Yokohama, 1994.
The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the streets still glistened like black glass, reflecting the neon of late-night ramen shops and seedy pachinko parlors. Down in the docklands, where the air smelled of saltwater, oil, and rust, a sound began to rise — deep, throaty, and unmistakable.
Fifty motorcycles rolled into the industrial district like an iron tide. Their chrome glinted under the orange glow of dockside lamps, exhaust smoke curling in the damp night air. The street emptied in seconds. Shopkeepers yanked shutters down. Street punks hid their bikes. Even the homeless shuffled into the shadows. Everyone knew that sound.
The Black Serpents had arrived.
They weren't just a gang. They were the gang.
Five figures ruled them like an empire, each with their own slice of Yokohama's underworld.
Jiro "Scaleface" led from the front, a thick scar running from his jaw to his cheekbone — a reminder of a machete fight in Shinjuku years ago. He handled the muscle, the street beatdowns, the intimidation. If you owed money, Jiro was the man who knocked on your door… and he never knocked twice.
To his left rode Kaito "Rat King", thin as a wire, his sharp eyes scanning every alley. He controlled the smuggling routes in and out of the port — weapons, contraband, people. Rumor had it he had half the harbor police on his payroll.
Behind them, leaning casually on her Yamaha, was Rina "Black Widow". Pretty enough to make men forget their wallets, dangerous enough to make them forget to breathe. She ran the Serpents' drug network — heroin, speed, whatever kept the night crawling.
Further back rumbled Takeshi "The Butcher", built like a brick wall. He ran underground fight clubs and "collected" protection money from local businesses. The broken noses and shattered jaws he left behind were his calling card.
And somewhere in the back, unseen but felt, was Hiro "Ghost Eater" — the Serpents' silent killer. No one knew his face. Only that three rival gang leaders had ended up dead in the past two years, and every whisper pointed to him.
The Serpents didn't just own the streets. They owned the docks, the fights, the drugs, the smuggling. The cops either looked the other way… or looked for a new job.
Tonight, they gathered under the rusting span of the old steel bridge that marked the start line for the city's most dangerous street races.
Jiro swung off his bike, surveying the empty street with a smirk.
"No challengers?" he called, his voice echoing off the concrete. "Guess the city finally knows who runs it."
Laughter rippled through the Serpents. They'd crushed two smaller gangs in the past month. Who would dare show up now?
Then they heard it.
A single engine. Deep, low, and heavy, like thunder rolling over the horizon.
The laughter died. Heads turned toward the far end of the street.
From the darkness, a lone headlight appeared — round, bright, cutting through the mist. The sound grew louder, more menacing with each passing second.
A Kawasaki Zephyr emerged from the shadows, its midnight-black frame streaked with thin, blood-red lines. The rider wore a half-face helmet, a black scarf covering everything but a pair of sharp, cold eyes.
The Serpents stiffened. Whispers spread.
Hinshiko.
The Ghost.
He had vanished months ago. Some swore he'd been in prison. Others whispered he'd been overseas, settling a personal score. The truth didn't matter. What mattered was that he was here. And when The Ghost appeared, someone always ended up bleeding.
Seven bikes followed behind him, their riders wearing jackets embroidered with a snarling red devil. It wasn't the full gang — no one ever saw all of them together — but their presence was enough to knot stomachs.
The Red Devils.
If the Black Serpents were a criminal empire, the Red Devils were an urban legend.
They didn't recruit — they chose. No one knew how. Some said they watched you in secret, testing you without your knowledge. Survive, and maybe you'd wake up one day to find a devil's jacket on your doorstep.
To get in, you had to pass three trials. No one outside the gang knew what they were. Those who failed… disappeared. Some said they were exiled from the biker scene forever. Others claimed they were buried somewhere in the mountains.
Not all twenty Devils showed their faces. Some were "shadows" — members who operated unseen, gathering intel, sabotaging rivals, even killing when needed. The gang's true strength was a mystery.
And then there were the bikes.
Each one was unique — a one-of-one monster of speed and sound. Heavily modified in ways no other gang could match. No one knew who built them. They called him the Phantom Wrench, a ghost who appeared only for the Devils, leaving behind machines that roared like hellhounds.
Hinshiko rolled his Zephyr up to the start line.
Jiro stepped forward, his scar twisting as he smirked.
"So this is the Ghost," he said. "Thought you were just another story."
Hinshiko didn't answer. He just pulled off his scarf, revealing a faint grin that didn't reach his eyes.
Kenta "The Bull" — the Red Devils' towering leader — lit a cigarette behind him.
"Race," he said simply.
No countdown. No flag.
The instant the throttles screamed, they were gone.
Water sprayed from the slick road as the bikes tore through the industrial streets. The first corner came fast — a sharp left around a warehouse. Hinshiko leaned so low the Zephyr's footpeg scraped sparks against the asphalt. Jiro followed, his heavier bike growling in protest.
They blasted past stacked shipping containers, their engines echoing off metal walls. The smell of saltwater mixed with gasoline filled the air.
A sharp bend led them into the back alleys, where trash cans clattered in their wake. Hinshiko darted between a pair of taxis, leaving Jiro half a second behind.
The first test of nerve came at the rail crossing. The barrier lights flashed red — a freight train was seconds away. Hinshiko didn't slow. He shot across just before the locomotive thundered past, wind buffeting his frame. Jiro cursed, skidding to a stop, then weaving through the last gap before the cars closed in.
They roared into the city streets now, neon signs flashing overhead. A police cruiser appeared at an intersection, siren wailing. Most riders would have turned off — Hinshiko aimed straight for the gap between the car and the curb, sliding past so close the officer's coffee spilled in his lap.
The chase stretched on — through the fish market, where startled vendors dove out of the way; up the elevated highway, where the city sprawled beneath them like a sea of lights.
And then, the final stretch — a narrow street lit only by the glow of vending machines.
Hinshiko slid to a stop, the Zephyr's tires hissing against the wet pavement.
Jiro rolled in seconds later, rage twisting his scarred face.
Hinshiko's voice was low, almost calm.
"Tell your bosses… you don't chase devils in their own city."
Engines rumbled behind him as the rest of the Red Devils appeared, their shadows stretching long under the streetlights.
From a dark alley nearby, an unseen figure watched. His eyes followed Hinshiko like a predator sizing up prey. He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Tonight, The Ghost had returned.
And in Yokohama, that meant only one thing — war was coming.