CW (!):Graphic violence, death (!), blood, gun violence (!), trauma themes, emotional distress
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Flashback; Nine Years Ago
The air choked with plaster dust and gunpowder. Jin, then 23 and new to Kuro's inner circle, burst into the top-floor room, pistol raised. The scene was a slaughterhouse vignette: Hideo's son sprawled near the wall, his skull a ruined mess, the sticky tang of brain matter thick in the air. Kuro stood over him, fists dripping crimson, breathing like a cornered bull. His knuckles were split to the bone.
But it was the woman that froze Jin's blood. Slumped against the opposite wall, the left side of her head blown open by a Desert Eagle's exit wound. A thin, faded dress. Track marks on her arms. Empty eyes staring at nothing.
"Boss—that's Hideo's heir!" Jin hissed, lowering his gun, dread coiling in his gut. Killing the old snake's son meant war. "What happened?"
Kuro didn't look at him. His gaze was locked on the dead woman, his expression a chilling void—eyes like frosted glass reflecting a wasteland. A look Jin would never forget.
"Don't worry, kid," Kuro rasped, his voice scraped raw. He turned, limping heavily on his left leg—a bullet wound Jin hadn't noticed. He knelt stiffly beside the woman, ignoring the gore, and gently closed her remaining eye with trembling, blood-smeared fingers. His touch was startlingly tender.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by Kuro's ragged breaths. He inhaled deeply through his nose, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly, his mouth pressed tightly shut and his eyes closed. The tension in his body coiled tighter with each breath, a storm brewing beneath the surface. On the third inhale, he clenched his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching with barely contained fury.
Then, without warning, his fist slammed into the plaster wall beside her head. Thud. Thud. THUD. Blood smeared the cracked surface with each strike, the force of his rage erupting like a volcano. His features contorted in a terrifying contrast to the emptiness that had filled the space just moments before.
On the fourth hit, his hand shot out with explosive force, splattering crimson against the wall, a visceral testament to his raw, unbridled anger. Even with his mouth closed, the look in his eyes was a rage in itself—a silent scream of frustration and pain.
"Let me show you, number one," Kuro bit out, each word sharp as shattered glass. He gently held up her wrist, revealing the dark rope burns circling her pale skin.
"She wasn't supposed to be here. Hideo's boy had her tied up. Proof number one."
"Proof?" Jin whispered, desperate. "Against Hideo? He'll claim it's staged! He'll—"
"Number two, kid." Kuro pulled an old brick phone from his pocket—the same T9 model he carries now. He stood up slowly, a faint wince flickering across his face as he shifted his weight onto his left leg. The pain was there, a dull throb beneath the surface, but he masked it. "I record everything. 24 hours a day. Deleted daily... but today's still here. All of it. Her voice. The shot."
Jin stared, stunned. The Boss recorded everything? The paranoia, the foresight... it was chilling. "But Boss, even with proof—"
"Number three." Kuro kicked a gleaming Desert Eagle across the dusty floor. It skidded to Jin's boots. "Hideo's favorite toy. His fingerprints. His son's. And..." Kuro grimaced, clutching his bleeding thigh. "...mine are on the slide now. From when I took it from the little bastard after he shot me. Ballistics will match the bullet in me to that gun. Self-defense. Defense of her."
Jin rushed to support him, slipping under Kuro's arm. As Kuro's weight settled, heavy with pain and slight exhaustion, Jin felt a shift deep within himself. This wasn't just a boss. This was a man who'd walked into hell for a stranger. Loyalty, fierce and unbreakable, cemented itself in Jin's soul that day.
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