The city at dusk was a different animal. No longer a backdrop, but a beast with breath and eyes—watching.
Ryuji walked with his head down, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the creeping chill. The weight of the bento pulled down one side of his body. The paper in his other pocket was heavier still. He could feel it pressing against his thigh like a concealed blade. He didn't need to check the address again. It was seared into him now.
Back alleys gave way to abandoned lots. Neon bled from izakaya signs, painting puddles in electric pinks and blues. A pachinko machine somewhere shrieked in agony. A drunk salaryman slumped against a shuttered convenience store, talking to no one. No one talked back.
The world, it seemed, had moved on from boys like him.
Ryuji moved through Kamagasaki's veins like a clot. Every glance lingered too long. Every footstep behind him echoed too loud. Paranoia wasn't the right word—it was more like premonition. Like some part of him already knew how this chapter ended.
He turned onto a narrower street. Fewer lights. More shadows.
The warehouse district.
It loomed ahead—half-lit structures hunched like sleeping giants, rusted and weary. Rows of forgotten buildings slumped against one another, siding peeled back like old scabs. One of them had a flickering light above the door. That was the place.
He stopped across the street, heart thumping.
A single motorcycle leaned against the warehouse wall. Black. Sleek. The kind that didn't purr—it growled. He couldn't see who it belonged to. But someone was already inside.
He crossed slowly.
With every step, his body screamed turn around. Every survival instinct clawed at his spine. But pride—stubborn, stupid pride—shoved him forward.
He reached the door. Knuckles hovered in the air for a second. Then he knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
The door creaked open on its own.
His heart skipped.
"Come in," a voice called from within. Calm. Measured.
Not Kuroda.
Ryuji stepped inside.
The warehouse was dimly lit by a series of halogen lamps suspended from overhead beams. Long shadows stretched between crates and oil drums. The air smelled like metal and old rain. And cigarettes.
Two men waited inside.
One was Kuroda. Leaning against a crate, smoking, eyes unreadable behind tinted glasses, even in the low light.
The other was someone new.
Tall. Broad. Late thirties maybe. His suit looked expensive, but worn. There was something off about how still he stood—like he was carved, not born. His eyes were sharp, dissecting Ryuji the moment he walked in. Not curious. Calculating.
"You're early," Kuroda said.
"Didn't feel like waiting," Ryuji replied, voice steady. Too steady.
The tall man stepped forward.
"This the kid?"
Kuroda nodded. "Ryuji Kanzaki."
Ryuji stiffened.
Not a kid. The kid.
He didn't like that phrasing.
The tall man offered no hand. Only a look.
"My name is Masaru. I work for someone who wants to see if you're useful—or just loud."
Ryuji's pulse quickened. "You mean the man behind the paper?"
Masaru didn't blink. "That's between you and him. But tonight, I'm your test."
Ryuji frowned. "Test?"
Masaru walked past him, toward the back of the warehouse. A door there led into another room. He opened it.
Inside, a single bulb hung low over a metal table.
And on that table—sat Takeshi. Tied to a chair. Gagged. Bloody.
Ryuji froze.
"What the hell?"
Takeshi's swollen face barely looked human. One eye was shut completely, the other flicked up in panic, the moment their eyes met. Blood had soaked through his collar, crusting into the fabric. His breathing came in short, frantic wheezes through the gag. His entire body trembled against the ropes lashed tight around the chair's arms.
Masaru didn't flinch.
"He was your 'supposed' friend, right? Well, after he left you to the jaws of Hiroshi Kagemura, he spread your name. It seems he knew about your old man from the start and wanted to hand you over. Claimed you were Ryu Kanzaki's son. Pitched your name for clout—to earn a chance at joining a subsidiary family under the Sekigahara Alliance."
"You know about the Sekigahara Alliance, right?" Masaru asked, voice low and steady.
Ryuji didn't respond immediately.
His brain was screaming. Takeshi's gagged sobs were rising with each passing second, bouncing off the corrugated metal walls. The warehouse suddenly felt too small. Like the shadows themselves were pressing in.
Of course, he knew the name.
If the Kurotatsu Clan was the overlord of East Japan, then the Sekigahara Alliance was the serpent of the West. Ruthless. Massive. And everywhere. They didn't ask. They took. You either bled for them—or bled because of them.
Kuroda took a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the rafters. "It's not about whether he betrayed you. It's whether you can do what needs doing."
Ryuji's eyes remained locked on Takeshi.
The boy's body jerked forward. A muffled plea behind the gag. Snot and blood mixed under his nose.
Ryuji's fists clenched. Nails dug into his palms. His breath came short.
"I…" His voice cracked, then steadied. "Why are you showing me this?"
Masaru stepped forward, shoes echoing across the stained floor. "Because this is the first line you either cross—or don't. We don't want followers. We want our dragon back. Even if it's just a hatchling."
The air seemed to go still. The cigarette between Kuroda's fingers burned quietly, its ember glowing like a dying star.
Ryuji didn't respond right away. He couldn't.
His mind raced.
A dragon…?
It wasn't praise. It was pressure. A reminder of who his father was. Of the blood that supposedly ran through him. This wasn't about justice or betrayal. It was about power. The kind of power that came from erasing hesitation.
Takeshi trembled in the chair, eyes leaking panic.
"Do it or don't," Masaru said, stepping back. "We're not here to convince you. You walk out of here, we'll find someone else. You stay—"
He left the rest unsaid.
Kuroda flicked his cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his heel.
"Decide. The man watching from above doesn't want children. He wants monsters. Show us which one you are."
Ryuji's legs moved before his brain could stop them.
He crossed the floor, every footstep thudding like a drumbeat of doom.
He stopped just short of Takeshi, eyes scanning the bloodied mess of his so-called friend. The boy's one good eye widened, pleading.
A knife sat on the table.
A clean, sharp kitchen knife.
Its presence felt absurd in this place—like something from a quiet domestic life warped into an executioner's tool. Deliberate. Symbolic.
Ryuji reached for it, hand hovering.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt.
Takeshi squealed beneath the gag, panic rising.
But Ryuji didn't raise it. Not yet.
Instead, he stared at the boy who had once eaten stolen candy with him behind the orphanage. Who had made dumb jokes and picked fights he couldn't finish. Who left him to die.
"Did you really sell me out?" Ryuji murmured.
Masaru didn't answer.
Kuroda didn't answer.
Only Takeshi did.
His eyes clenched shut. His shoulders tensed. His entire body screamed yes.
And that was the answer Ryuji needed.
Not from words—but from instinct.
"You were afraid," Ryuji said quietly. "And you chose yourself. I get it."
His grip tightened on the knife.
The blade rose.
Takeshi whimpered, straining against the ropes.
But then—
Ryuji turned the knife and slashed down—not at Takeshi's neck, but at the ropes.
The cords snapped.
Blood smeared across the edge, but it wasn't deep. Not fatal.
Kuroda's head tilted, curious.
Masaru raised an eyebrow.
Takeshi gasped as the gag fell from his mouth. "I—I didn't mean to—"
"Shut up," Ryuji said flatly.
Takeshi froze.
"You live with what you did. That's your punishment. But if I see your face again, I'll bury it."
Ryuji turned to Masaru and threw the knife on the table.
"I'm not your dog. I'm not your monster. But I'm not weak, either. And if your boss wants to test me again—he better send someone stronger than a tied-up kid."
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then Masaru chuckled. Not cruelly. Almost…approvingly.
Kuroda let out a slow breath. "Well, damn. He really is his father's son."
Masaru walked forward and picked up the knife. He turned it over once, then handed it back to Ryuji.
"You passed," he said simply. "Not because you spared him—but because you made your own call."
Ryuji stared at the blade, but didn't take it.
Masaru smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Keep it. You'll need it where you're going."
Ryuji took the knife.
Takeshi stumbled out of the chair, collapsing to his knees. No one helped him up.
"Someone will collect him later," Kuroda muttered. "You did better than I expected, kid."
"I'm not a kid," Ryuji muttered. His voice had changed—deeper, colder. "Not anymore."
Masaru gestured toward the exit. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, you start something new. You're not part of the streets anymore. Not officially. You're property now."
Ryuji's jaw tightened. "Of who?"
Masaru just smirked. "You'll find out."
As Ryuji walked back through the warehouse, out into the chill of dusk now turned full night, he realised something terrifying.
The city no longer watched him like prey.
Now—it watched him like one of its own.