Tsunayoshi's voice was neither heavy nor light, as if he were discussing something trivial.
But the Savage Gang's leader felt unprecedented pressure.
Because this was a choice between life and death.
The other party seemed to respect their choice, but in reality, there was no choice at all.
Still, he couldn't help feeling bitter resentment.
The Savage Gang was one of the three major powers in Harlem, and he was the most feared boss in the area. But now he had to bow down to some force that appeared out of nowhere.
So, so...
"I choose to surrender!"
The Savage Gang's leader lowered his head to Tsuna.
No matter how unwilling he felt, he couldn't change the fact that they'd been disarmed.
Even if he could change that, he couldn't explain the previous situation... One second they'd had an absolute advantage, cutting down the enemy until blood flowed everywhere. The next second, they were the ones who'd been defeated.
These mysterious methods that he couldn't understand or comprehend at all... Until he figured them out and developed countermeasures, resistance was completely pointless.
"Very good!"
Tsuna nodded with indifference, then looked forward. "Now, go to every force in Harlem and declare: either surrender or die. Within one hour, I want their answer!"
…
Old, low-rise buildings, dirty and reeking streets, the highest crime rate in the nation... Hell's Kitchen was similar to Harlem in every sense.
However, that was just on the surface.
Although both were synonymous with filth, chaos, poverty, and backwardness, Hell's Kitchen's public safety was relatively better... Actually, that wasn't quite accurate. After all, in terms of crime rate, Hell's Kitchen ranked highest in the United States.
But Hell's Kitchen didn't have the same severe racial discrimination, and the atmosphere between gangs was more relaxed. Unlike Harlem, you didn't regularly see robbery, theft, or even gunfights on the streets in broad daylight.
The chaos in Hell's Kitchen stemmed from poverty, and most crimes happened at night in out-of-the-way places. If you followed basic precautions—going home and locking your door, not wandering around at night—you wouldn't encounter trouble.
This environment had also created certain specialized professions.
Dr. Harold Lane!
An alcoholic old man over fifty who also happened to be a doctor.
An unlicensed black market doctor, of course.
He wasn't like the black market doctors in most stories who'd suffered some tragedy and had their medical license revoked. He was a fraud who'd taught himself the most basic medical knowledge and only knew some simple first aid techniques.
But even so, he operated like a fish in water.
Because Hell's Kitchen was a slum, most people couldn't afford medical insurance, much less pay exorbitant medical bills.
When people got sick or injured, besides going to the pharmacy for medicine, they could only choose to tough it out or find a black market doctor.
So even though Harold only knew rudimentary medical knowledge and first aid methods, even though he stayed drunk most of the time, and even though he often killed patients during treatment, there was still a steady stream of people seeking his services.
Especially those with criminal records—even if they had money, they didn't dare go to hospitals. They could only seek treatment from him or other black market doctors.
At six o'clock this morning, Harold was drunk again.
He'd just finished an operation last night, spending considerable effort extracting a bullet from a patient's kidney.
Although half the entire kidney had become necrotic due to his unprofessional technique, he'd saved the guy's life anyway. The patient would just have to spend the rest of his days relying on his remaining kidney.
And Harold, exhausted from the operation, couldn't handle it without drinking.
Knock knock knock!
At that moment, someone knocked on the door.
Harold grabbed his bottle and took a swig before staggering toward the door. While walking, he shouted groggily, "Coming, coming, stop knocking."
Click!
The door opened.
Outside was a narrow alley, and at the doorway stood a gentle and elegant beautiful woman... Her eyes were soft, like pale pink mist. Her red lips contrasted sharply with her pale complexion. Judging from her skin and face alone, she was a very young woman.
But she dressed with dignified grace and carried herself with quiet composure. The kimono decorated with lavender branches, leaves, and bright red flowers added an air of refinement—like a noblewoman with exceptional cultivation.
Harold's eyes lit up, and he even sobered slightly.
He opened his gap-toothed mouth to speak, but instead let out a wine-soaked burp. The smell of alcohol filled the air, making him cringe with embarrassment.
"Sorry, sorry, had a bit too much this morning!"
"It doesn't matter."
The woman clasped her hands in front of her lower abdomen, a slight smile on her face. "I'm here because I have something to ask."
"...Wh-what is it?"
"I heard the doctor often drinks alcohol before surgery. Is that true?"
"Yeah!"
Harold admitted it without shame. Worried she wouldn't believe him, he added, "That's something everyone in Hell's Kitchen knows. If you don't believe me, ask anyone."
"I believe you, doctor!"
The smile on the woman's face brightened, and she continued asking, "I also heard the doctor often kills people!"
"I'm not God. It's normal to lose patients sometimes."
After Harold finished speaking, he raised his head and took another swig, then squinted his drunk eyes at her while swaying. "If you're looking to cause trouble, you don't need to beat around the bush digging up my history. This is Hell's Kitchen—if you survive a disease or injury, you're lucky. If you want to enjoy proper hospital treatment services..."
At this point, he couldn't help snorting coldly and continued, "If you want those, why not just go to a regular hospital?"
"No, why would I be here to cause trouble?" The woman said gently with narrowed eyes. "I came to you specifically because I heard about your... deeds."
"Oh, what do you want from me?"
Then, as if remembering something, he hurriedly stared at her with lustful eyes. "If you want to learn medicine, that's not impossible, but you'd have to pay the appropriate fee!"
"No, in terms of medical skills, I have some confidence myself."
"If you're not here to study medicine, and you don't seem sick, then why are you looking for me?"
"I heard that when you perform surgery, you secretly remove patients' organs and sell them to gangsters. Is this true?"
Hearing this, Harold's expression changed immediately, and he said sharply, "Where did you hear that rumor?"
"From your patients, of course."
As she spoke, the woman raised her right hand, forming it into a blade and stabbing it into Harold's abdomen.
The excruciating pain burned away Harold's drunkenness instantly.
His eyes went wide, and he no longer dared to look at her confidently.
The woman still kept that smile on her face, but her hand retracted little by little, pulling out his intestines and kidneys bit by bit.
"Doctor, there are thirty victims whose organs you stole who need transplants. Unfortunately, your organs alone aren't enough!"