The night hung heavy over the port.
Salted mist rolled in from the sea, swallowing the ruined docks in a dense gray veil. Where once stood orderly rows of shipping containers and crates, now there was chaos — shattered wooden pallets lay in splinters, steel containers bore the deep dents of brutal impacts, and blood smeared the cracked asphalt in dark, glistening streaks. The air, once filled with the sharp scent of brine, now reeked of iron and sweat.
Genzou Araragi stood alone in the heart of the wreckage, his massive form casting a jagged shadow under the flickering floodlights. His long black coat hung open, revealing a bloodied corded muscle. Fresh cuts traced his jawline, his lip was split, and one eye was swelling shut. Yet Genzou only breathed — slow, deep, controlled — a towering beast still hungry for more.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He escaped, huh.
A sudden noise stirred the silence.
Low, rolling engines.
Genzou's smirk faded.
He turned his head slightly, breath misting in the cold night air, as headlights carved sharp beams through the fog. One by one, the silhouettes of sleek black cars emerged — their polished bodies almost predatory in the dim light. The convoy glided forward without urgency, a silent procession of power.
The underlings of the Araragi-kai, who moments ago were collecting themselves among the shadows, straightened in alarm. Some stiffened, others exchanged wide-eyed glances. A whisper slipped through clenched teeth:
"The Kurohane family…? Here?"
The lead car rolled to a graceful stop before Genzou. The door eased open.
A polished black shoe stepped onto the wet asphalt, the impact soft, controlled, almost delicate.
Then another.
From the car emerged a man — tall, lean, wrapped in a fitted black suit that caught the faint glow of the port lights. His long black hair fell loose around his shoulders, damp strands clinging to the sides of his sharp, pale face. The open collar of his shirt revealed skin inked with a demon's sneering face, the tattoo curling like smoke up the side of his neck. Chrome heart rings gleamed on his fingers, which bore faint scars beneath the ink.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Shin Kurohane.
The heir.
The son of Masanori Kurohane — head of the most feared syndicate in Japan.
Even among seasoned Yakuza, Shin was a name spoken carefully, a figure wrapped in myth and menace. Few had seen him outside the upper echelons of the Kurohane inner circle, but all knew his reputation: cold, precise, and unshakably lethal. Where his father ruled with iron will, Shin ruled with an aura that killed the spirit before the blade ever fell.
As Shin's cold gaze swept across the port, the air itself seemed to stiffen.
The underlings froze, eyes dropping to the ground. Not a word was spoken.
Shin moved with unhurried grace, his black shoes soft against the damp concrete as he crossed toward Genzou. The faint jingle of his rings was the only sound accompanying him. He passed twisted crates and the faint copper smell of blood without a flicker of emotion crossing his face.
When he finally stopped a few paces from Genzou, the giant man straightened his back with a quiet grunt.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Then, in a voice low and smooth as silk, Shin murmured:
"You look like you enjoyed yourself."
Genzou's battered mouth pulled into a faint grin. He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand but didn't answer. His eyes — sharp beneath the swelling — flicked over Shin's face, studying him with the familiarity of an old soldier recognizing another.
Shin's eyes slid past him, scanning the wreckage: the broken crates, the empty blood trail leading out toward the alleys beyond the port. His gaze lingered there, just for a moment, and a whisper of amusement crossed his lips.
"You let him escape."
The words were quiet. But the weight behind them was crushing.
Genzou's grin faded. His shoulders lowered slightly, and his voice, rough as gravel, rumbled from his chest.
"I'll accept any punishment for this."
A flicker — almost a smile — touched Shin's lips.
He tilted his head just a little, as if examining a puzzle piece, then turned his eyes back to Genzou.
"He's the one Father warned about… interesting."
Behind him, the Kurohane men fanned out across the port, moving with disciplined silence. No shouting, no chaos — they formed a perimeter like a living wall, black suits and sharp eyes sweeping every corner. The Araragi-kai underlings shrank into the shadows, barely daring to breathe.
Shin's fingers flexed slightly, the chrome rings catching the light as he turned, his coat sweeping at his heels.
He walked slowly to the edge of the ruined dock, standing under the harsh blaze of the port floodlights, his silhouette cutting a dark figure against the mist.
There, for a moment, he was still.
A storm beneath the calm.
Even from a distance, the Araragi men could feel it — a quiet, smothering pressure that tightened the chest and slowed the breath, as if death itself had stepped onto the stage and demanded attention.
Genzou exhaled once through his nose, the faintest trace of a smirk returning as he watched the young heir's back.
"The devil arrives, huh."
Shin turned his head slightly, catching the words. His lips curved again into that same faint, unreadable smile.
The night deepened around them.
Somewhere beyond the port, sirens wailed in the distance, faint and half-smothered by the mist. But at the docks, under the cold light, all was still — a broken stage, scattered with the ruins of a battle already past, and at its center, a new player had arrived.
The Kurohane heir.
A living shadow of death.
---
Kurohane convoy retreating
The underlings hurried to clean the scene. Orders were given in quiet, clipped voices. Broken crates were kicked into the sea. Blood was washed from the concrete with hoses.
Inside the lead car, Shin sat with his elbow against the window, fingers resting lightly against his chin. His dark eyes reflected nothing of the carnage outside.
Beside him, a subordinate murmured carefully,
"Shall we pursue, young master?"
Shin's lips curved faintly.
"No need."
He watched the flicker of distant city lights beyond the harbor, his eyes half-lidded.
"There's no fun in hunting a fox that doesn't know you're behind it."
The car's engine purred to life, and one by one, the Kurohane convoy disappeared into the night, leaving behind only the ruined port.
---