The nightclub was dim, alive with pulsing neon lights and the throb of bass-heavy music. Laughter, drunken shouts, and the clinking of glasses filled the air. But in the VIP section at the back, hidden behind a curtain of black velvet, the mood was colder.
Kane sat slouched in a leather chair, one arm draped over the backrest, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. His hair was jet black tonight, slicked to one side. His sharp eyes glowed under the dim light, and the faint trace of a cruel smile played on his lips.
Around him, men whispered nervously, sliding files, drives, and stacks of cash across the table.
They weren't ordinary criminals—they were syndicate brokers, smugglers, and traffickers who usually answered to no one. Yet here they sat, waiting for Kane's approval.
He exhaled smoke, eyes drifting over the documents without urgency.
One man, jittery and sweating, leaned forward. "Mr. Kane… this is the shipment schedule. Arms, pharmaceuticals, everything you asked for. If we move through the south docks, the police won't—"
Kane cut him off with a sharp laugh.
"The police," he said, his voice low but cutting, "are always watching. But that's the beauty of it…" He leaned closer, his grin widening, "…the one who's watching them… is me."
The men froze. Kane tapped the side of his laptop. Streams of encrypted codes ran across the screen, maps of surveillance grids and police movement flashing in perfect order.
"Every report. Every patrol. Every raid." He snapped his fingers. "I see it before they do. That's why I own this game."
The room went silent.
Kane wasn't just another underworld boss. He was the shadow inside the machine. A hacker, a ghost that even the syndicates feared.
Later, as the meeting dispersed, a woman entered quietly. Unlike the others, she walked straight past the guards, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
Yumi.
Her red dress shimmered faintly under the light, her long hair tied back loosely. But her eyes—sharp and intelligent—were fixed only on Kane.
"You're working too much again," she murmured, slipping into the seat beside him. "Three days straight, barely sleeping. You'll burn yourself out."
Kane smirked, flicking ash into the tray. "Burning out is for weak men. I'm just getting started."
Yumi leaned closer, her hand resting on his arm. "You say that, but I know the truth."
His gaze sharpened, but she didn't flinch.
"You're not always here, Kane. Sometimes… you disappear. You go soft, quiet. And when you come back, you don't remember the files I showed you. The deals you made."
Kane's smile faded just slightly. "You've been watching me."
"I love you," she whispered, her voice steady. "But I'm not blind. You're not just Kane. There's someone else… inside you, isn't there?"
For a moment, the air thickened between them.
Then Kane leaned back, laughing softly, though his eyes glinted with menace.
"Careful, Yumi," he said, his tone silky. "Curiosity kills more than cats."
But Yumi only smiled faintly. "And yet, you still keep me here."
Hours later, when the club was nearly empty, Kane sat alone with his laptop. Fingers flying over the keys, he cracked through firewalls, exposing names, accounts, hidden operations of rival cartels.
Each new discovery brought him closer to his secret purpose.
Because Kane didn't just kill for money or power. He hunted those who sold women, butchered children, trafficked organs. He exposed them, ripped them apart, and broadcasted their sins to the world.
The ribbon—always tied in a precise knot around their corpse—was his calling card.
He leaned back in the chair, the glow of the screen painting his features in cold blue.
"No one escapes me," he muttered.
And somewhere, deep inside his fractured mind, another self—the dutiful officer Arata—was still sound asleep, unaware of the kingdom Kane ruled in the dark.