Morning hit Kamagasaki like a brick to the face—loud, cold, and unforgiving.
Ryuji was up before dawn. He'd barely slept. Not from fear, but from something else—restlessness.
He missed the luxury of a hot shower, the hum of an idle TV, the soft click of a save point. Here, the cold tile bit into his bare feet and the sky showed no mercy. Yet for the first time, he didn't long for his old life—he craved the rawness of this one, the immediacy that left no time for regret.
There was a fire in his chest that wouldn't go out. He stood barefoot on the rooftop of Sunshine Orphanage, letting the chill of early morning numb his skin.
Below, the city murmured. A radio played enka from a distant window. A homeless man cursed the pigeons stealing his bread. The sound of life—dirty, painful, real.
This was his world now.
And he wasn't just going to survive it.
He was going to rule it.
---
Back in the orphanage, the younger kids were still asleep, curled up under worn blankets. Miss Hanae sat at the kitchen table, counting loose coins. Her eyes had bags under them, and the kettle barely sputtered from lack of gas.
"How bad is it?" Ryuji asked, sitting across from her.
Ryuji remembered the night she'd given her own bowl of soup to little Aiko, claiming she'd already eaten. His stomach had growled so loud that even the other kids paused. That same night, Miss Hanae went to bed hungry—yet next morning, she handed out rice and smiles as if nothing had happened. That memory stung more than any punch.
She looked up, startled.
"It's fine," she lied. "We'll manage."
"How many days until rent?"
"...Three."
"And food?"
"We've got enough rice for maybe two more dinners. After that—" she hesitated, "...I'll figure something out."
Ryuji tapped his finger on the table. "What if I can bring in some money?"
Miss Hanae frowned. "Don't you start getting ideas. I don't want you out there like others—stealing, dealing, risking your life. You're just a kid."
He stood.
"I'm twelve. And kids don't survive in Kamagasaki. Monsters do."
She flinched at his words.
He walked out, leaving the money he stole yesterday before she could stop him.
---
Takeshi was right where he said he'd be—leaning against a flickering lamppost outside the shuttered pachinko parlor. The neon signs above buzzed and blinked like they were dying from exhaustion. It was barely six, and Takeshi already had a cigarette in his mouth.
The other boys lingered around him, forming a loose semicircle like moths orbiting a flame. Some sat on crates. Others kicked at loose gravel, their shoes torn and soles flapping. Their eyes darted toward Ryuji as he approached, some wary, others curious. Ryuji was new blood. And in Kamagasaki, that meant you were either a threat—or a future corpse.
One of them, a boy with criss-cross scars creeping up his neck, spat on the ground. His empty eyes flicked to Ryuji. "Fresh meat doesn't last long," he muttered. "Don't get attached to your bones, rookie."
"Ryuji," Takeshi called out, not even turning his head. "Early bird."
"I don't sleep much."
"Yeah, well. You'll sleep plenty when you're dead."
The others chuckled. It wasn't friendly. Just noise. Posturing. Like wolves baring their teeth before a kill.
"You said you had something," Ryuji said, ignoring the jeers.
Takeshi finally turned. His cigarette clung to the edge of his lip as he gave a long look at Ryuji—measuring him. "You serious about this?"
"I'm not here to window-shop."
Takeshi gave a half-smile, more shadow than warmth. "Alright. There's a job. Not clean. Not safe. But real money. You in?"
"Tell me."
The older boy jerked his chin toward the alleyway behind the parlor. "Delivery guy. Cash pickups for a dirty izakaya on Dobutsuen-mae. He walks alone. Thick satchel full of cash. Usually around 7:30 AM."
"If he's such easy pickings, why hasn't anyone done it?"
"Oh, people have tried," Takeshi said with a dry laugh. "He's ex-yakuza. Knocked one kid's teeth out last month. Broke another's wrist. Bastard's built like a vending machine."
"And you want me to hit him?"
"You're small. Fast. Hit him from behind, real clean. He drops, we grab, we bounce."
Ryuji looked around at the others. No one met his gaze.
"None of them want to do it?"
"They already did. Now it's your turn."
That was the thing about the street—respect wasn't handed out. It was taken, earned, or bled for.
Ryuji nodded once.
"I'm in."
---
The air felt colder as they made their way to the ambush spot, an alley choked with steam and broken memories. The bathhouse they chose as a hideout hadn't been functional in years. The smell of mildew seeped from its cracked tiles. Pipes groaned as if haunted.
Takeshi handed Ryuji a short metal pipe—smooth, cold, and slightly rusted at one end. "Don't hesitate," he said quietly. "One clean hit. No warning. He goes down, we finish it."
Ryuji held the pipe loosely, feeling its weight. Not just metal. Potential.
"You ever done this before?" one of the boys asked from the shadows.
"No," Ryuji answered honestly.
"Then don't screw it up."
Takeshi raised his hand, signalling silence. The time was close. The alley was silent except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe.
Then footsteps.
Slow, deliberate.
The man emerged from the far end of the alley. Stocky, in his late forties maybe. A faded dragon's claw peeked from his rolled-up sleeve—a prison tattoo from another era. His name was Shigeru "Claw" Nakajima, whispered in back-room bars as a man who'd killed three rivals with his bare hands. Now he carries cash for a dirty izakaya, still hunting scraps of respect in his old bones.
His face was lined and tired, but alert—like a wolf that had survived too many winters. His eyes scanned the alleyway, sharp and untrusting.
Takeshi stepped out, calm as ever.
"Morning, old man."
The man stopped, didn't answer.
"Got the time?" Takeshi added with a smile too casual to be genuine.
The man's hand shifted subtly—closer to his pocket. Not a rookie.
"I said," Takeshi repeated, "you got the time?"
"I got a fist, if that's what you're asking for," the man grunted.
That was Ryuji's cue.
He didn't run. He moved. Like lightning with intention.
The pipe struck the back of the man's knee with a heavy crack. The man staggered, swore, turned—and Ryuji struck again, this time at the elbow. The satchel slipped.
But the man didn't fall.
He pivoted, elbowing Ryuji in the ribs. The air shot from his lungs like a punctured tire. The man lunged, tried to grab his collar—but Takeshi was there, slamming his foot into the man's gut.
The others rushed in.
Punches. Shouts. Chaos.
Ryuji scrambled up, wincing from the blow, but the adrenaline drowned out most of the pain. He swung again—his third strike caught the man across the jaw. Finally, he collapsed.
The satchel hit the ground with a muffled thump.
The air was still.
Takeshi breathed heavily, grabbing the bag and opening it with shaking fingers. His eyes widened. "Damn. At least fifty-thousand yen in here. Maybe more."
Ryuji looked down at the man—half-conscious, bleeding from his nose, staring at him with a mix of hatred and… disappointment?
"What's your name, kid?" the man asked hoarsely.
Ryuji hesitated.
He thought of the orphanage. Of Miss Hanae. Of the kids who cried themselves to sleep because their bellies were empty.
Then: "Nobody."
---
The aftermath tasted like old smoke and guilt.
They gathered in a karaoke booth rented by the hour. The room reeked of sweat, stale alcohol, and mold. Takeshi spread the money on the table like a gambler showing his hand.
"Eight ways," he said. "But Ryuji gets a bigger cut."
No one protested.
Ryuji sat quietly, nursing his ribs. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain was setting in—deep, dull, and insistent.
"You alright?" Takeshi asked, lighting another cigarette.
"I'm fine."
"You did good, you know."
"Doesn't feel good."
Takeshi laughed bitterly. "It's not supposed to."
They talked business for a bit—where to lay low, when to split. The others argued over which convenience store had the best onigiri. Ryuji stayed quiet.
Inside, something was cracking.
Violence was currency here. You spent it to buy fear, respect, territory... or a hot meal. Each strike was a coin extracted from someone else's life, and with every hit, Ryuji felt his own soul wear a little thinner. He wondered how long before he'd be bankrupt inside.
---
When he got back to the orphanage, dusk had draped Kamagasaki in a veil of orange and grey. Kids were playing outside with a deflated soccer ball. A girl with a runny nose waved at him. Ryuji raised a hand but didn't smile.
In the kitchen, Miss Hanae stood by the sink, scrubbing a metal pot like it had personally wronged her.
He dropped an envelope on the counter.
She turned, startled. Her eyes fell on the bundle.
"What's this?"
"Money."
She picked it up, thumbed through the bills. Her hands were shaking.
"Where did you—?"
"Don't ask."
"I am asking, Ryuji."
He looked at her. Really looked. The sag in her shoulders. The worry stitched into her skin. The woman who raised a dozen kids on rice water and prayers.
"I did what I had to."
"You're twelve," she said, voice tight. "Twelve, Ryuji."
"And I'm the only one doing anything."
The silence between them was suffocating. No yelling. Just hurt.
Finally, she spoke, voice hollow.
"Just… don't come home in a body bag."
---
That night, the wind howled against the orphanage walls. Ryuji lay on the rooftop again, staring at the sky. The stars were barely visible. Smoke and neon drowned out the heavens.
His ribs throbbed. His fingers still smelled like rust and blood.
He remembered the man's eyes. Not the pain. Not the rage.
The disappointment.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Nobody."
The word rang in his ears.
But it was a lie.
He wasn't nobody.
He was Ryuji. And one day, Kamagasaki would know that name. They would whisper it in alleys and bars, behind locked doors and hushed curtains.
Not because he begged for scraps.
Below him, Kamagasaki pulsed with neon and sirens, tobacco smoke drifting from a hidden joint. A stray cat howled in the distance, as if mourning every lost soul in these alleys. Ryuji stood taller. He'd become part of this chaos—and chaos would learn his name.