The city no longer watched him like prey. It watched him like one of its own.
Ryuji's steps echoed down the rain-damp alleys, every stride heavier than the last. His fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife tucked into his jacket. The cold steel pressed against his ribs—not a weapon, but a reminder.
You passed, Masaru had said.
But what kind of test had it been? He hadn't killed Takeshi, but he'd done something worse—he'd judged him. Claimed the right to decide whether he lived or died. That weight clung to his shoulders more than the weapon ever could.
He rounded the last corner onto the cracked pavement of the orphanage road. His eyes swept upward.
And he stopped.
The front gate was open. Hanging crooked on its rusted hinges.
Lights were on. Not just the flickering hallway bulb—every single one on the lower floor glared through the windows like open eyes. There was noise. Movement. Shadows shifting across the curtains. Something was wrong.
His pace quickened.
As he crossed the courtyard, a shriek snapped the night in half.
It came from inside.
"Oi!" he barked, bursting through the door.
The living room was in chaos.
Miss Hanae was pinned against the wall, one arm twisted behind her back by a man with a shaggy black jacket. Two others in similar streetwear—leather boots, torn jeans, cheap chains—were rummaging through drawers, overturning chairs, and barking curses.
The youngest kids huddled in the corner, clutching each other like kittens beneath a storm drain. Their eyes widened when they saw Ryuji.
The man holding Hanae turned.
"Well, well," he sneered. "The prodigal son returns."
Ryuji froze.
His heart stopped, then restarted like a gunshot.
"Get your hands off her," he said quietly.
The man with the shaggy jacket laughed. "Or what? You gonna cry?"
One of the others—a wiry guy with bleached hair—chimed in. "Maybe he doesn't know, aniki. Maybe the little punk doesn't know this place owes us."
Ryuji didn't blink. "Explain."
"Old debts," the leader said. "Some of the older boys who ran off borrowed from us. Used this dump as a guarantee."
Hanae gasped. "They—they forged my name! I never—!"
He yanked her arm higher. She yelped.
Ryuji's knuckles went white around the knife in his jacket.
"They're gone," he said, voice low. "They're not here anymore."
"Doesn't matter," said the bleached one. "Debt's still debt. Someone pays. Or someone bleeds."
The third one—a silent, heavyset brute—tossed a bookshelf to the floor. Picture frames shattered. A photo of the orphanage kids, sunlit and smiling, cracked under his heel.
Ryuji stepped forward.
The leader turned to face him fully. "You got balls, kid. I like that. What I don't like is attitude."
He shoved Hanae to the ground.
She landed hard, coughing, shielding her stomach.
Ryuji's body moved before thought could catch it.
He surged forward, fist already flying.
The punch landed square on the man's jaw. Bone met bone. The leader staggered back, swearing.
Then chaos erupted.
Bleached-hair lunged. Ryuji ducked, swiping out with the knife. The blade caught fabric—then skin. A red line opened across the man's forearm. He screamed and reeled back, clutching it.
The heavyset brute charged next. Ryuji pivoted, but he was too slow—meaty fists slammed into his ribs, sending him crashing into a table. The wind fled his lungs.
"Little shit!" the leader roared, drawing a switchblade of his own.
Ryuji scrambled up, knife back in hand. He was outnumbered, but his blood was fire now. Not anger—purpose. He wasn't just protecting the orphanage. He was staking his claim. This place was his.
They would not take it from him.
The leader slashed forward.
Ryuji blocked with his forearm—pain lanced through him—but he twisted, burying his own knife into the man's thigh. The scream was raw and real. The thug collapsed, clutching his leg, writhing.
Bleached-hair tried to run.
"Oi!" Ryuji growled, voice hoarse. "You want to leave? Crawl."
The third man backed away, unsure.
"Pick him up," Ryuji snapped, nodding to the leader. "And get out."
The two remaining thugs hesitated—then obeyed.
They hauled their wounded aniki up, dragging him toward the door. The man shot one last glare over his shoulder.
"You'll regret this," he spat.
"Try me," Ryuji said. "And I'll bury you next time."
The door slammed shut behind them.
Silence descended. Just the soft hum of a broken ceiling light, the shallow breathing of terrified children, and Miss Hanae's quiet sobs.
Ryuji turned, panting.
He knelt beside her.
"Hanae-san," he whispered.
She looked up. Her cheek was red and swelling, hair a mess, hands trembling.
"I'm okay," she murmured. "You—you came back."
He didn't speak. Just helped her sit up, one hand on her back.
The smallest of the children, little Yuki-chan, crept forward. "Ryuji-kun… are they gone?"
Ryuji nodded.
Then he looked around.
The orphanage was wrecked. Drawers torn apart. Furniture broken. A legacy of desperation and powerlessness.
Not anymore.
He rose slowly. His voice was steel.
"No one touches this place again."
Later, after the kids had been comforted and Miss Hanae rested in her room with an icepack, Ryuji stood in the hallway.
The front door creaked open.
Kuroda walked in. As always, composed. A hint of cigarette smoke trailing behind him.
He scanned the wreckage with a slow, deliberate eye.
"I see your welcome party arrived early," he said.
Ryuji said nothing.
Kuroda's gaze fell on the drying blood near the table. His lips twitched. Not quite a smile.
"You held your own."
"They hurt her," Ryuji said.
Kuroda nodded. "And what did you do?"
Ryuji met his gaze. "I didn't hesitate."
The older man chuckled. "Then maybe you really are ready."
"For what?"
Kuroda stepped forward. "You passed the first test, but that just made you a prospect. Tonight… you're being inducted. Not just into the fold. Into the war."
Ryuji's jaw clenched. "I'm not your soldier."
"No," Kuroda said, eyes glittering. "You're a Kanzaki."
And for a moment, that name weighed heavier than anything else in the room.
"You've made enemies now," Kuroda said, looking toward the door. "The Black Dogs won't forget what happened here. But you've also made an impression."
Ryuji turned his gaze back to the knife he had cleaned and laid on the counter.
"This is the only language they understand," he muttered.
"Good," Kuroda replied. "Because soon, you'll be learning it fluently."
He pulled out a black envelope from his coat and handed it over.
"What's this?" Ryuji asked.
"Your induction instructions. A name. A place. A time. You're on the books now. The underworld has rules—and consequences."
Ryuji turned the envelope over in his hands. His heart beat slower now. Calmer. Colder.
"And what happens if I don't show?"
Kuroda exhaled smoke. "You don't strike me as the type who runs."
"I'm not."
Kuroda nodded once, approving.
"Tomorrow night. Be ready."
And then, he was gone.
Ryuji stood alone in the hallway, the envelope still in his hand. The quiet was thick. Not peaceful—expectant.
He went back to the living room, righted the bookshelf, picked up the cracked photo frame. The children's faces smiled through the broken glass. He pressed the frame back together and set it on the shelf.
He wouldn't fail them.
Not again.
Not ever.
Outside, the city had gone to sleep. But beneath the surface, something stirred.
Ryuji Kanzaki had stepped out of the boy's skin.
And something else had taken its place.