After leaving the Mouri Detective Agency, Ren Kuroda slipped into a narrow side alley.As he walked through the dim lane, he began to change—literally.
He pulled off his school jacket, flipped it inside out, and put it back on. What looked like a Teitan High uniform on one side became a sleek black coat on the other. He'd had it specially tailored for this very purpose—a reversible outfit for switching identities on the fly.
Then, from his bag, he took out the distinctive Azuma mask and slid it over his face, covering half of it. Instantly, his aura changed—his posture, the set of his shoulders, even the energy in his eyes. The polite student vanished; in his place stood something sharper, colder… dangerous.
When he stepped out of the alley onto the main street, hardly anyone batted an eye.
Tokyo was full of eccentric fashion types and wannabe delinquents. Masks, black coats, strange hairstyles—people dressed up like gangsters, vigilantes, even wanted criminals all the time. His look blended right in.
Ren spotted a man waving down a taxi. As the door opened, Ren moved before the guy could step inside—sliding into the backseat first and slamming the door shut behind him.
"Hey, kid! I was here first!" the driver snapped, frowning at the intrusion.
"Get out," Ren said flatly, pulling out his Glock and pressing the muzzle against the man's forehead.
The chill of the gun barrel made the driver's breath hitch. "W-wait, calm down!" he stammered, his voice trembling. "I—I'll get out, right now!"
He fumbled with his seatbelt, stumbled out of the cab, and ran without looking back.
Ren climbed into the front seat, buckled up, and hit the gas, merging into traffic toward Beika Wharf.
Behind him, the shaken driver crouched behind a vending machine, pulling out his phone with trembling hands. Just as he started to dial, a loud thunk made him jump—the phone had been shot clean out of his hand.
That was enough to kill any thought of calling the cops.
Thirty minutes before the deal began.
Ren reached the wharf and parked the stolen taxi in a hidden corner. Then he met up with Akemi Miyano, who led him quietly into an abandoned warehouse. They climbed to the second floor, where they could see the open lot outside through a dusty window.
"I was at a bar earlier," Akemi whispered. "Used the bug you gave me. I overheard them talking—there's going to be a big trade here tonight."
She frowned. "They said the amount involved is huge."
Ren's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Perfect. Then it's time to make a move."
Akemi hesitated. "The people involved are from the Nizan-kai syndicate. If they catch us—"
"Then we just don't get caught," Ren interrupted with a grin. "Relax. Just stay here and watch."
Seeing the confidence in his tone, Akemi stopped arguing.
They didn't have to wait long. One by one, cars began to arrive—sedans, vans, and luxury models. One, two, three, four… seven vehicles in total.
Nearly fifty men got out.
Then, from the opposite side of the lot, another six cars pulled up, bringing about the same number of people. In the blink of an eye, the open yard filled with over a hundred gangsters.
Akemi's face went pale. "I… I didn't know there'd be this many! I thought it was just a small deal!"
Her hands trembled slightly. "Maybe we should call it off this time…"
Ren, however, was practically glowing with anticipation. "Relax. It's only a hundred people. What's there to be scared of?"
He smirked, eyes glinting through the mask. "Come on—it's the modern age. Numbers don't matter anymore."
He gestured toward the mob below. "Look at them—half of them are holding pipes, bats, maybe a couple knives at best. Barely anyone has a gun. That kind of firepower doesn't even register."
Akemi blinked, then nodded slowly. That… actually made sense. She remembered the submachine gun he'd shown her last time—and suddenly her fear eased a little.
Ren crouched by the window, scanning the crowd. Both sides were clearly organized, their people forming lines near their vehicles.
"Which group's Nizan-kai?" he asked.
"They all are," Akemi explained. "Just different factions under separate lieutenants. Their boss disappeared recently, and now they're fighting for control."
"Ah," Ren said with a low whistle. "So it's an internal power struggle."
Down below, men began unloading crates from one side's vans, while the other group carried over several large suitcases.
Ren's grin widened. "Looks like the trade's starting." He cracked his knuckles. "Time for me to get to work. You stay here and enjoy the show."
Before Akemi could respond, he was already heading out, his steps light and confident.
No man could resist the thrill of a good fight—and Ren was no exception.
"Be careful," Akemi called quietly after him.
There was genuine concern in her voice… and a touch of selfish fear. If he got himself killed, she'd be forced to go back to robbing banks again.
Ren descended the stairs silently, picking through his weapons as he went.
Once on the ground floor, he didn't charge straight in. This was his first real operation, and failure wasn't an option. Getting hurt—or worse, looking incompetent—would ruin the image he wanted to build.
So instead of barging in, he chose the smarter route.
Ambush.
He crouched near the warehouse entrance, peeking through a crack. The groups outside were mid-count, checking cash and goods under the harsh glow of dockside floodlights.
Ren pulled out two freshly bought grenade launchers, took aim—and pulled the triggers.
Two dull thooms shattered the night, followed by twin explosions that ripped through the crowd. Fire and smoke erupted across the yard, bodies flung like rag dolls.
He didn't pause.
Ren fired again, and again—each round landing amid the confusion, the detonations echoing off the steel containers and concrete walls.
Screams erupted everywhere.
"Run! RUN!""We're under attack!""Where is he?! Where's the shooter?!""My leg—my leg!!""Take cover! Get behind the cars!"
The chaos was absolute.
Ren watched with detached amusement as dozens of men dove for cover behind their vehicles.
He let out a soft laugh. "You and your cars… both equally useless."
Then he swung the launcher again, aimed at one of the vans—and fired.
Another deafening boom split the air, the vehicle bursting into a fireball that sent flaming debris scattering across the dock.
The explosion lit up the wharf like daylight.
And amidst the roaring flames, Ren Kuroda stepped forward through the smoke—half his face hidden, eyes burning crimson beneath the mask.