Chapter 1: The Spark in the Tokyo Night
The neon heartbeat of Tokyo did not reach this deep into the industrial district. Here, the only light came from the violent, staccato bursts of muzzle flashes tearing through the gloom of the warehouse alley.
The air smelled of ozone, wet asphalt, and the sharp, copper tang of spent gunpowder. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving puddles that now shattered under the heavy boots of men in impeccable black suits. They moved with military precision, a fluid phalanx of shadows pressing forward against a chaotic storm of incoming fire.
"Suppressing fire! Three o'clock, behind the dumpster!" one of the suited men barked, his voice rough but controlled.
A hail of bullets chewed into the rusted metal of a large waste container, sending showers of orange sparks cascading onto the wet pavement. The opposing force—a ragged group of thugs desperate enough to pick a fight they couldn't win—scrambled for cover, their shouts of panic drowned out by the rhythmic thunder of high-caliber handguns.
In the center of the black-clad formation stood a man who seemed to belong to a different world entirely.
He was a titan of a figure, broad-shouldered and imposing, wearing a long, dark coat that billowed slightly in the drafty alleyway. His hair was a wild, jet-black mane, unkempt yet commanding, and a thick, curved mustache framed a grin that was less about malice and more about the thrill of the chaos. His eyes, dark and piercing, danced with a ferocious vitality.
He didn't flinch as a bullet ricocheted off a steel beam inches from his ear. instead, he laughed—a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate in the chests of everyone present.
"Is that all you've got?" the Boss roared, stepping out from behind a concrete pillar. He raised a heavy, custom-model pistol, leveling it with casual expertise. Bang. Bang. Two shots, clean and precise. Two yelps of pain echoed from the darkness ahead. "You boys are making this too easy!"
The return fire intensified, desperate and spray-and-pray. The Boss's men tightened their circle around him, shielding him not because he needed it, but out of absolute, unwavering loyalty.
Then, a sound cut through the cacophony of war.
It wasn't a siren. It wasn't an explosion. It was a cheerful, electronic melody—a ringtone.
Tu-ru-ru-ru, Tu-ru-ru-ru.
The Boss froze. His ferocious grin vanished, replaced instantly by a look of sheer, domestic panic. He ducked back behind the concrete pillar with a speed that defied his size.
"Hold fire! Cover me!" he hissed at his lieutenant.
"Boss?" The lieutenant blinked, confused, but immediately signaled the men to lay down a wall of lead.
Amidst the deafening roar of gunfire, the Boss fished a sleek smartphone from his inner coat pocket. He stared at the screen, swallowed hard, and swiped to answer. He pressed the phone to his ear, plugging his other ear with a massive finger to block out the sound of the ongoing firefight.
"Hello? Oh, honey!"
His voice underwent a miraculous transformation. The gravelly command of a warlord melted into the velvet tone of a doting husband.
"Yes, yes, I'm... I'm just wrapping up at work," he said, offering a charming smile to the empty air while a bullet chipped the concrete above his head. Dust sprinkled onto his shoulder; he brushed it off absentmindedly. "The noise? Oh, that. Just some construction work down the street. Jackhammers, you know how it is."
He paused, listening intently, nodding as if she could see him.
"The cake? Of course, I didn't forget. Strawberry shortcake, extra cream. I promised, didn't I?" He checked his watch, his expression softening. "I'm leaving right now. I'll be there before the candles are lit. I promise. Yes... I adore you too. Bye."
He tapped the screen to end the call and exhaled a long breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. Then, the steel returned to his eyes. He holstered his phone and looked at his men.
"Wife says we're late," he announced, his voice dropping back to its commanding baritone.
In the distance, the wail of sirens began to bleed into the night air—rising, falling, getting closer. The Tokyo Police Department.
"Time to go, boys," the Boss grunted. "We didn't get what we came for, but I'm not spending the night in a cell. Move!"
The unit moved as one. They fell back, providing covering fire until they reached a black, armored SUV idling in the shadows of the alley entrance. The doors swung open, and they piled in with practiced efficiency. The Boss took the passenger seat, slamming the heavy door shut just as the engine roared to life.
The SUV peeled out, tires screeching against the wet road, drifting around the corner and accelerating down the empty street.
Behind them, the thugs, realizing their enemies were retreating, surged forward.
"They're running! Get them!" one of the thugs screamed. Three sedans roared out of the alley, their engines whining as they gave chase.
The Boss watched them in the side mirror, the red lights of the tailing cars reflecting in his eyes. He sighed, adjusting his coat. "Persistent, aren't they?"
"They're gaining on us, Boss," the driver said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "And the police are closing in from the north."
"We can't have them following us home," the Boss muttered. "I have a birthday party to attend."
He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to the back. "Open the roof."
The sunroof hummed and slid back, revealing the dark, cloudy sky. The Boss reached under his seat and pulled out a long, heavy tube—a shoulder-fired rocket launcher.
"Boss, are you sure?" one of the men asked, eyes widening. "That's... excessive."
"It's necessary," the Boss grinned, that wild, D-initial smile returning.
He hoisted his body up through the open roof. The wind whipped at his hair and coat. The thugs in the pursuing cars saw him emerge. They saw the massive weapon resting on his shoulder, the dark barrel pointing straight at their windshields.
The effect was instantaneous.
The lead car slammed on its brakes, tires smoking and locking up. The cars behind it swerved violently to avoid a collision, skidding sideways across the road. The thugs inside stared in frozen horror, bracing for incineration.
The Boss looked down the sights, locking eyes with the terrified driver of the lead car. He paused for a heartbeat, letting the fear sink in.
"Wise choice," he murmured.
He tilted the barrel up, aiming not at the cars, but straight into the ink-black clouds above.
THUMP.
The projectile launched with a hiss, leaving a trail of gray smoke as it spiraled upwards. The thugs cowered, covering their heads.
Seconds later, the sky didn't rain fire and shrapnel. Instead, it blossomed.
BOOM-CRACKLE.
A massive, glittering sphere of red and gold fireworks exploded against the darkness, showering the street in harmless, beautiful light.
The thugs looked up, mouths agape, bathed in the festive glow. They watched as the black SUV turned a corner and vanished into the labyrinth of Tokyo, leaving them alone with the fading sparkles and the approaching sirens of the police.
Inside the car, the Boss settled back into his seat, dusting off his coat.
"Right," he said, checking his watch again. "Now, stop at the bakery on 4th Street. I need to pick up a cake."