Beika Wharf – Midnight.
The docks had become a full-scale crime scene. Police tape stretched across the gates, red and blue lights flashing over the water.
Detective Miwa Sato stood at the perimeter, reporting grimly while her face looked like it was carved from stone.
Nearly a hundred people lay dead.The sheer brutality of it made her stomach churn.
The moment she'd stepped onto the scene, she'd barely made it five steps before running into a corner to throw up.She wasn't the only one—veteran officers who'd seen decades of homicide cases were bent over retching beside her.
For a while, the entire wharf echoed with the sound of sirens… and vomiting.
In the process, no one noticed they were trampling over potential clues.
Inspector Juzo Megure's expression was grim.In all his years with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, he'd never seen anything like this.
"Even for a gang war, this is… insane," he muttered, eyes narrowing at the sea of bodies.
Over a hundred dead. No survivors except two. No chance of covering it up quietly.
"Bring those two in," he ordered sharply. "We need to know what the hell happened here."
"Yes, sir!" Sato nodded, signaling to the uniformed officers nearby. Moments later, two trembling survivors were led forward.
One was a lanky man with long, greasy hair, his face pale and empty, eyes glazed with shock. The other—a stocky man with a buzzcut—was visibly shaking, a dark wet stain spreading down his pants. The sharp smell of urine hit immediately.
Megure's brow twitched. He forced his tone steady. "Tell me. What happened here?"
The long-haired man stammered, shaking his head. "I—I don't know! I don't know anything! We were just doing a trade, and then… boom! There was an explosion! I didn't even see what happened—one second I was standing, the next I was flying through the air! When I woke up, everyone was dead! I swear I don't know anything!"
Megure glanced at the man's head. Dried blood matted his hair—a concussion, most likely. The shockwave must've thrown him clear, knocking him out before the shooting started.
Looking at the corpses around them, Megure could see most of the victims had bullet wounds to the head—execution-style. Whoever attacked had systematically "finished" everyone off.
This man had survived only because he'd landed outside the killer's line of sight. Pure luck.
Megure turned to the other survivor. "You. You saw something, didn't you?"
The buzzcut man swallowed hard, glancing nervously between the officers. "Um… Inspector, could I… get a cigarette?"
Sato frowned immediately. "This isn't the time for—"
Megure raised a hand, cutting her off. Wordlessly, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and handed it over.
"Th-thank you," the man muttered, puffing hard. After a few quick drags, the trembling in his voice eased slightly.
"When the explosions started," he said, "I hit the ground and played dead. Didn't move. But I cracked one eye open… and I saw him."
"The one who attacked us."
Megure and Sato leaned in.
"He was wearing a mask," the man continued. "Covered the top half of his face—red, I think. Couldn't see what he looked like. But he was careful—real careful. After everyone went down, he went around finishing people off one by one. I waited till he moved to the other side, then crawled under a truck and hid there until it was over."
Sato immediately pulled out her phone and brought up an image—a hand-drawn composite sketch of a masked man they'd been tracking. She held it out. "Was it him?"
The man's eyes widened. He nodded frantically. "Yes! That's him! Exactly! But—he wasn't alone!"
"What do you mean?" Megure demanded.
"He had a partner. A woman. I heard them talking—it was her who got the info for the trade! And she called him…" He hesitated, struggling to remember. "…She called him 'Mr. Azuma!'"
At that, Sato and Megure exchanged a quick glance. There was a flicker of satisfaction in both their eyes.
Finally—a name.
Megure stepped closer. "What about the woman? Did you see her face?"
The man gave a helpless laugh. "I was too scared to look. I kept my eyes shut. Sorry, Inspector."
Megure exhaled through his nose, disappointment softening into reluctant understanding. "Fine. Then repeat what you heard them say."
The man thought for a moment, then haltingly repeated the fragments of conversation he'd overheard.
As they listened, Sato's eyes widened. "Wait—you're saying this 'Azuma' didn't take the weapons or the flour? He just… left it all and called the police?"
Megure blinked, almost thinking he'd misheard. He turned to Sato—she was already looking at him, just as baffled.
They both fell silent for several seconds.
Finally, Megure sighed. "All right. Go get some rest. We'll need you at headquarters later to give an official statement."
When the survivors were led away, Megure crossed his arms and turned back to Sato. "Miwa, what's your take?"
"It's a black-on-black hit," she said immediately. "That masked man—Azuma—was targeting the gang specifically. He didn't take the weapons or the flour because he either didn't want to be tracked or didn't care about profit."
"In short," she said, her tone hardening, "this Azuma isn't your typical hitman. He's dangerous—someone who acts outside the system and has zero fear of the police."
Megure nodded grimly. "Agreed. Whoever he is, he's not just a killer—he's a full-blown war criminal with heavy weapons and no restraint. Definitely a major threat."
He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "This one's above our pay grade. Let the higher-ups deal with it. I'll report to Superintendent Matsumoto right away."
Pulling out his phone, he stepped aside to make the call.
The next morning.
Ren Kuroda walked to school with a light step and an easy smile.After all, it wasn't every day you single-handedly wiped out a major criminal network.
He felt… cleaner somehow. Like his soul had been polished.
Out of curiosity, he scrolled through the news apps on his phone. After some digging, he finally found a single, tiny headline buried in the crime section:
"Gang Conflict Erupts at Beika Wharf Late Last Night."
That was it. One sentence. No photos, no follow-up.
Ren couldn't help but chuckle. Figures.
The Metropolitan Police clearly didn't want to waste resources on a gang massacre. They were already stretched thin—officers working year-round without rest, drowning in routine cases.
As long as civilians weren't harmed, "gang-on-gang" cases got buried fast.The public stayed blissfully unaware, the press got nothing, and the mob's financiers would make sure any evidence—like those crates of guns and drugs—disappeared quietly.
No one cared about dead gangsters.
And seeing that only confirmed Ren's conviction:
There's no future in the underworld.