Part 3 : Rise of Vigilante
"There's a difference between revenge and war," Alex said, still glancing around the room like it might explode.
Null sat on a steel chair in front of the map-strewn wall, taping red thread from one face to another. His fingers were steady, deliberate.
Null (Muttered):
"No difference, not when both end with blood."
Alex hesitated, eyes scanning the room again — the arsenal along the walls, the crates of weapons sealed in dust and silence, the bulletproof maps pinned like battle scars.
But it was the wall in front of Null that caught his breath.
Dozens of faces, some crossed out in thick black ink, others still untouched. Photos, news clippings, printed dossiers — all strung together by a web of red thread.
And at the center — one photo, old and faded.
A teenage boy.
Barely sixteen, if that. Cropped black hair, bruised cheek, dead eyes. There were no labels on him. Just lines. Dozens of them. Every thread, every name, every crime — all led back to him.
Alex stepped closer, voice low.
Alex: "Who is he?"
Null didn't answer immediately. He kept staring at the boy's face like it was a mirror made of broken time.
Alex: "I recognize most of them — Yakuza bosses, politicians, cops on gang payroll. Some I don't. But this kid… he's the center of it all."
Alex leaned in closer to the photo.
Alex:
"Who's this kid? He's… connected to everything."
Null didn't answer immediately. He kept staring at the wall — at the web of red threads, the photos, the dates, the scribbled notes.
Null (quietly):
"The only known photo. Taken over a decade ago.
No digital records. No fingerprints.
Just that one name…"
Alex glanced at the name under the photo.
"Akao."
Alex:
"Akao? That's not much to go on."
Null:
"It's a ghost name His real name is Min Jae. No one's seen him in years.
But every intel drop, every laundering route, every body tied to the Circle—somehow traces back to him."
Alex whistled under his breath, pacing.
Alex:
"So you're telling me… the most dangerous man in Tokyo… is a ghost with a child's face?"
Null:
"He's dangerous, yes. Controls half the underworld now.
But power like his doesn't grow — it's handed out.
Circle gave him the leash. He mistook it for a throne."
Alex (pointing to a photo of a thug):
"Wait—this one. Look at his neck tattoo. That's not a gang mark… it's a trader's brand. Black market smugglers use it to identify high-value movers."
Null (approaching slowly):
"Where?"
Alex:
"Behind the ear. It's from the underground ports — Shinjuku sector. If this guy is in your kill list, he's more than a street-level soldier. He's part of the supply chain. That market moves drugs, weapons, and money in unmarked crates."
Null (after a pause):
"It's a start."
Rain slicks the streets of Tokyo as Null steps through a rusted gate into the black market's underbelly. A mask hides his face; his black coat hangs heavy with moisture. At his waist — a sheathed katana, worn but spotless.
Neon signs hum and buzz above him, flickering red and blue across crates, smuggled tech, forged documents, and cold, predatory eyes. Everything is for sale here — especially
He moves like a shadow, silent and deliberate. His eyes scan the traders, searching for the tail — a small tattoo behind the ear, a silver pin, the scent of blood money. He finds it. Tracks it.
Deeper into the alleys. Deeper into rot.
Two armed guards stand before a thick steel door.
Guard (in Japanese):
"You can't go in there."
Null says nothing. In a single fluid motion, his katana hisses from its sheath. One clean slash. The first guard drops, neck split open, eyes wide.
The second stumbles back, draws a blade—
Too slow.
Null pivots, slicing across the man's stomach. Blood splashes the wall as the thug collapses.
Alarm sirens blare.
Doors slam open. Footsteps thunder. The whole hideout awakens.
Five, ten, fifteen men flood the corridor. Metal bats. Chains. Handguns. Screaming in rage. One of them throws a Molotov, but Null steps into the fire like a ghost, blade carving through flame.
He's not a man now — he's motion.
A whirlwind of steel and vengeance.
One thug charges from the left. Null ducks low, slices behind the knees — the man screams, drops.
Another fires — the bullet nicks Null's sleeve. He turns, parries it mid-air with his blade, then throws a dagger that lands clean in the shooter's throat.
Blood paints the concrete floor.
One after another they fall.
A pipe to his back — he spins, kicks the attacker through a crate.
Three men surround him — he rushes forward, using the narrow space. One throat. One eye. One heart.
Within minutes, the hallway is littered with bodies — broken, bleeding, twitching.
Null wipes his blade on a thug's jacket. He breathes slowly. Calm. Controlled.
He steps into the back room. Inside: stacks of cash, crates of unregistered weapons, rolls of forged passports. A criminal empire's lifeline.
Null lights a flare, tosses it casually into the pile. Flames erupt, swallowing millions in seconds.
The fire dances in his mask's reflection.
He turns away without watching it
Null climbs the staircase, boots echoing against metal. At the top floor, he kicks the office door open.
Inside the Yakuza boss, old but iron-eyed, stands with a rusted pistol. Sweat runs down his wrinkled face.
Yakuza Boss (in Japanese):
"...You."
He fires.
Null doesn't flinch — sidesteps, blade raised. The bullet clinks off the katana, spinning into the wall.
In a blink, Null is there — sword slicing. The gun drops to the floor in two clean halves.
The old man stares in disbelief.
Null reaches into his coat.
A small silver coin, etched with an oni's face — twisted, laughing.
He places it on the desk. A symbol.
He says nothing. Just turns and leaves, footsteps echoing behind him.
Rain pours harder now. Alex stands near the edge, watching the smoke rise from the burning market.
Null approaches, removing his mask. The fire reflects in his eyes.
Alex:
"You let him live. Why?"
Null (cold):
"Because I want them to know.
I want them afraid."
He looks into the distance — where power hides behind glass towers and gold coins.
Null:
"Let them gather… all of them. At that hotel."
Alex (quietly):
"And him too?"
Null nods slightly, voice low as steel.
Null:
"He'll come.
Greed always shows up for the payout."
He pulls out an old burner phone — scratched, untraceable.
It buzzes against the rain-slick rooftop.
Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring…
Shirito (picking up):
"Aa?... Nanda yo. Make it quick."
Null (cold, clipped):
"Black Market's done. Clean it. No traces.
Shibuya's next — be there before the smoke clears."
(Cut)
Shirito (mutters under his breath):
"Damn... that was fast."
He turns to an underling.
Shirito:
"Go to the black market. You know what to do.
No one sees us — understand?
And get some boys ready. Shibuya's next."