The yellow taxi idled in front of a rotten apartment building, paint worn, a small dent in the bumper.
Its peeling walls reeked of mold.
The rain hammered Tokyo like it wanted to wash away the city's sins.
Minami Shinjuku stayed filthy.
Inside, the night was louder than the storm.
---
"Who the hell are you?!"
A man's voice, dripping with rage.
"What is this?!"
A woman's scream, sharp and terrified.
The first shot came quick, barely muffled by the roar of the rain.
A male scream.
"Wait, man, what did I even-"
Another gunshot. Dead center in the forehead.
Blood splattered the wall like a twisted signature.
The woman screamed again, her voice swallowed by thunder.
---
The shooter had a tired face.
Green Japanese Army jacket.
Black I ♥ Tokyo T-shirt.
Blue jeans. Purple All Stars, dusty and worn.
He holstered the Glock 9mm with practiced ease.
Didn't look back.
> I hate these worms who beat women.
---
In the hallway, the stench of gunpowder mixed with dust.
He walked down the stairs slow, like a man in no rush to leave hell.
A bent match.
A cheap cigarette.
Inhale. Pocket the pack and matchbox.
The engine roared, tires splashing through puddles.
> I should mind my own damn life... Gods know I should...
But how can I let some scum beat a woman in my city, right in front of me, and do nothing?
I'm no saint. But I'm not made of stone.
---
The taxi weaved through flooded streets until it reached the garage.
He parked.
Grabbed a bag of bills and coins from the passenger seat.
Separated a few, straightened the notes, tucked them into his inner jacket pocket.
---
The office stank of cheap cigar smoke and sweat.
An overweight old man in a dirty white shirt soldered parts onto an old radio.
The bag landed on his desk.
"Tokyo?!" The old man grinned with the cigar between his teeth.
"Your cut's there," the man replied, cigarette dangling from his mouth.
"Busy night?"
"Same as always." Smoke curled between them.
---
"Heard there's a bloodthirsty vigilante in the city," the old man said, voice dripping with gossip.
"No."
"In less than a month, he's killed two abusive pimps and a pedophile priest."
"Good for him, Chang-Yo."
"How do you not know? No radio, no TV, no internet?"
"Don't listen to radio. Don't have a TV." His eyes wandered to a pin-up poster.
"And the internet?"
"Don't care for it."
He turned and walked out.
---
"Weird guy..." Chang-Yo muttered, going back to his radio.
Rain hammered the roof of the garage.
A tall, muscular Black man entered, shaking off an umbrella.
"Hey Tokyo, how you doing?"
"Still breathing oxygen, Stevie."
"Lots of fares in this rain?"
"Reasonable."
"I'm heading back out. Want a ride home? Rain's only getting worse."
"No need. Got somewhere to be."
Tokyo flicked his cigarette butt into the water.
Stevie's serious eyes followed him out into the storm.