Ryuji ran until his lungs burned and his legs buckled. Only when the echo of footsteps faded behind him did he allow himself to stop. He collapsed behind a row of overflowing trash bins, gasping for air in the shadow of Kamagasaki's crumbling tenements. His heart thundered in his chest, but the fear still clawed at his heart.
I'm alive, he thought. Barely.
The rain had started, thin and cold. It dripped from the eaves above, tracing lines down his cheeks like silent tears. He touched his face, wincing as his fingers grazed a bruise blooming beneath his eye. Every inch of him ached, but worse than that... was the emptiness in his gut.
Hunger. Real hunger. Not the kind you joke about when your snacks run out during a gaming session—but the kind that turns your inside hollow and makes you want to claw at your stomach.
He hadn't eaten since..."Three days. At least, if the fragments of this body's memories were right.", his latest real memory was slumping back in his desk chair, cursing Yakuza 6's ending. Now here he was—brusied, bloodied, and stranded in a version of Japan he'd only seen in documentaries.
Welcome to '80s, asshole, he thought. Bitterly. No Wi-Fi, no food, no save point.
He stood, using the brick wall for support, and staggered toward the main street. The lights of a soba stall glowed faintly in the distance. The smell hit him like a punch to the gut—hot broth, fried tempura, and rice.
He didn't think. He moved.
As soon as the vendor turned his back, Ryuji reached out and grabbed a leftover rice ball from the plastic tray near the trash.
"Oi! You little bastard!" the vendor shouted, snatching a ladle like a weapon.
Ryuji bolted. Again.
---
Five minutes later, he crouched in an alley, cradling his prize—a cold, dirty onigiri. Before he could bite into it, a shadow loomed over him.
"You steal that?" a voice asked.
Ryuji froze. A boy, a little older than him, leaned against the wall with crossed arms and sharp eyes. His hair was messy, and his shirt had more holes than buttons. Yet he had a confidence that screamed he belonged here.
"Did you steal it or not?" the boy repeated.
Ryuji clenched the rice ball. "What's it to you?"
The boy smirked and tossed him a different one—clean, wrapped in paper.
"That one's got mold on it," He said. "I'm Takeshi. I don't like watching idiots die of food poisoning."
Ryuji hesitated, then took the clean rice ball and devoured it in seconds. He didn't care about pride. Not now.
"You're not from around here, are you?" Takeshi asked. "You've got that look—like you still think the world's fair."
Ryuji swallowed and looked up. "I live... near the river. In an orphanage."
Takeshi raised an eyebrow. "Sunshine Orphanage?"
Ryuji nodded.
"Well, shit," Takeshi muttered. "No wonder you're screwed."
He explained. Sunshine Orphanage had protection—once. But lately, a small-time gang called the Black Dogs had been leaning on them for "protection money". Ryuji—the old Ryuji—had picked a fight with one of their street runners two weeks ago and vanished afterward.
"They've been asking for blood ever since," Takeshi said. "And now you pop back up like a ghost with a death wish."
Ryuji's gut twisted. He had inherited more than a body. He had inherited this mess.
"Can't I just pay them off?" he asked.
Takeshi barked a bitter laugh. "With what? Magic beans? You're broke. We all are."
A silence fell between them. Then Takeshi stood and cracked his neck.
"There's one way," he said. "You pull your weight. Earn a cut. Learn how to fight, how to steal. You don't survive out here playing nice."
He tossed Ryuji a small bundle—cloth tied with a rubber band. Inside were two coins, a cracked lighter, and a rusted folding knife.
"Starter pack," Takeshi said. "Don't lose it. You want in, you show me you can snatch something real tomorrow."
He turned to walk away.
"Wait," Ryuji called. "Why help me?"
Takeshi didn't turn around. "Because you look like someone who'll either rise fast or die young. And I wanna see which one it is."
---
That night, Ryuji curled up beneath an overhang, staring at the rusted knife in his hands.
He hated this. The filth, the danger, the weakness in his limbs. But deep in his bones, something stirred—something old, something fierce.
He thought of Kiryu. Of honour. Of bloodied knuckles and unshakable pride.
If this is the game I'm in now, he thought, then I'm gonna grind my way to the top.
He clenched the knife tighter.
He stared at the knife in his hand—not because he planned to use it, but because it was the first time in this new life he felt he had a real choice. It wasn't about cutting someone or making threats. It was about agency. Control. For the first time since he woke up in this body, he had something real to hold on to.
The cold wind bit into him as he shifted under the concrete overhang. The streets of Kamagasaki didn't sleep. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. A drunken fight spilled out from a nearby bar, slurred curses echoing off rusted signs and broken pavement. Neon lights flickered like dying stars above the narrow alleys.
This wasn't a game. There were no health bars. No respawns. Just pain, and struggle—and a dozen ways to die if you stepped in the wrong direction.
Still, he felt something simmering inside him.
Resolve.
If this is my second life, he thought, then I'm going to live it my way. No cowardice. No regrets.
---
The next morning, Kamagasaki greeted him with the stink of sewage and sweat. The sun hadn't fully risen, but the streets were already alive with early risers and wandering laborers. Some headed to construction sites. Others loitered in alleys, eyes empty from too many nights of cheap booze and broken dreams.
Ryuji's stomach growled, but he ignored it. Takeshi had told him to prove himself. That meant stealing something worthwhile.
He had no idea how.
He wandered the district for hours, watching people. He spotted a drunken salaryman stumbling out of a hostess bar. Easy target. His wallet practically screamed "grab me." But when Ryuji tried to follow him, a tall man in a grey suit stepped out from behind a vending machine.
"Oi. Eyes off, kid," the man growled.
Ryuji backed away fast. That man was no ordinary passerby. Yakuza.
Lesson learned. Kamagasaki might be the slums, but it was still a jungle. Every territory belonged to someone, and picking the wrong pocket could mean getting a knife in the ribs—or worse.
By noon, he'd failed to steal anything except a banana from a fruit stall. And even then, he'd almost gotten caught. He retreated into an alley, slumped down next to a pile of crates, and cursed under his breath.
"This is pathetic..."
"You give up already?" Takeshi's voice came from above.
Ryuji looked up to see the older boy squatting on the edge of the dumpster, grinning.
"Was watching you all morning," Takeshi said. "You move like a lost puppy. No rhythm. No awareness. You'll get your ass kicked."
"Then teach me," Ryuji snapped. "You said I had to prove myself—well, I want in. I'm done running."
Takeshi stared at him for a long moment. Then he hopped down, stretching his arms.
"Alright. Let's see what you've got."
---
They spent the next hour in a quiet backlot, surrounded by crumbling warehouses and rusting chain-link fences. Takeshi gave him tips—how to walk without drawing attention, how to snatch a wallet without the victim noticing.
Ryuji failed almost every time.
But he didn't quit.
Again and again, he tried. Takeshi corrected his posture, made him shadow strangers from a distance, and even had him practice slipping his hand into a half-zipped backpack.
"You're not bad," Takeshi admitted after a while. "You learn fast."
Ryuji wiped sweat from his brow. "Not fast enough."
"You don't have to be a master today. Just get your first score."
Later that afternoon, they stood outside a bustling pawn shop. Takeshi pointed toward a middle-aged man browsing goods by the window.
"Guy just got paid. Watch his back pocket."
Ryuji nodded.
This time, he didn't think. He moved with purpose. His steps were quiet, his pace natural. He brushed past the man like a careless kid and, with one fluid motion, slid the wallet from the back pocket.
He turned the corner and ran. His heart pounded.
When he finally stopped in a quiet alley, he opened the wallet.
12,000 yen. About $50.
It wasn't much. But it was his first real victory.
Takeshi caught up moments later, panting. "Not bad, rookie."
Ryuji handed him the wallet.
"What the hell are you doing?" Takeshi frowned.
"I just want my cut."
Takeshi looked at him like he'd grown a second head.
"You're not as dumb as you look. Alright—sixty-forty. You did the work. I called the target."
Ryuji nodded. "Fair."
Takeshi smirked. "You're different from the other kids at Sunshine. Got more fire."
"You have no idea," Ryuji said, stuffing his share into his pocket.
---
That evening, Ryuji returned to Sunshine Orphanage for the first time since waking up. The building looked worse than he remembered—mold crawling up the walls, roof leaking, broken windows patched with cardboard. A hand-painted sign above the gate read: Sunshine Orphanage - For the Children of Tomorrow.
He slipped inside quietly. No one noticed him at first.
"Oni-chan?!"
A little girl ran up and hugged his waist. She couldn't have been more than seven. Her face lit up like the sun.
"Where did you go? We thought you were dead!"
Ryuji knelt and patted her head. "Sorry, Aiko. I... got lost."
"Idiot, Oni-chan~" She giggled. "Sensie was crying!"
Ryuji's chest tightened.
He stepped into the main room. Several of the kids turned to him. Some looked shocked. Others just watched in silence.
Then the caretaker stepped out from the kitchen.
She froze.
Her name came to him suddenly. Miss Hanae. Early thirties. Exhausted eyes. Kind hands. probably the only adult who given a damn about these kids.
"You're back," she said softly, walking toward him. "Ryuji... where have you been?"
He wanted to lie. Say he'd been at a friend's place. That he'd wandered off. But the words wouldn't come.
"I was surviving," he said instead.
Miss Hanae stared at him for a moment. Then she stepped forward and hugged him.
He stiffened.
No one had hugged him since... since his mother's death.
"Welcome home," she whispered.
For the first time, Ryuji felt something warm crack through the cold shell forming around him.
Maybe, he thought, this world's not all bad.
---
That night, he sat on the rooftop of Sunshine Orphanage, looking out over Kamagasaki.
He knew the money he stole wouldn't last. The Black Dogs were still out there. And tomorrow, there'd be more hustling. More danger. More blood.
But he had a taste now. A spark of something. He had a goal.
No more begging. No more running.
He would rise.
He would carve out a name so fearsome, even the Yakuza would remember it.
Ryuji Kanzaki doesn't stay at the bottom.
Not in this life.
Not ever again.