The clock at the nearby train station struck nine.
Night pressed down over Kamagasaki like a heavy, oil-stained tarp. Streetlights flickered weakly, casting tired shadows across cracked pavement and rusting bicycle frames. The alley near the train tracks stank of soy sauce, grease, and desperation. Somewhere in the distance, a drunk belted out karaoke lyrics to no one in particular. Laughter followed. Not the warm kind.
Ryuji's breath fogged in the chill air as he crouched behind a row of garbage bins. His heart thumped, but not out of fear—out of anticipation. It beat like a war drum inside his chest, steady and strong.
Across the street stood the target: a squat, hunched old man tending a yakitori cart. The man looked harmless enough, flipping skewers of chicken over glowing coals. His greasy apron clung to his round belly, and his stained towel sat perched atop his balding head like a lazy crown.
But Ryuji knew better.
This wasn't about the vendor. It was about the man coming to meet him. A yakuza middleman with too much cash and not enough paranoia.
"He's always late," Takeshi had whispered an hour earlier. "You'll know it's him by the gloves—leather, black, like he's allergic to touching this dirty city. He talks fast and counts cash faster. When he shows, hit him. One punch. Right in the throat. No time to hesitate."
But hesitation had already bloomed inside Ryuji like a weed. Despite the energy humming through his limbs, despite the unnatural grace that had awakened inside his stolen body... something felt off.
He clenched his fists, trying to steady the tremor he wished was just from the cold. His stomach felt hollow—not from hunger, but from something heavier. A sinking sense that he wasn't ready. That this bigger than just proving himself.
"Is that what it takes?" he whispered to himself. "To matter?"
He wasn't sure if he wanted to be feared or respected. Maybe both. Maybe neither. All he knew was that he didn't want to be forgotten.
This wasn't a game.
The city had no reset button.
A rat scurried past his foot, vanishing into the sewer grate. Ryuji inhaled sharply, shaking off the doubt. No turning back now. The others—Takeshi, Kaito, Junpei—were watching from a distance. This was his moment to prove he wasn't just some lucky freak with new muscles. He was a player. A soldier. Maybe even a leader.
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Purposeful.
A tall figure emerged from the far end of the alley. Black gloves. Camel-coloured coat. Sharp walk. The vendor perked up immediately, snuffing out the fire beneath the grill with a flick of water. The sizzle hissed like a warning.
"That's him," Ryuji whispered to himself.
He adjusted the grip on the metal pipe hidden under his hoodie sleeve. He hadn't wanted to use a weapon, but Takeshi insisted. "You want clean? Use steel. One good crack—he sleeps. Anything else, you're gambling."
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette. The vendor lit it for him with a quick snap of a lighter. They exchanged a few words—too soft to hear. Then came the flash of an envelope. Thick. Fat with yen.
Ryuji's muscles tensed.
Now.
He surged forward from the shadows, pipe raised, feet silent as breath.
Three steps. Two.
But then—the man turned.
Too fast.
His eyes, dark and sharp as glass, locked onto Ryuji.
Shit.
The pipe swung.
Time fractured. The pipe sliced through empty air, trailing wind behind it.
Ryuji saw the man's eyes. Not wide with surprise. Narrowed—calculating.
Then came the blur:
A duck. A sidestep. A fist like a hammer.
A punch to the ribs—fast and deep, like a piston. Ryuji gasped. His legs buckled. The pipe clattered to the ground.
Pain wasn't just physical—it was personal. It bloomed from his side, spread to his spine, and exploded in his head like shame given shape.
I failed.
The thought screamed louder than his lungs.
Before he could recover, the man seized his hoodie, yanked him forward, and slammed his forehead into Ryuji's nose.
White light exploded behind his eyes.
He dropped.
The world spun.
A boot pressed down on his chest.
"You little punk," the man growled, voice like gravel and gasoline. "You think I don't see rats coming a mile away."
Ryuji tried to breathe. Couldn't.
"You got steel in your hands but piss in your heart. Amateurs..."
The boot twisted once for emphasis, grinding down on Ryuji's sternum.
Then it lifted.
The man looked over his shoulder at the vendor. "You saw nothing. I'll deal with this."
He crouched beside Ryuji, who was coughing blood into his palm.
"You got guts, kid. I'll give you that. But you don't hit a man from the front unless you know you'll win."
Ryuji tried to speak, but the words came out in gurgles.
"Next time you want to take from a yakuza, bring your balls. Not your friend's plans."
"You're lucky I'm in a good mood tonight," the man added, flicking blood from his glove. "Next guy won't be."
He didn't have to say it, but Ryuji heard it all the same. You're not worth killing. Not yet.
The man stood, dusted his gloves, and walked off—cash still in hand.
The yakitori vendor watched him go, then gave Ryuji one final glance. "You don't belong in this game yet, boy," he muttered, almost with pity.
Then he vanished down the alley.
Ryuji lay there, coughing, ribs screaming, cheek pressed to the cold concrete. Blood dribbled from his nose. His pipe gleamed useless beside him.
And in the shadows across the street, the motley crew watched.
Did they come to help?
No.
They turned and left.
Takeshi included.
——
Later, Ryuji limped into the orphanage through the back gate, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other clinging to the wall for balance. The cold stung worse now. It bit deep. Every step was punishment.
Miss Hanae saw him from the kitchen window and rushed out barefoot, apron fluttering. "Ryuji—!"
She gasped when she saw his face.
"What happened? Who did this?"
"I fell," He said hoarsely. "Playing on the roof."
She didn't believe him. Not for a second. But she didn't push. Just helped him inside, sat him down, cleaned the blood from his face. Her touch was gentle. Her silence said everything.
Her hands trembled as she cleaned his wounds. Not out of fear—but helplessness.
"Boys your age shouldn't have eyes like this," she whispered, dabbing gently at a split lip. "Not eyes that should've seen the end of something.
Ryuji said nothing. He didn't know how to tell her that the end had already happened once. This was the second life—and it was already fraying at the edges.
When she left to heat water, Ryuji stared at the cracked ceiling. The pain was real. No hidden stamina bar could save him from this.
The body cheats—but it can still lose.
He gritted his teeth.
He had been cocky. Reckless. And now, humiliated.
The yakuza man had seen it coming from the first step. One move—one—and Ryuji had been flattened.
He wasn't ready.
Not yet.
But he would be.
——
Days passed.
The bruises darkened. Faded. Then hardened into memory.
Takeshi never spoke to him again. Neither did Kaito or Junpei. Word spread fast in Kamagasaki—faster than the flu in winter. Kazaki tried to hit a yakuza and got his ribs cracked.
Some laughed.
Others whispered.
No one offered sympathy.
Even the younger kids at the orphanage kept their distance.
Once, little Aiko used to tug at his sleeve to play tag. Now she peeked from behind door frames, never stepping too close.
Laughter in the halls quieted when he passed. The warmth that had taken years to build had turned to cold silence in a day.
Miss Hanae didn't ask questions. But she began serving him slightly larger portions at breakfast. Extra miso. A second rice ball. No words exchanged—silent understanding.
Ryuji spent his days scrubbing floors, fixing windows, and hauling water—his body moving, healing, strengthening. But at night, he trained.
Alone.
When the others slept, he slipped into the back courtyard and shadowboxed until his knuckles bled. He practised footwork, balance, breath. Not just flailing—techniques.
He studied motion. He remembered moves from old yakuza games, piecing together form from pixels. But this time, he had a body that responded.
He moved like a knife being sharpened.
The boy who once lay in bed all weekend gaming, who skipped gym class and failed physical exam, was gone.
Now, sweat was his prayer. Pain was his language. Every punch was a question to the world. Do I deserve a second chance?
Night after night.
Until one evening, two weeks after the ambush...
He stood barefoot in the courtyard, sweat streaking his back, breath steady.
He closed his eyes.
And punched.
The air cracked.
A gust rippled through the weeds.
He didn't need applause.
He didn't need Takeshi.
Let them laugh.
Let them whisper.
"Arthur's dead," he murmured to the setting sun. "Ryuji's just getting started."
But not as a follower.
As a storm.