner bar, the peace was being systematically dismantled.
Three young punks; hair slicked into greasy pompadours and wearing suits they couldn't afford. They were busy leaning on a local shopkeeper. The leader, a boy with eyes too wide for his own good, tapped a cigarette against a gold-plated lighter with trembling bravado.
"Listen, pops," he drawled, blowing smoke into the old man's face. "Protection ain't a charity. You want to keep your windows in their frames? You pay the tax. Simple math."
The shopkeeper stammered, his hands shaking as he clutched a dishcloth. "I... I already pay my taxes to the city..."
"The city?" The punk barked a laugh, gesturing to his lackeys. "The city doesn't stop the taxman from sniffing around your back door. We do. You think the cops are coming to save a dive like this? Hah."
Behind him, his goons started kicking over crates of beer, the glass shattering with a melodic, violent crash that echoed through the street.
Then, a voice cut through the noise. It was low, calm, and heavy with the weight of a thousand such encounters.
"That's enough, boys."
The three punks turned.
At the mouth of the alley stood Kenji Yazamoto, flanked by two men in dark suits. Kenji's hair was streaked with gray, his tie loose, his eyes heavy-lidded but sharp. His men, one tall and thick-necked, the other wiry and restless, looked more like old drinking buddies than bodyguards.
"Huh? Who the fuck?"
The wiry one stepped forward, jabbing a finger at the punks.
"Hey, kid! Watch your damn tone! You know who you're talkin' to?!" The one from the right yelled.
"Do you wanna die!?" The left side barked.
Kenji sighed, rolling his shoulders.
"Toru, Tomas, pipe it down will you?" he muttered. "You two bark too much, and all they'll hear is noise."
Toru froze mid-gesture, scratching the back of his neck. "Right, boss. My bad."
Tomas simply nodded.
Kenji stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking against the uneven pavement. He stopped a few paces away from the young ringleader and looked him up and down, it was calm, almost fatherly.
"Tell me, son," he said, voice level. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
The young man sneered. "Business. Same as you, old-timer. You've had your turn. World's movin' on, y'know?"
"Business?" Kenji repeated, the word slow on his tongue. "You call shaking down a man's livelihood business?"
"Better than sittin' around talkin' about 'honor' like it's still the feudal era," the kid shot back, smirking. "You lot had your glory days. But the future belongs to us."
Kenji chuckled softly — a dry, humorless sound. He loosened his tie and began rolling up his sleeve. "Hmph. Maybe you're right. My shoulders have been stiff lately anyway..." As his sleeve slid up, the ink came into view—an elaborate dragon winding around a peony, etched deep into the old man's skin. The tattoo gleamed faintly in the sunlight, vibrant even after decades.
The young man's grin widened.
"Well, I'll be damned. You really are one of those old fossils, huh? What is that, Yamaguchi? Sumiyoshi? Doesn't matter. Gotta admit, you're quite a relic, old man."
(A/n: Yamaguchi & Sumiyoshi, he's referring to real-life Yakuza syndicates, specifically two of the biggest ones in Japan.)
He picked up an empty beer bottle from a fallen crate, spinning it lazily in his hand as he sauntered closer.
Kenji's two men tensed. The lean one muttered, "Boss, say the word—"
Kenji raised a hand, not even looking back. "Let him come."
The young punk stopped an arm's length away, pointing the neck of the bottle toward Kenji's chest. "We're not lookin' for trouble, but if you're gonna get in our way, we'll have a problem."
Kenji tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "A problem, huh?" He smiled faintly. "You talk too much for someone still wet behind the ears."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Kenji laughed briefly, "You wanna find out?"
The punk's grin twisted into a snarl. He raised the bottle, but in that same instant, Kenji moved. A twist of motion followed by strangled gasp. Kenji's hand shot out, clamping down on the kid's balls with a grip of iron. The young man's body went rigid, eyes bulging wide as he let out a high-pitched wheeze.
The mid afternoon street fell silent. The two lackeys froze, mouths agape. Kenji leaned in, voice soft as silk.
"First lesson, boy," he murmured. "Never threaten a man who's lived long enough to bury better men than you."
Then he released him, only to deliver a sharp, brutal elbow to the nose. BAM
The young man stumbled backward, crashing into a wooden table with a sickening thud. Blood sprayed from his nostrils as he slumped unconscious to the ground.
Kenji exhaled, flexing his fingers. "Argh. Youth. Reckless and foolish as always."
He turned his gaze to the remaining two punks, who instantly backed away, eyes darting between their fallen leader and the tattoo on Kenji's arm.
"Pick him up," Kenji said, voice cold but not cruel. "Carry him out. Don't come back here again."
They nodded frantically, hoisting their boss and stumbling away down the street.
The shopkeeper peeked out from behind the counter, trembling. "T-thank you, sir... I don't know how to—"
Kenji shook his head gently.
"No thanks needed. You pay your dues, keep your head down. That's enough."
He himself even set a few bills on the counter for the owner, more than the broken bottles were worth.
"For the trouble."
Then, with a wave of his hand, he turned to leave. His two men followed, muttering to each other as they disappeared into the fading light of the alley.
The street fell quiet once more, save for the faint hum of cicadas. And as the last echoes of their footsteps faded, the shopkeeper whispered a silent prayer, for the old man who still clung to a code honor in a world of disrespectful youth.
/ - /
Bathhouse
Steam clung to the rafters and the air smelled of hot wood and soap. The bathhouse hummed with low conversation, towels slapping, the distant clink of a cup. In the largest pool, Kenji Yazamoto let the warm water hold him like an old friend. He sat against the stone lip, shoulders loose, eyes half-closed; the steam painted his gray hair in soft halos.
"Can you believe those buffoons?!" Toru exploded, and the sound ricocheted off the tiles. He slammed a fist on the pool edge for good measure, making a ripple that shook the water around Kenji's knees.
Toru had the kind of voice that thought decorum was a weakness — quick, hot, forever ready to swing. He floated nearby, chest bare, jaw set. Tomas, the other man, kept his entire frame submerged with just his shaved head breaking the surface. Where Toru filled the room, Tomas emptied it: slow, steady, a presence that settled the air.
Kenji did not move. He rest his head back on the stone and let the steam rise into his face. The bath felt like forgiveness in his bones. He exhaled, a long quiet that washed over Toru's outrage.
"Toru," Kenji said, not quite opening his eyes, "tone it down a little. There are others around. If you keep shouting, you'll ruin my peace, and I'll make you carry that blame."
Toru's chest heaved. He opened his mouth, closed it, then grunted. "S-sorry." He ducked under the water, bubbles marching from his mouth like a child holding his breath. When he resurfaced, only his eyes showed, flicking with embarrassment and still-raw anger.
Silence settled for a handful of heartbeats, broken only by the soft lap of water and the distant thud of someone else's towel. Tomas spoke then, his voice deep enough to make the bath itself listen.
"I've never seen them before," he said. "Those kids who stirred trouble. They weren't from around here."
Kenji let a short laugh escape him. "They're new on our turf," he said. "Fresh boys with louder mouths than sense it seems. Think they can muscle in and make a name. They think nothing of the old fences and lines." He flexed his fingers in the water, feeling the drag of the current. "Fools, all of them."
Tomas watched him for a long beat. "You shouldn't have to care, boss. You said you were done with the streets."
Kenji's eyes opened, pale and sharp amidst the swirling mist. He stared up at the timber rafters as if they were the same sky he'd been looking at for half a century.
"I'm not retired," he said. The words were quiet, but they sat heavy in the humid air. "Maybe I'm done with the ledgers, the territory disputes, and the suits. But the streets? The streets don't let you go that easy. I came back here looking for a little peace, but it seems quiet is the one thing you can't buy in this town." He gave the ceiling a small, crooked grin. "Still, if I've only got a few pages left in the book, I'd rather they be written here."
He turned his head slightly toward Tomas, his expression softening. "I like it here. I drew my first breath in Sotenbori... it's only right that I leave my last one here, too."
Toru shifted, his head rising further out of the water, sending a small wake toward Kenji. "I've been wondering, Boss... if you don't mind me asking... how old are you, really?"
"Sixty," Kenji grunted. "Why? You looking to buy me a cake?"
"Wow. Six decades," Toru breathed, genuine awe coloring his voice. "And how long were you—"
"I gave the organization fifty-six years, kid," Kenji cut him off, his tone final. "That's all the history lesson you're getting today."
"But the way you moved back there, with those punks—" Toru started again, his eyes wide.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fast for an old man. Don't make a thing of it," Kenji muttered. He let his body sag deeper into the pool, his muscles finally surrendering to the heat. He looked less like a legend and more like a man who had earned every silver hair on his head.
Tomas watched him, his face uncharacteristically soft. He bobbed once in the water, a slow, deliberate nod. "We trust you, sir. Wherever the road ends... we'll be right behind you."
Kenji's laugh was low and brief, "Then I'll leave it to you," he said. "And you two, you keep your heads. Let the kids learn what pain feels like without dying over it."
Toru snorted, the edge back in his tone. "They'll remember, boss. Believe me."
Kenji closed his eyes again, the water around him warm enough to make his old scars ache less. For a moment he simply listened to the bathhouse, to the city beyond its walls, to the steady breath of the men he'd chosen to keep near. Outside, the world might be changing, but here, in the soft steam and the low murmur, the old rules still had a place.
Moments later after they got off the pool, Kenji took a tiny plastic bottle—it was a mango juice—they got from their shopping earlier after they confronted the troublemakers.
"Oh well, wouldn't want this to go to waste." Kenji sipped the whole juice.
"Drink as much Mango juice as you'd like, boss!" Toru bowed his head, and next to him was Tomas, also bowing but still silent.
"Oh c'mon now..." Kenji felt a bead of sweat come down from his temple. He's embarrassed to have them around sometimes—well, more specifically more to Toru—although he may be their boss, he doesn't want to always be treated to be a king in public.
Moments later, Kenji, Toru and Tomas walked out of the bathhouse. The bathhouse door slid shut behind them with a soft wooden knock.
Night had settled in proper now. Sotenbori glowed the way it always did—loud, shameless, and unapologetically alive. Overhead, neon signs buzzed with a low-frequency hum, bleeding electric pinks and bruised purples into the wet pavement like spilled paint. The rain had thinned to a fine mist, just enough to cool the skin without washing away the city's grit.
Kenji adjusted his coat, the fabric stiff against his shoulders, and took a slow, deliberate breath. The air out here was a sharp contrast to the cedar and steam of the bathhouse; it smelled of diesel exhaust, fried octopus dough, and stale cigarette smoke. It was a heavy, complicated scent. Familiar. Honest, in its own ugly way.
Toru cracked his neck, the sound like dry twigs snapping, and stretched his arms toward the glowing sky. "Ahh... damn. I feel reborn. Like I left ten years of filth back in that tub."
Tomas offered a low, vibrating hum of agreement, his hands deep in his pockets.
They moved as one, drifting down the narrow street with footsteps in sync—a rhythm born more from long habit than intention. Despite his age and his casual pace, people parted around them. It wasn't that Kenji looked dangerous; in fact, with his gray hair and tired eyes, he looked almost grandfatherly. But there was a gravitational pull to his presence, a density of soul that made men instinctively step aside and women lower their gaze. He didn't look like a threat anymore, but he looked like the man who knew where the threats lived.
At the corner, beneath a flickering streetlight that pulsed like a dying heart, a black sedan waited.
Kenji's pace slowed. The transition was seamless—from a man enjoying a walk to a predator sensing a trap. The car's engine was a low, rhythmic throb. The windows were tinted a shade of black too deep for a neighborhood that had nothing to hide.
"That ours?" Toru asked, his voice dropping an octave, his hands curling into loose fisted.
"No," Kenji said, his eyes scanning the surrounding rooftops before settling back on the vehicle. "Not ours."
Tomas moved a half-step to Kenji's flank. "You want us to—"
Kenji lifted a hand, a single finger raised. "No."
The sedan's rear door creaked open. A man stepped out, his movements smooth and practiced as he straightened his designer coat. Late forties. Clean-cut hair with just enough product. A face Kenji had seen in a hundred different boardrooms and a dozen different alleys.
Kenji's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in a cold, calculating recognition. "...Masaru."
Masaru Kido smiled. It was a professional's smile—wide, bright, and utterly empty. "Kenji-san. It's been too long. The city felt smaller without you."
Toru bristled, his shoulders squaring off. "You didn't say we were meeting anyone, Boss."
"I didn't plan on it," Kenji replied, his gaze never drifting from Masaru's throat.
Masaru spread his hands, palms up. "Easy, easy. I was just in the area. Heard through the grapevine that the 'Great Yazamoto' had returned to his old stomping grounds. I thought it only right to pay my respects."
Kenji exhaled a plume of mist. "Funny place to do it. Under a broken light in the rain."
Masaru's smile faltered, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You always did hate the fluff, Kenji-san. Always preferred the dirt."
Kenji glanced back at Toru and Tomas. "Give us a moment."
Toru hesitated, his eyes darting to the tinted windows of the car. "Boss—"
"That's an order," Kenji said, his voice quiet but possessed of a sudden, razor-sharp edge.
Toru clicked his tongue and shared a look with Tomas, but they both stepped back toward the edge of the street. They didn't leave; they simply stood far enough away to grant the illusion of privacy, their eyes still scanning for a muzzle flash.
Masaru watched them go, then turned back to Kenji. "You still don't trust easily. Even with your own pups."
Kenji chuckled, a dry sound like sandpaper on stone. "Oh, I trust plenty, old friend. I trust the rain to get me wet, and I trust a snake to bite when it's cornered." He leaned in closer, his voice a low rasp that barely carried over the city's roar. "You didn't come here for a trip down memory lane. Say what you came to say."
Masaru laughed weakly, the sound dying quickly. "Still sharp. It's those eyes of yours... they never went soft." He slipped a hand into his coat, moving slow enough to show he wasn't pulling steel, and retrieved a cigarette. He didn't light it. He just rolled it between his fingers, his movements restless. "I came because your name is being whispered again. In rooms where the lights are low and the knives are long. More than it should be for a man who claims to be done."
Kenji's expression remained a mask of stone. "Names get said. That's how the world works."
"Not like this." Masaru glanced past Kenji, checking the street behind them, his anxiety finally leaking through the cracks of his composure.
Kenji leaned back against the cold brick of a nearby building, folding his arms. "And you're here to warn me out of the goodness of your heart?"
Masaru hesitated. It was a fraction of a second, but to Kenji, it was a confession. "I'm here because I owe you. You pulled me out of the gutter when I was young and stupid. When the organization wanted to bury me, you gave me a shovel and told me to dig my way out instead. I figured you'd want to know what the wind is saying."
"And what is it saying?"
Masaru met his eyes, his gaze finally steadying. "That you're still standing in the way of a very lucrative future, Kenji. Just by existing."
The words sat between them, heavier than the rain.
Kenji exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "Funny. I'm not standing anywhere. I'm just living."
Masaru gave a thin, pitying smile. "To men who want everything, 'just living' is the greatest insult of all."
A gust of wind rolled through the alley, rattling a loose tin sign above a nearby bar. Somewhere deep in the district, a woman's laughter spilled out—sharp, drunk, and full of life.
Masaru straightened his coat. "That's all. Consider the debt paid. Watch your back, old friend. The city isn't as patient as it used to be."
He turned back toward the car, but Kenji's voice caught him.
"Masaru." It was quiet, but it had the weight of a gavel. Kenji studied him—really studied him. He saw the stiff set of the shoulders, the way Masaru's eyes searched the asphalt instead of his face. "I'm old, but I'm not blind. I see right through you." He let out a long, weary sigh. "Make a wise decision, Masaru. You never know which one will be your last."
Masaru stopped. For a moment, it looked like he might say something else—something true. But the silence stretched until it snapped.
"Take care of yourself," Masaru said, his back still turned. "Kenji."
He stepped into the sedan. The door closed with a heavy, expensive thud. The engine roared to life, and a moment later, the taillights bled red into the wet street before vanishing around a corner.
Kenji stood there for a long time, staring at the empty road where the car had been. He let out a slow, jagged breath and finally turned. Toru and Tomas were already at his side.
"What was that about?" Toru asked, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
Kenji didn't answer immediately. He looked at the two of them—the fire in Toru, the loyalty in Tomas. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. He smiled, but it was a tired thing. "Why don't you two head home early tonight?"
The words caught them off guard. Toru blinked. "Huh? What for?"
"No buts," Kenji cut in, his voice gentle but final. "You've done enough for one day. Go. Find a warm meal. Get some rest. That's an order from your boss."
Toru opened his mouth to protest, but Kenji met his eyes. The smile was still there, but the warmth had left it, replaced by a dark, looming shadow. "It wasn't a suggestion, Toru."
Silence stretched. Finally, Tomas nodded. "Understood, sir. We'll see you tomorrow."
Toru scratched his neck, clearly frustrated, but he followed Tomas. They lingered for a second, like soldiers waiting for a reprieve, then turned and walked off into the neon haze, their footsteps fading into the heartbeat of Sotenbori.
Kenji watched them until they were nothing more than shapes in the mist. Only then did his smile fade completely. He looked back down the street Masaru had taken.
"Always was bad at goodbyes," he muttered to the empty air. He reached into his pocket and felt the cold plastic of the mango juice bottle. "Besides, they're good kids. They don't deserve to get caught in the middle of my bullshit."
/ - /
Rain followed Kenji home, drumming a relentless rhythm against the roof of his sanctuary.
The old wooden house creaked as he slid the door shut, the latch clicking into place with a finality that felt like a tomb closing. He didn't bother with the lights. In the darkness, the house was a collection of shadows he knew by heart. Habit took over: his shoes were kicked off at the entrance and lined up neatly, toes pointing toward the door. His jacket followed, draped over a chair like a discarded skin.
He moved straight through the house, his breath hitching in the quiet.
The back door slid open to the yard, and the night air rushed in, smelling of ozone and wet earth. Mud swallowed his sandals as he stepped into the deluge. The rain was a hammer now, soaking his shirt in seconds, plastering it to the old scars on his back. At the far edge of the yard stood a shed, leaning precariously, its gray wood split by decades of neglect.
Kenji didn't go to the shed. That was for the amateurs to check.
He stopped three paces short, his eyes fixed on a patch of earth that looked no different from the rest. He knelt, the mud soaking into his trousers, and grabbed a shovel propped against the fence. Drive, push, lift. He worked with a grim, practiced certainty. The soil was soft, surrendering easily to his blade. Rain ran down his nose and mixed with the grit on his hands, but he didn't stop.
Minutes bled into a blur of exertion until the sound changed. The shovel struck something hollow and metallic—a sharp, ringing clink that signaled the end of his peace.
Kenji dropped the shovel and brushed away the muck with his bare hands. He gripped the handle of a steel box and hauled it free, the muscles in his forearms cording and trembling as the weight resisted him. He dragged it onto the grass with a dull thud.
He wiped his face with a muddy sleeve and unlatched the lid.
Inside was order.
Heavily oiled rags protected the steel. Revolvers with grips worn smooth by his palms. A compact, short-barreled shotgun. Spare magazines stacked with mathematical precision. Ammunition sealed in oilcloth. It was a museum of a life he'd tried to bury, every piece clean, every piece hungry.
Kenji exhaled a long, shaky breath. "Well," he whispered, his voice almost fond, "it's been a while, hasn't it?"
He carried the box inside, and the house began to change.
Floorboards were pried up and shifted. He tipped a heavy mahogany table on its side, wedging it against the hallway wall to create a choke point. He hammered nails into doorframes at eye level, measuring the height with a calm, terrifying focus. He strung high-tensile fishing line across the kitchen entrance—low enough to trip a rushing man, nearly invisible in the gloom. He took an old glass cabinet, shattered the panes, and scattered the shards beneath the windows like jagged snow.
He slid a blade into his waistband. He stashed a pistol beneath the floorboards by the stairs and taped another behind a kitchen beam.
Finally, he stood in the center of the room, rainwater dripping from his sleeves and mud staining the polished wood. He pulled a cigar from his pocket—his last one—and lit it. The amber glow illuminated his face for a second, a mask of stone and weary determination. The house was quiet again, but the peace was gone. It was a rushed fortified fortress now
Ready. Kenji thought.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar, unwelcome ache in his joints. Outside, the low hum of an engine vibrated through the rain.
Kenji turned off the last light
Soon after, the sedans arrived without hurry. One by one, they rolled onto the narrow road, engines low, lights dimmed. Rain slid off their hoods in silver sheets. Tires crunched softly over gravel as they stopped short of the wooden house, spaced apart like they'd done this before.
Doors opened.
Men stepped out in dark tuxedos, coats pulled tight against the rain. Under the coats—steel. Pistols tucked close, machetes wrapped in cloth, grips already slick with wet palms. Their faces were calm, Businesslike.
One of them adjusted a cap low over his eyes and walked to the front door.
He knocked around three times, but nothing responded from inside the house. He knocked again, louder this time. "Police. Open up, we would simply need to ask a few questions."
...Silence..
The fake police-man waited a beat longer, then glanced back. A single nod. The first kick splintered the doorframe. The second tore it loose. The third sent the door crashing inward, wood exploding across the tatami.
Men flowed in.
Not a single word could be heard, just boots on wood, measured steps, guns low but ready. Two men peeled left. Two right. Another stayed near the door, gun raised. They moved deeper inside the wooden house until suddenly—the fishing line caught the first man at the ankle. He pitched forward, gun skidding across the floor. Before he hit the ground—
BANG.
The shotgun roared from the darkness.
The blast took him in the chest and hurled him backward through the kitchen doorway, blood and rain mixing as his body collapsed into the wooden floor.
And then, chaos erupted within the house.
Gunfire tore through the room in violent flashes. Wood splintered. Glass shattered. A man slipped on crushed shards and slammed hard onto the floor, his machete skittering uselessly across the tatami.
Kenji moved, and he moved fast. He burst from the side hallway like a shadow ripped loose.
A pistol barked. BANG.
The man spun and collapsed before he could even register the hit.
Kenji stepped over the body, grabbed another attacker by the collar, and drove his head into a wooden beam. There was a wet crack. The body folded and stayed down.
A machete came swinging, but Kenji caught the wrist mid-arc, he twisted it sharply, and the blade dropped. He raised his pistol and fired without hesitation.
BANG!
Another shot, another corpse. He turned just as more men poured in, muzzles lifting in the dark.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Kenji rolled into the next room and slammed the door shut behind him. Boots thundered after him. One of them foolishly rushed in blindly..
BANG!
—and met the shotgun muzzle-first. The blast snapped his head back and dropped him where he stood. The others halted at the doorway, hugging the corners, breathing hard. Uncertainty crept in their spines.
A heartbeat passed, then their heads burst apart.
Shotgun pellets tore through them from across the hall. The room Kenji had rolled into had a second door—one that opened onto the opposite side of the hallway. He'd timed it perfectly, and he did.
Ten men now lay dead in his house, all from a handful of shotgun blasts.
Kenji worked the pump and winced. "My back's killing me."
Footsteps thundered again, and Kenji didn't delay as he moved for the stairs.
At the landing, a submachine gun waited for him. Kenji hurled the empty shotgun aside and raised his own weapon. Dark silhouettes filled the hallway, men still adjusting, still blind within the darkness.
But this was Kenji's house, it was his jungle.
He squeezed the trigger. The submachine gun roared, bullets ripping through the hallway in a brutal hail. Men screamed and dove for cover. Some didn't make it. Bodies hit the floor and didn't get back up.
The gun rattled for a full thirty seconds before clicking empty. Kenji tossed it aside and rushed up the stairs, skipping a step.
Men charged after him. The first man hit a loose stair as the Wood cracked. His leg plunged through the step, trapping him in place. Before he could even react, something massive slammed into him.
A piano.
Kenji had been waiting for that sound. It is his cue for him to push it. The weight of it crushed down the stairwell, obliterating the trapped man and dragging the others with it. Screams cut short as bodies tumble beneath splintering wood and iron strings.
Silence followed.
Kenji leaned against the wall, wheezing. His chest burned. His knees trembled. He was old, no use pretending otherwise. He straightened slowly, ignoring the protest in his back, and drew his pistol. He aimed it down the ruined stairwell, arm steady despite the tremor in his muscles. Whoever showed their face first would die. Simple as that.
"Sir," a voice drifted up through the smoke and the smell of cordite. It was calm, devoid of the frantic adrenaline of the men Kenji had just butchered. "We hold nothing against you."
Kenji's jaw tightened, the phantom taste of copper on his tongue. That voice. He'd heard it crack during puberty. He'd heard it swear oaths of loyalty over cups of sake.
"Haku?" Kenji rasped.
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the distant, rhythmic drumming of the rain.
"Yes, sir. It's Haku."
The name hit Kenji harder than any of the slugs currently buried in his walls. He swallowed hard, a sudden, sharp ache in his throat that had nothing to do with the smoke. Even now, buried under layers of cynicism, a part of him had hoped the boy was still out there somewhere, living the clean life Kenji had tried to buy for him.
"What the hell are you doing here, son?"
The silence stretched, long and suffocating.
"Unfortunately, sir..." Haku's voice hitched, a weary sigh carrying the weight of a man who had already accepted his own damnation. "We came to eliminate you."
Kenji clicked his tongue, a hollow, dry sound. "Why? I gave you the keys to the kingdom. I stepped aside so you wouldn't have to walk in my blood."
Downstairs, the floorboards groaned. Boots shifted over splintered wood, but no one rushed. They were waiting for the signal.
"The wind changed, sir," Haku answered, his voice tightening. "A new syndicate... they don't care about the old fences or the 'honor' you preached. A lot of the men still respect you—we still look for your shadow in the alleyways. We tried to defend the name. We really did."
Kenji closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cold wall.
"We were swallowed," Haku continued, his words spilling out like a confession in a dark booth. "The losses were too high. And then... they started visiting our homes. They threatened our families, sir. Mine included. This new group... they have more money than the city, more guns than the precinct, and friends in seats of power we can't even see. They wanted the 'Mad Dog' gone. They said a revolution needs a martyr, but a takeover needs an example."
Kenji exhaled through his nose, a grim smile flitting across his lips. "And what about Masaru? Was he-"
"He's the one who sent us, sir... he's been the architect of this since the day you announced your retirement. He didn't want you watching over his shoulder. He said you were a leash he was tired of wearing." Haku's voice dropped to a whisper. "The organization was fucked the moment you walked out that door, Kenji-san."
Kenji let out a long, weary breath. Of course. My gut was right.. I already knew something was odd when Masaru showed up with a face like that.
"I see," Kenji said softly.
"Make no mistake, sir Yazamoto," Haku's voice was thick with a genuine, agonizing pain. "I hold you in the highest respect. I am the man I am because you pulled me out of the gutter. I wouldn't be standing here if not for you." A brief, shaky pause. "But I have to do this. For my family."
Kenji reached into his pocket. His fingers were slick with blood, but they found what they were looking for. He pulled out his last cigar. His hands shook—just enough to be honest, just enough to show he was human. He struck a match with one hand, watched the flame dance in the draft, and lit the tobacco. He inhaled deeply, the rich, acrid smoke filling his lungs, steadying his heart.
"No offense taken, kid," he said, his voice dropping into that low, terrifying rumble that had commanded Sotenbori for years. "I'd probably do the same if I were in your shoes."
He raised the pistol again, the barrel dead-center on the stairwell.
"Just be fast enough not to die."
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then—the sudden, violent shatter of glass. Downstairs, windows exploded inward as three Molotovs arced through the dark like falling stars. Orange light bloomed with a hungry roar. Heat, sudden and blistering, surged up the stairwell. Black, oily smoke followed, thick enough to drown in.
Kenji smelled it instantly. High-grade accelerant. They weren't coming up for a duel; they were burning the past to the ground.
The old beams groaned, the wood crackling as the fire began to feast on the dry tatami. Kenji looked at the flames and smiled around his cigar, his teeth bared in a feral, defiant grin.
"So that's how it is," he muttered.
He didn't hesitate. He turned and sprinted toward the end of the hall, ignoring the screaming protest in his hips. He drove his shoulder into the window, covering his face with his forearm as the glass exploded into a thousand glittering diamonds.
The world tilted. He was airborne for a terrifying second before he slammed into the neighboring roof. The rough tiles tore at his suit and skin as he rolled hard, coming up in a crouch, coughing out a lungful of soot.
He turned back just in time to see his life's work vanish.
BOOM.
The house erupted. The gas lines he'd loosened acting as the final percussion. A pillar of fire punched into the rainy sky, and for a moment, Sotenbori was as bright as noon.
Kenji dropped flat, pressing his chest into the rough, wet tiles as a hail of splintered wood and scorched plaster rained down from the sky. The heat from the blast licked at his heels, a searing reminder that his home was now a pyre.
He pushed himself up, his joints screaming, his vision swimming in dizzying loops. He hated it—hated the way his muscles lagged seconds behind his will, the way his breath came in shallow, pathetic wheezes.
"I already hate this body," he hissed through gritted teeth, the cigar still clamped defiantly between them.
He took two staggering steps toward the edge of the roof—
BANG.
The sound was sharp, a crack of thunder that had nothing to do with the storm.
Pain, white-hot and absolute, exploded in his abdomen. It wasn't a sting; it was a sledgehammer made of lead.
"AUGH—!"
The air left his lungs in a wet spray. The shot folded him in half, his hands flying to his stomach as he stumbled, his boots skidding on the slick tiles. He nearly pitched over the edge, the ground rushing up to meet him, before he caught himself. Below, the shadows were no longer silent. Men were shouting, their voices distorted by the rain, and muzzle flashes flickered in the yards like angry fireflies.
Cling! A tile shattered inches from his hand. They were leading the target.
Kenji didn't think; he reacted. He dragged his heavy frame to the far edge and rolled. He didn't fall so much as he plummeted, slamming into a neighbor's trampoline with a bone-jarring jolt that rattled his teeth in their sockets. He rolled off the canvas and hit the mud hard, the impact sending a fresh wave of agony through his gut.
He didn't stay down.. He couldn't.
So he ran. Through sheer fucking will.
Each step was a fresh baptism in fire. He could feel the warmth of his own blood soaking into his shirt, slick and heavy, contrasting with the freezing rain. He became a ghost, weaving through the labyrinth of Sotenbori's back alleys. He vaulted low fences with a grunt of pure agony, slipped between narrow gaps in the brickwork, and used the shadows like a shroud. He kept moving because the moment he stopped, the cold would take him, or the lead would.
He knew the math. Haku's new masters would have the hospitals staked out before he could even reach the triage desk. The police were just janitors for the syndicate now. And his boys—Toru, Tomas—if he went to them, he'd just be handing them a death sentence.
He crossed the bridge on foot, his head bowed against the wind. The city swallowed him whole. The neon lights of the Dotonbori canal rippled in the water—pinks, greens, and golds dancing over the surface. Crowds of tourists and salarymen pushed past him, far too drunk or too busy to notice the old man in the tattered suit bleeding out beneath his coat.
By the time the familiar glow of the main strip hit his eyes, Kenji knew the race was over.
The engine was stalled. The tank was empty.
He didn't look for a phone. He didn't look for help. He turned away from the light, ducking into a narrow, dead-end alleyway where the only sound was the drip of a leaky pipe and the distant, muffled throb of a nightclub's bass.
He chose the one thing the city had never given him.. Quiet.
/ - /
Current Time
"How did it come to this?" he rasped.
He reached a narrow alley behind a shuttered bar and leaned against the brick wall. His legs finally gave out. He slid down slowly, rain washing crimson from his hands into the gutter below. Kenji tilted his head back, staring at the slice of night sky above him.
This was as far as he could go.
Kenji's breath came shallow now. Each inhale rattled in his chest, thin and uneven. Rain tapped against his face, cool against skin that had gone numb. His fingers twitched once, then curled loosely at his side. The city lights blurred. Neon stretched into soft streaks of color, bleeding together until there was no edge left to them.
His chest rose.
Somewhere far off, a siren wailed. Laughter drifted from the street. Life went on, careless and loud. Kenji Yazamoto exhaled one last time... the breath left him in a quiet sigh, and never came back.
His eyes stayed open, reflecting the neon above but even that faded as his soul left the world.
[End]