Neon Crestia-Year 20XX-
The sky above the city looked like a slab of lead, weighed down by heavy clouds that strangled the horizon. Skyscrapers rose like steel walls, their facades glowing with endless billboards—smiling faces, miracle drugs, promises of perfect lives. Luminous lies painted over the city's rotten reality. On the streets below, people sometimes glanced upward with idle curiosity before sinking back into their phones and trivial chatter, never realizing that death walked silently beside them every moment.
On the rooftop of one of those towering buildings sat a young man, legs stretched out across the dew-slick surface. His light brown hair fluttered in the pre-rain breeze, blue eyes fixed through the scope of his rifle. His finger rested calmly on the trigger as he tracked a figure weaving through the crowd. Then he lifted his wrist to his mouth.
That young man was Kazuya Minamoto.
In a voice so quiet it sounded more like he was talking to himself than making a report, he muttered:
—"Target is on the move… heading east. Looks like he's in a hurry."
But the reply that came through his comm wasn't tense at all.
On the contrary, it was sluggish, cold—like someone bored, commenting on the weather:
—"Kazu… someone stole the mandarins from my fridge."
There was a pause. Then Kazuya let out a muffled chuckle, shaking his head.
—"Seriously? We're in the middle of surveillance, and you're… complaining about fruit?"
The only response was a faint metallic sound… the ringing of a knife being toyed with between careless fingers.
Finally, that same voice spoke again, devoid of humor, colder than ever:
—"I told you… those were the last three."
Kazuya sighed and looked back through his scope at the moving target, his tone light as if to chase away the weight of the conversation:
—"Most likely the commander ate them. You know his weird habit of midnight snacking."
Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, Renji Asakura walked through a narrow alley, steps unhurried—as if the entire world around him had slowed. His hand played with the silver knife, opening and closing his grip like it was nothing more than a toy. There was no hint of interest on his face. Not in the target, not in the city, not even in the mission.
Then, in a faint whisper, heavy with indifference, he suddenly asked:
—"Kazu… what happened last night?"
From the rooftop, his friend's laugh carried through the comm, mixed with mild exasperation:
—"You don't remember? …You were completely drunk. It was chaos. You challenged Commander Erosuke to see who could eat the most mandarins while drinking. You lasted five minutes before collapsing. Spent the rest of the night talking to a chair."
Renji didn't laugh. He didn't even flinch. His glassy eyes stayed locked on the damp alley wall as he let out a flat, breathless murmur.
—"…I see."
Kazuya couldn't help but chuckle again, whispering to himself:
—"Sometimes I wonder if you even belong to this world, Renji."
But that fleeting moment shattered when Kazuya shifted his scope. His eyes narrowed.
The target had stopped… slowly turning, as if sensing something.
Kazuya raised his voice, urgency breaking through his calm:
—"Renji… careful. I think he noticed us."
Renji halted as well. His head tilted slightly, the knife in his hand catching the faint glow of a broken neon sign. His expression never changed. No worry. No fear. Just dry, absolute indifference.
—"That makes things… simpler."
And with an unhurried step, he advanced into the shadows.
Renji's footsteps echoed dully through the alley, each one so monotonous it felt as if time itself had lost its meaning.
Then, all at once, the air trembled—
a faint breath brushed against his back, followed by the jerky rush of a body lunging toward him.
Before the blade could pierce his spine, Renji tilted his body slightly. The movement was effortless, almost lazy, and he didn't even pause his conversation over the comm. His attacker slipped past like a clumsy shadow. Renji turned half an inch, his glassy eyes empty, devoid of emotion.
—"Kazu… this is your fault."
His voice was cold as ice:
—"You're the one who forced me to drink… even though you know I hate alcohol. You know I get drunk too easily."
Up on the rooftop, Kazuya stifled a nervous laugh, replying with a sigh:
—"Hah?! And who told you to actually listen to me? You ignore my orders all the time—except that one stupid night."
The enemy lunged again, attacks wild and frenzied, driven more by hunger than thought.
Renji moved like a shadow mocking gravity itself, slipping past each strike with small, weary steps—as if his body was dancing with death, utterly indifferent.
At last, he sighed. His voice came out dull, bored:
—"This is irritating…"
He raised the knife in his hand. No more dodging for amusement. His gaze locked for an instant on the man's neck—where a strange mark crawled across the skin like cracked black etchings. Almost complete… the kind of mark that meant its bearer was close to becoming an **Abomination**—a creature stripped of its will, destined to fall under the butchers' control.
Renji didn't hesitate.
His next step flowed into a lethal motion, body leaning forward, knife slicing into the delicate tendon at the side of the throat.
Shhk.
There was no scream—only the wet rush of blood splattering warm against the alley wall. The man shuddered briefly, eyes wide with meaningless terror, before collapsing into a lifeless heap.
Renji's expression never changed. He didn't even glance at the corpse. He simply wiped the blade against the sleeve of his coat and murmured into the comm, voice as flat as ever:
—"It's done."
On the rooftop, Kazuya stayed silent for a moment before letting out a slow exhale.
—"God… You really are a killing machine. Even when all you do is complain about mandarins."
Renji's quiet reply came, eyes drifting into the void, as if Kazuya's words barely brushed past him at all:
—"…Mandarins."
Renji didn't stop at the corpse. He stepped over the blood as if it were nothing more than dirty rainwater, continuing deeper into the tangled shadows of the alleys. His destination was clear… the old warehouse at the edge of the industrial district, where some fugitives were said to be hiding—desperate souls trying to trick fate and delay their deaths.
His voice still flowed across the comm with that same icy monotone:
—"Approaching the site."
From the opposite rooftop, Kazuya adjusted his scope. But then his voice suddenly broke off with a startled gasp.
Renji paused, tilting his head slightly, silence tightening around the alley. Then, slowly, he asked:
—"…What is it?"
Kazuya's reply came with childlike excitement, so out of place in a moment soaked with death:
—"Over there… on the nearby street! A junk heap—old equipment! I can fix it. We need to go back and grab it before someone else does."
Renji gave no response.
He stayed utterly silent, blue eyes vacant, knife spinning idly between his fingers. He wasn't listening at all. His mind had drifted elsewhere, locked on a problem heavier to him than life or death itself:
The mandarins.
If it wasn't the commander who ate them… could it have been Kazu himself?
Or maybe Sayori-san…?
Or perhaps… I ate them?
He realized suddenly that he was analyzing three pieces of fruit more than he was analyzing the enemy waiting ahead.
On the rooftop, Kazuya noticed the suffocating silence. His voice cracked with frustration, edged with anger:
—"Seriously…? Really, Renji? I'm talking about valuable equipment, and you're… you're not even listening!"
Renji didn't raise his voice. He didn't say a word. He remained still, as if absent from the moment entirely.
Kazuya finally snapped:
—"Enough! Finish the mission yourself. I'm heading back to headquarters. Every damn time, I fool myself into thinking you care…"
And then the line cut off.
Renji stood alone in the darkness, the first drops of rain tapping softly against his shoulders. His face betrayed no disturbance. Yet, he murmured slowly—words spoken not to anyone else, but to himself, as though confirming an inevitable truth:
—"…He's angry again."
His eyes drifted into the void, unfocused.
—"Because of me… again."
Rain thickened, drumming against the rusted rooftops and filling the streets with the stench of iron.
The old warehouse loomed at the edge of the industrial district, its iron door half torn from its hinges, darkness inside swallowing everything whole.
Renji approached with steady steps. He didn't bother to hide—his confidence outweighed any need for stealth.
At the threshold, he stopped for a moment… listening.
Ragged breathing. Bare feet shuffling against concrete. Faint whispers, trembling with fear.
They're here.
His fingers brushed the handle. He pushed the door open slowly, the screech of rusted metal drowning out the rain. Darkness wrapped around him like a shroud.
There were seven of them. Men and women, faces gaunt, eyes unfocused, death-marks etched on their necks—marks nearly complete. They had fled here to hide from the organization. But what entered through the door was not a pursuer.
It was the Butcher's Smile—the boy who never smiled.
One of them cried out:
—"It's one of them! Run!"
Bodies scrambled in panic—desperate attempts to flee between rusted crates, or to cower behind walls.
Renji didn't chase.
He simply walked. Slowly.
On his first step, his knife rose in a clean line, piercing the throat of a man rushing at him with a steel pipe. Blood burst in a scarlet spray; the man fell without a sound.
On the second step, Renji dipped slightly, seizing the wrist of a woman who tried to stab him with a broken knife. His body turned half a circle with hers. With precision, he set his blade to her artery, slipped it in, and dropped her before her scream could form.
He moved like a shadow gliding through the warehouse. No noise. No hesitation. Only measured movements—each thrust cutting a tendon, each slash striking a fatal point. Every victim silenced in less than a heartbeat.
One thought he was safe behind tall crates… until the cold bite of steel slid into his side.
Another cowered beneath a table… until Renji knelt, hand reaching slowly underneath, dragging him out like refuse.
They fell one after another. The warehouse swallowed their cries until all that remained was silence.
Minutes later, only scattered corpses remained, blood pooling into black puddles at Renji's feet.
He stood in the center, eyes unfocused, his expression void. No triumph. No sorrow. Nothing.
From his pocket, he pulled a small metal tin. Opened it. Empty.
A faint sigh escaped his lips, barely a whisper:
—"…If only I had some mandarins."
Lifting his gaze to the crumbling ceiling, he let the dripping rain fall onto his face, cold drops mingling with the blood as if they were one and the same.
Renji stood amidst the corpses, rain dripping through the warehouse's ruined ceiling, mingling with the blood that soaked the floor.
For a brief moment, he glanced around, as if to confirm the mission was complete… then slowly lifted his wrist to his mouth.
His voice was quiet, stripped of any hint of emotion:
—"Field unit reporting. Send in the cleanup squad. Location: Warehouse Seven, Industrial District."
He didn't wait for a reply. His wrist dropped back to his side.
Lowering himself onto a rusted crate by the wall, knife in hand, he watched the rainwater trail down its edge. His face betrayed nothing, yet his eyes were somewhere far away.
Mandarins.
He remained silent as distant sounds drew closer—vehicles moving without headlights, the synchronized march of boots. Men in black suits and gas masks filtered into the warehouse one by one.
None of them spoke to him. None asked questions. They were used to him by now: he brought down the targets, and they erased the chaos.
They moved with mechanical precision—bagging corpses in black plastic, scrubbing away blood with chemicals, wiping the crime scene clean until it looked as if nothing had ever happened.
Renji didn't assist. He simply sat, head tilted slightly, blue eyes fixed on nothing at all.
Minutes later, one of the cleanup operatives approached, bowing his head respectfully.
—"The site is secured, Asakura-san. You may return to headquarters."
Renji didn't answer. He rose slowly, slid the knife back into place, and walked toward the exit.
As he crossed the threshold, his voice slipped out in a faint murmur, words meant only for himself:
—"…I'll find out who stole the mandarins."
Then he disappeared into the rain, leaving the warehouse spotless—
as though it had never been a theater of death at all.
Renji emerged from the narrow alleys, his steps unhurried despite the downpour.
He reached the main road where neon billboards painted the wet asphalt in broken colors. Raising his hand, he stopped an old taxi that rumbled to a halt beside him with a wheezing engine.
The door creaked open. He slid into the back seat, shutting it softly behind him.
The driver was an elderly man—bald in the center, deep wrinkles carved into his face, a hesitant smile twitching on his lips.
"Good evening, son… You must've had quite a rough night. Bless your work," the man rasped as he pulled onto the road.
But before he could finish, everything froze.
A cold pressure pressed against his temple.
A small black pistol—steady. Unyielding.
The other hand gripped his chin, tilting his head slightly back.
In the rearview mirror, the young man's reflection stared back at him. Renji Asakura. Eyes like ice. Face devoid of hesitation.
His voice was dead, as if stating an unavoidable truth:
—"…How did you know I was with the organization?"
Beads of sweat gathered on the driver's forehead. He forced a nervous chuckle, fumbling for innocence.
"Oh… just a guess… nothing more, just luck…"
Renji didn't wait for excuses.
His words cut in, low and precise, carving into the air:
—"Lies. You… were their leader. The one who steered them. The one who hid them here."
The driver shuddered, lips trembling. But Renji's hand moved with calm precision, tugging down the man's collar.
There it was—
The black mark.
Lines of warped ink crawling up his skin, nearly complete. He was only days away from turning.
Renji's eyes never flickered.
The trigger pressure never changed. Steady. Patient.
His judgment fell in a whisper, colder than the rain outside:
—"…Die."
Click.
The shot echoed like a stone dropping in water.
The driver's head snapped sideways, blood spattering the window. The car's engine whined down into silence, as if bowing to the bullet's chill. Death claimed him instantly, eyes wide, as if shocked by how little time death required to ask permission.
Renji's face didn't stir. Calmly, he leaned forward, guiding the wheel to bring the taxi to a stop at the roadside. He killed the engine.
For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the corpse as though making sure there was no residue within himself. Nothing left.
Then his hand moved, deliberate and efficient.
Searching the seats. The glove compartment. Even a small hidden compartment near the driver's seat.
There it was—
A black file, worn at the edges, stuffed with folded papers.
He flipped through the pages slowly, gray eyes skimming across names… faces… dates.
This wasn't just a pack of desperate runaways.
They were killers once. Former assassins. Men and women who had belonged to old organizations, wiped out by the authorities years ago—or so everyone believed.
But this man… this dead driver… had been funding them. Sheltering them.
The last page bore a handwritten note. A location: An abandoned warehouse, East District Outskirts.
Renji closed the file with quiet finality, slipping it beneath his coat into his bag. Then he pushed the door open and stepped into the storm.
Rain hammered down harder, washing the blood that leaked from the driver's seat.
For a moment, Renji lifted his face to the black sky. Cold drops streaked down his pale features.
His whisper carried no weight of feeling—just the statement of a fact:
—"Former assassins…"
Then he turned, walking with steady steps into the neon-lit street, the file tucked beneath his arm.
Behind him, the taxi remained—a silent witness.
An old man's corpse slumped over the wheel. Blood dripping in rhythm with the rain.