The sun rose like a guilty secret over Kamagasaki—slow, reluctant, and pale.
Light trickled into the orphanage through the warped windowpane, casting uneven patterns across the wooden floors. Dust motes floated in the air, catching the gold of morning like dying embers. The cold hadn't gone, not really. It just hid under the boards and behind the walls, waiting to bite exposed skin.
Ryuji was already awake.
The sound of the orphanage used to comfort him—the low voices of kids whispering, the shuffle of slippers on wood, the clatter of breakfast bowls. But now every sound was a measurement: who's awake, who's avoiding him, who's still watching from the shadows?
He pulled on his shirt, each movement careful. The ribs still protested, a dull echo of the night they broke. His hands bore fresh scabs, some torn open again from nighttime training. A toothbrush sat beside his futon, half-chewed. He'd forgotten to buy a new one—he had no money.
He reached under the futon and pulled out his jacket—still stained with alleyway dirt and blood. The smell had faded, mostly, but sometimes when the wind blew just right, it came back. Burnt oil. Cold iron. Shame.
Downstairs, the kitchen clattered to life.
He made his way down in silence.
Miss Hanae didn't say anything when he entered. She was ladling miso into bowls, back to him. Her apron looked older this morning. Frayed along the edges, a patchwork repair over the pocket.
She didn't greet him. She just slid a bowl across the counter, followed by a triangle of rice wrapped in seaweed.
Ryuji paused, then gave a low bow.
"...Thanks."
She didn't answer.
Just the softest nod, then back to her ladle.
It stung. Not in the way pain does. Wose. Like a closed door in the middle of winter.
The other kids sat huddled near the far wall, eating in quiet bunches. Little Aiko watched him for a moment, then looked away when he caught her eye. Someone whispered. Someone else snorted.
Ryuji took his food and sat on the edge of the room. Alone.
Every bite tasted like nothing.
Every glance reminded him: you failed. You're alone.
And maybe worse—you deserve it.
But halfway through his rice ball, the gate clattered.
A knock, not on the door—the gate. Sharp. Heavy. Measured.
Miss Hanae beat him to the door.
He followed anyway.
Outside, the morning had a strange silence to it—like the city was holding its breath.
At the gate stood a man in a dark wool coat, too fine for this neighbourhood. His shoes gleamed. No dust, no cracks. His gloves were brown leather—worn, but clean.
He wasn't old. Late twenties, maybe. But his eyes looked like they'd already buried versions of themselves.
"Miss Hanae," He said, voice polite. Even warm.
She narrowed her eyes. "We don't accept donations from suits anymore. Go talk to City Hall."
"I'm not from the city." He glanced at Ryuji.
That was when Ryuji felt it. That prickling under the skin. Like he was being measured by someone who already knew the answer.
"Ryuji Kanzaki," the man said. Not a question. "Walk with me."
Miss Hanae stepped between them. "He's a minor. You don't talk to him with my permission."
The man's smile faded. "He's already in it. Pretending he isn't won't save him."
A long silence.
Then Miss Hanae turned to Ryuji.
"Up to you." But her eyes pleaded.
Ryuji didn't hesitate. He stepped past her and into the cold.
The man turned and walked. Ryuji followed.
They moved through the alleys without speaking. Ryuji noticed how the man walked—slow, but always alert. He never let his hands stray too far from his pockets. He glanced at corners without turning his head. Veteran habits.
After two blocks, the man stopped under a rusted overpass.
"Name's Kuroda," he said finally. "I work for a man who saw what you tried to do two weeks ago."
Ryuji felt his chest tighten. "And?"
"And you got your ass handed to you," Kuroda smirked. "But you didn't die. That's something."
"You here to mock me?"
"No," Kuroda said. "I'm here to see if you're still stupid."
But more to see his son.
Ryuji flinched. Then straightened.
"I don't know he was that good."
"That's the thing," Kuroda said, lighting a cigarette. "Everyone is. Out here? Nobody's weak. The weak die, or they disappear. Everyone else? Killers in nice coats."
He took a drag, eyes never leaving Ryuji's.
"Do you even know who you tried to—"
Ryuji's jaw clenched. "A yakuza bagman. I hit the wrong guy, I get it."
Kuroda let out a low chuckle, exhaling smoke like steam from a cracked pipe.
"Wrong guy?" He shook his head. "Kid... you swung a pipe at Hiroshi Kagemura."
The name hit like a slap. It didn't register at first. Then it did.
Ryuji had seen it on whispered lips, heard it behind alley doors. The kind of name you only mention when the lights were on and the cops were nearby.
"He's not just a bagman," Kuroda said. "He collects bagman. Built like a butcher. Mind like a ledger. Every yen accounted for, every threat archived. He handles the business side of the Seiryu Family's black economy—and if he thought you were worth killing, you'd already be ash."
Ryuji swallowed hard. His ribs ached at the memory.
"Then why didn't he kill me?"
Kuroda dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel. His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture—like a door cracking open an inch.
"Before, he wanted to see what you'd do after failing."
Ryuji narrowed his eyes. "Before?"
"Yes, before—because now your name is revealed, he might come for you. Not only him but many more..."
Kuroda's tone didn't rise. It didn't need to. It slid under the skin like a needle, cold and clean.
"But I'm a nobody, why would anyone—"
Kuroda smiled. It wasn't kind. It wasn't cruel either. Just... tired.
"A nobody?" he said, almost softly. "Kid, you have no idea."
Kuroda's laughter echoed under the rusted overpass, dry and mirthless. It wasn't mockery—it was something colder. Something that made Ryuji's skin crawl.He stopped laughing just as suddenly. The silence that followed was worse.
Kuroda leaned in slightly, close enough for Ryuji to smell the stale smoke and leather on his coat."You really don't get it, do you?" he said, voice low. "You were never a nobody. You just didn't know who you were yet."
Ryuji stared at him, fists clenched. "Stop talking in riddles. If you've got something to say, just say it."
"Ryu Kanzaki."
Ryuji blinked.
"…What did you just say?"
Kuroda lit another cigarette, this time slower. He didn't answer right away. Just let the smoke curl between them like a secret trying to escape.
"You heard me," he said finally. "Ryu Kanzaki. Your old man."
Ryuji's throat dried up.
"I don't have a father."
"That's what they told you." Kuroda exhaled through his nose, then looked out toward the skyline, if you could call it that—just rows of cracked concrete and rusting fences. "And maybe it was easier that way. Safer."
Ryuji took a step forward. His voice came out too fast, too sharp.
"Who was he?"
"A monster," he said. "Known as 'Dragon Of Kurotatsu'—"
Ryuji's breath caught.
The world didn't stop—but something in him did. Like a thread snapping inside his chest.
He'd heard that name before.
Kurotatsu.
Or to be specific—Kurotatsu Clan.
Said to be the rulers of East Japan's underworld. Ghosts in thousand-yen suits. They didn't show up in newspapers. They didn't hang out on street corners. But they owned corners, businesses, cops, judges—entire districts. If the Seiryu were wolves, the Kurotatsu were dragons coiled around entire cities.
And the Dragon—that was their enforcer. Their hammer. Their executioner.
Kuroda watched Ryuji carefully, like a man testing for cracks in glass.
"Yeah," he said, voice low. "That was your old man. Ryu Kanzaki. The Dragon of Kurotatsu. Coldest bastard I ever met."
Ryuji shook his head.
"No. That's wrong. That's not— That can't be right."
"Doesn't matter if it feels right," Kuroda said, lighting a new cigarette. "It is."
Smoke drifted between them again. Bitter. Acrid. Like something had just burned and couldn't be put back together.
Ryuji backed a step toward the mouth of the alley. "You're lying."
"If I wanted to lie, I'd tell you he died a hero," Kuroda replied. "But the truth? The man killed more people than cancer. Built an empire on bones and bad debts. And he did it all without blinking."
Ryuji stared down at his hands. Bloodied. Scabbed. A little too steady for someone his age.
"…How do you know all this?"
"Because I worked for him," Kuroda said. "Until he disappeared twelve years ago. Shot in the back of the head. Dumped into Tokyo Bay."
Ryuji blinked. "So he's dead?"
Kuroda gave a small, dry smile. "No body. No ashes. No proof. Just vanished. Like a ghost slipping off the leash."
Ryuji looked away. His mouth was dry. His thoughts felt like shattered glass in a bag.
"And me?"
"You were left behind. Hidden. Dumped here in Kamagasaki with no name, no record, no legacy. Smart move, too—lots of people wanted you dead before you could even walk."
The morning wind kicked up, sharp and metallic. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
Ryuji closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath.
"…Why now? Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you're not a civilian anymore," Kuroda said. "You made your move. You stepped onto the board."
He pointed two fingers at Ryuji's chest.
"Now, every man with a grudge against your father wants to see if you'll be worth the trouble. Some will want to kill you. Others will want to use you."
"And you?"
Kuroda's expression hardened.
"I'm here to offer you a choice."
Ryuji didn't speak. His silence was his answer.
Kuroda continued.
"You can go back to the orphanage. Pretend you never swung that pipe. Try to live a quiet life, cleaning floors and dodging shadows. You'll die by twenty."
He flicked ash to the ground.
"Or you can come with me. Meet the man I work for. Someone who knew your father. Someone who wants to see if you're just another angry brat—"
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a growl.
"—or if you've got dragon blood in you, too."
Ryuji looked at him. Really looked.
Kuroda wasn't offering salvation. He wasn't a mentor or a friend. He was a test.
A key to a door that only opened once.
Ryuji thought of Miss Hanae. Of the silence in her eyes. Of Aiko flinching away from him. Of that imaginary cold, mocking laugh of Takeshi when Kagemura beat him half to death.
He didn't feel brave.
He just felt tired of hiding.
"…Where are we going?"
Kuroda smiled, just barely.
"Osaka's East Docks. The old warehouse district. Tonight."
He handed Ryuji a small slip of paper with an address scrawled in clean kanji. Ink pressed hard enough to dent the surface.
"Don't bring friends. Don't bring lies."
He turned, coat fluttering behind him like a crow's wings, and began walking down the alley.
Just before he vanished around the corner, he called back:
"Ryuji—"
Ryuji straightened.
"Clean yourself up before you come. First impressions matter."
Then he was gone.
The wind picked up again. Cold and sharp. The smell of salt and rust drifted on the breeze.
Ryuji stood there for a long time.
Then he looked down at his hands again. Callused. Scabbed. Bruised.
Dragon blood.
He looked at his knuckles—scabbed, red, trembling.
Maybe.
Or maybe just a scared boy, gripping the edge of a story that wasn't his... yet.