Tokyo, late at night. A thin rain drizzled over the narrow backstreets of Shinjuku. Neon lights flickered in shades of red and blue, their glow shimmering across shallow puddles. Inside a dimly lit dockside warehouse, Hiroto Akazami stood tall in a black tailored suit, his gaze sharp and cold as steel.
Before him, several men in matching suits, dragon tattoos coiling up their necks, bowed with reverence.
"Did you bring the money?" Hiroto's voice was calm, yet razor-sharp.
One of the men stepped forward, opening a suitcase filled with stacks of yen bound tight with paper bands.
"As promised."
Hiroto gave the faintest nod. At his signal, two of his own men checked the contents. Once satisfied, Hiroto placed a hand on the man's shoulder, his tone quiet but lethal.
"Do not forget loyalty. Betray me, and you'll pay with your life."
The air grew heavy. Nobody dared move. Then Hiroto turned and walked away, his entourage following with silent precision.
Unlike the disciplined Yakuza, Zarek's stronghold thrummed with chaos. Music blared from an old radio, cigarette smoke thickened the air, and his men laughed and shouted over games of cards and chess.
In the far corner, two unfortunate captives were bound to steel chairs, beaten bloody, their screams drowned out by the rowdy atmosphere.
The iron door creaked open. Kaeliano entered, his expression stone-cold. Conversations died instantly. Dozens of eyes tracked his every step, suspicion heavy in the air.
Unfazed, he walked straight through the crowd and into the inner chamber.
Behind the heavy oak doors, Zarek Kaelthorne stood. His dreadlocked hair framed his fierce face, his broad shoulders draped in a loose black shirt. He almost smirked at the sight of Kaeliano entering.
But before a single word left his mouth—crack!—Kaeliano's fist smashed against Zarek's jaw, knocking him half a step back.
"Answer me, Zarek!" Kaeliano's voice thundered. "How deep are you involved with this mysterious mafia? And who the hell is pulling the strings?"
Outside, chairs scraped and weapons were drawn. Dozens of Zarek's men surged forward, ready to strike.
Zarek lifted his hand. Instantly, silence. His crew froze, though their eyes still burned with violence.
Turning back, Zarek wiped the blood at the corner of his lip. Instead of anger, a crooked smile spread across his face.
"You walk into my den… accuse me… and strike me in front of my men." His tone was low, almost amused.
"You've still got the guts, Kael."
The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock.
Zarek wiped the corner of his lip where blood still lingered. He didn't look angry. Instead, he dropped himself into the worn leather chair, flicked his lighter across the table, and lit a cigar. Smoke curled upward as his sharp eyes locked on Kaeliano.
"Kael…" his voice was low, steady, almost calm.
"This mafia you're after… they're not a street gang. They move from the shadows. The corrupt officials, the dirty cops you chase—they're nothing but pawns. Once you get too close, there's no way out alive."
He exhaled smoke, leaning back.
"I'm already in too deep. The circle has me bound. It's not about wanting out—it's impossible now."
Kaeliano's fists tightened, disappointment heavy in his expression.
"So you'll just stay silent? Trapped inside their world? What about everything we fought for before? Did it mean nothing?"
Zarek chuckled bitterly, his tone still casual.
"This isn't surrender, Kael. It's survival. And listen carefully—you'd better stay away from this operation. That man… the one pulling the strings… he's lethal. Deadlier than you can imagine. Even I keep my distance from him."
Silence pressed down on the room. Kaeliano stared hard at Zarek, jaw clenched. Finally, with a bitter exhale, he gave a reluctant nod.
"…Fine. I'll take your warning."
He turned toward the door but paused, his voice softening, carrying something more personal.
"Oh, and Zarek…" Kaeliano glanced back over his shoulder.
"Your gift's on the way. Don't be surprised when a package shows up at your place. Happy birthday—one day early."
For a moment, Zarek froze, raising a brow. Tomorrow—his birthday. A faint, almost unwilling smile tugged at his lips, though his eyes remained shadowed.
"You bastard," he muttered with a dry laugh, blowing smoke into the air.
"Even now, you still remember."
At Teddy's Apartment
Teddy sat slouched on the couch, the room dimly lit, one lamp flickering above. An open beer bottle rested on the table, untouched. His eyes were fixed on the city lights beyond the window, jaw tight with frustration.
"Operation with Kaeliano?" he muttered bitterly.
His foot kicked an empty can across the floor.
"That kid… doesn't know a damn thing about respecting his seniors. Always cocky, always acting like he's the smartest in the room. If I have to run the field with him… I'd rather back out altogether."
He exhaled sharply, raking both hands through his hair. Teddy was a veteran agent with scars to prove it, but when it came to Kaeliano, he couldn't hide the temper. They were fire and gasoline—destined to clash, never at peace.
At the Bar;The bar was quiet, soaked in dim amber light. A soft jazz tune whispered from an old speaker. Raven Elthorne sat alone at the counter, long fingers tapping the rim of a half-filled whiskey glass. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried storms no one else could see.
Eryndal Veynor arrived after his hospital shift, his white coat lazily draped over one arm. He dropped onto the stool beside Raven, letting out a tired sigh.
"You still haven't found a steady job, Rav?" he asked, voice lined with concern.
Raven tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if amused.
"I work," he replied coolly. "Just… not the kind of work you talk about in a place like this."
Eryndal frowned, wanting to pry, but Raven was quick to steer the conversation elsewhere. He leaned back casually, eyes half-lidded.
"Anyway… Zarek's birthday is coming up, isn't it? I heard Kaeliano's buried in assignments, but maybe the two of them will finally show up together. It's been a while since anyone's seen them side by side."
There was something in Raven's tone—an undertone of secrecy, perhaps even warning. Eryndal sipped his drink in silence, watching his old friend with wary eyes. He knew Raven too well: the man never spoke without hiding something beneath the words.
And as the clock ticked quietly in the background, the night wrapped itself in shadows. Somewhere, unseen, the seeds of tragedy were already being sown—waiting for Zarek's birthday to bring them to light.