An alley in Shinjuku was stained red.
The ground. The walls. The dented trash cans.
Everything marked by the same dark, thick shade.
The metallic scent of blood dominated the air, mixed with the dampness of the light rain that still fell, slowly diluting the human lifeblood and dragging thin red streams along the uneven concrete.
Shugen stood at the center of that scene.
One hand in his pocket.
The other holding the briefcase.
Clinging to its handle—still twitching in an involuntary spasm—was a severed hand.
Blood dripped at irregular intervals.
"0.2 seconds. That's a record, you know?"
His voice was calm.
Almost casual.
He slightly moved his fingers.
The next instant—
Flash!
The severed hand split into multiple fragments, as if it had been shredded by invisible blades.
It was Dismantle.
The fragments hit the ground, blending into the rest of the massacre.
"Normally, the last ones who faced my Dismantle died instantly. You lasted a pretty short time—long enough to throw your partner to his death and still try to run."
A few meters away, slumped against a wall stained red, the second thug struggled to breathe.
Or what was left of him.
His legs were severed at the thighs. Beneath him, a dark pool slowly spread across the ground. His face was pale, eyes wide with pain and terror.
Recalling what had happened, Shugen felt nothing.
After knocking out the first one, he had simply raised his hand.
And Dismantle responded.
Countless invisible cuts erupted around the fallen body, shredding it in fractions of a second. Flesh, bone, and even concrete were reduced to microscopic fragments.
When he noticed the second one trying to flee—
He took another measure.
"I cut your legs. I hope you blame me, but I couldn't allow escape to be an option," Shugen commented, watching the man bleed. "Though… you also lost your right hand."
The thug tried to lift his remaining arm, trembling.
"Bleh! Y-you bastard…"
The words came out weak. Choked.
Shugen tilted his head slightly beneath the hood.
"Bastard? Maybe."
He took a step forward.
The sound of his shoe touching the pool of blood echoed softly.
"But you were selling something that would destroy lives. I just shortened yours."
Shugen slowly crouched in front of what remained of the thug.
The rain kept falling—lighter now, almost like a silent curtain isolating the alley from the rest of the world. The man trembled, his body pale, his breathing faltering with every passing second.
Shugen extended his hand.
And touched the thug's torso.
The contact was light.
Almost gentle.
"Now, rot in hell." His voice was cold, completely devoid of pity.
『Cleave』
In that instant, the air around them vibrated.
Countless cuts erupted simultaneously from the point of contact.
There was no time to scream.
The body was shredded all at once, reduced to fragments so small that, within seconds, no recognizable human form remained.
Only a liquid mass was left behind.
A pool of blood slowly spread, merging with the red that already covered the alley.
The rain did the rest.
Shugen remained crouched for one second longer, staring at the empty ground.
Then he let out a quiet sigh.
"What a boring job~"
He stood up, slightly adjusting his hood.
Unhurried.
Untense.
The next instant—
He vanished in the blink of an eye.
...
Back in Tokyo, Shugen appeared in the middle of the crowd like a ghost.
One moment, he wasn't there.
The next, he was already walking among dozens of hurried pedestrians beneath the glow of neon signs and the wet reflections on the asphalt. No one noticed his sudden presence. No eyes turned. No expressions changed.
It was as if he had always been there.
He subtly adjusted his hood and kept moving, blending into the flow until he turned into a narrow alley between two commercial buildings. The smell of stale food and dampness contrasted with the brilliance of the main avenue.
Without hesitation, he opened an old metal door hidden along the side wall.
It creaked softly.
On the other side, a spiral staircase descended, lit only by dim bulbs fixed to the concrete. The air down there was colder. Heavier.
Shugen stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.
And began to descend calmly.
His footsteps were silent, controlled, echoing faintly along the tight walls. With each step, the sound of the city grew more distant, replaced by a dense silence.
At the bottom of the staircase, a single dark wooden door awaited him.
He stopped in front of it.
Knock. Knock.
With two firm raps against the door, he waited.
A few seconds later, a small rectangular viewing slot at eye level slid open, revealing only a pair of wary pupils.
"Password."
Shugen didn't even blink.
"Don't make me blow this door open."
Silence.
Then—
The slot slid shut with a sharp click.
Locks disengaged one after another. The metallic sounds echoed through the narrow corridor.
The door slowly opened.
On the other side, a luxurious bar revealed itself—completely different from the plain entrance. Warm yellow lights illuminated the room, reflecting off neatly arranged glass bottles on elegant shelves. The floor was polished wood, and the air was filled with low murmurs and the soft clinking of glasses.
He sat down in a dark leather armchair, the material sinking slightly under his weight. Unhurried, he placed the briefcase on the table in front of him, his rain-damp fingers leaving faint marks on the polished surface.
Across from him, the man watched with calculated attention.
Short black hair slicked back. Refined features. Slightly rectangular black eyes—sharp, accustomed to analyzing details.
"So tell me… are you the supplier?" the man asked, resting his arms on the table.
Shugen didn't answer immediately.
He simply leaned forward, his hood still casting a shadow over his eyes.
"Yes. What a stupid question. You're the one who hired me," he stated in a monotone voice.
There was no arrogance.
No provocation.
Just a statement of fact.
Shugen was a Vigilante.
But not a hero.
He didn't operate within the law. Nor did he particularly care about it.
He took advantage of items left behind by defeated villains. Weapons. Modified drugs. Illegal equipment. Anything that could be resold.
Then he sold them to whoever was willing to pay the right price.
Or higher.
Over time, he began offering his own services as well. Recovering stolen items. Kidnapping someone. Locating missing persons. Solving problems that couldn't be taken to the police.
Saving someone?
He did that too.
But saving people alone didn't pay the bills.
Unfortunately, free heroism didn't generate income — and living solely off that didn't seem smart to him.
The man in front of him kept his posture steady, but a bead of sweat slowly slid down his neck.
Tsukauchi felt the weight of the disguise pressing on his shoulders.
"I have three Trigger syringes here. I want three million for all of them," Shugen said, opening the briefcase and turning it toward Naomasa.
The three syringes rested in perfect alignment, the dark liquid inside them reflecting the bar's yellow light. Even there—subtle—they looked dangerous.
Naomasa kept his expression neutral.
Tsukauchi casually extended his hand and picked up one of the syringes. He tilted it slightly toward the light, analyzing the liquid's viscosity, color, density.
'Matches the description Erase gave… but still, three million…'
He didn't have that kind of money.
Maybe half. With help.
Maybe.
But he couldn't show too much hesitation.
He carefully returned the syringe to the briefcase.
'But I have to try.'
"Two million," he offered, resting his arm on the table as if it were just another routine negotiation.
"Three million," Shugen replied, his tone exactly the same as before.
No change.
No emotion.
"2.2 million."
"3 million."
The reply came at the same pace. As if automated.
"Ah…" Naomasa subtly bit his lower lip. This was getting too expensive. Even so, he needed to close the deal. "2.5 million…"
Silence.
Shugen didn't respond immediately.
The atmosphere around them felt distant—muffled conversations, clinking glasses, soft music.
Beneath the hood, he evaluated.
"2.7 million."
It wasn't a big increase.
But it was enough to make it clear he wouldn't give in easily.
"Deal!" Naomasa answered too quickly, before the seller could reconsider.
He didn't want to drag out the bidding war any further.
Shugen closed the briefcase with a dry click.
He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a black card with no visible identification. At the same time, a waiter appeared beside the table with a portable payment machine, as if he had already been waiting for the outcome.
"And then?" the waiter asked, while Shugen casually spun the card between his fingers.
"He's transferring 2.7 million to me. The fee's still the same?" Shugen asked the waiter.
"Yes. The usual 1.2%."
"Good."
The waiter placed the machine on the table.
Before he could start typing, Naomasa rose slightly from his seat.
"I'm going to the restroom for a moment."
The excuse came out naturally.
He needed to buy time.
Naomasa stepped out of sight with controlled movements.
"…"
Shugen remained silent.
The card still between his fingers.
The briefcase closed on the table.
He didn't move.
But beneath the hood, his eyes subtly shifted toward the direction Naomasa had gone.
Inside the restroom, Naomasa Tsukauchi typed rapidly on his phone.
His fingers nearly stumbled over one another in his haste. He was contacting an old friend — a hero who could cover that exorbitant amount without immediately raising suspicion.
Or at least, that was what he hoped.
A huge, nervous smile spread across Naomasa's face as he waited for the reply.
"Don't ask questions, don't ask questions…" Naomasa muttered under his breath. He didn't have time for detailed explanations, reports, or official justifications.
His phone vibrated.
A message appeared on the screen.
[Why?]
The smile died instantly.
Naomasa felt an almost irresistible urge to slam his head against the tiled wall.
"Damn it…"
There was no way to come up with a convincing excuse in seconds.
No way to explain a covert operation in the middle of a negotiation with a dangerous vigilante.
What was he supposed to do now?
A few seconds later…
Back in the main hall of the bar, Shugen had already entered the information into the payment machine. The waiter stood by in professional silence.
As soon as he saw Naomasa Tsukauchi return from the restroom, Shugen made a small gesture with his hand.
The waiter discreetly stepped away.
Naomasa sat down again, a controlled smile on his face now. He raised his phone as if wrapping up something simple and routine.
"Shall we?"
The boy merely nodded.
He inserted the card into the machine.
Naomasa positioned his phone for contactless payment.
A brief second of waiting.
The machine vibrated.
The screen turned green.
'Transaction Completed.'
The electronic chime sounded far louder than it should have in the restrained silence between them.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you. Until next time, Mr. Fukushima," Shugen said as he stood up.
He turned and began walking toward the exit, calm steps, as if nothing that night had carried any weight.
Naomasa exhaled without realizing he had been holding his breath.
He grabbed the briefcase quickly and stood up right after, leaving as well.
The hard part was over.
Climbing the narrow staircase, Tsukauchi pressed the phone to his ear while gripping the briefcase tightly.
"Yes… I got the package. I'm heading back now."
Flash!
The device was sliced clean in half.
Both pieces fell onto the steps with a dry clatter.
"Huh?"
When he looked up, Naomasa Tsukauchi felt his stomach drop.
The hooded figure stood a few steps above him.
Only the mouth was clearly visible beneath the shadow of the hood.
And now, the eyes were beginning to emerge from the dimness, staring directly at him.
"Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi," Shugen began, calling him by his full name and making the man stiffen. "I'll only ask once. What did you come here looking for?"
The air turned heavy.
There was no music anymore.
No muffled conversations.
Only the silence of the staircase and the faint noise of the bar below.
Naomasa remained silent.
His mind raced at full speed.
Containment plans, escape routes and signals to the team.
None were viable.
None were fast enough.
The Vigilante "Module" — the designation assigned to Shugen by the police force, heroes, and villains alike — was far too unpredictable for standard protocols.
Someone powerful.
Extremely efficient.
And worse, morally indifferent.
To him, heroes and villains were simply two sides of the same coin.
If they paid.
Or if they interfered.
"I came… for the Trigger…" Naomasa finally muttered.
It came out quieter than he intended.
Shugen heard it.
Of course he did.
But he didn't seem convinced.
The eyes beneath the hood narrowed slightly.
Shugen Kanzaki had never been guided by grand ideals or speeches about right and wrong. Justice, heroism, villainy — they were just labels people used to give meaning to their own actions.
To him, what truly mattered was his own will. If he did something, it was because he wanted to. Simple as that. And in his view, the choices Naomasa Tsukauchi had made that night were made with full awareness. There was no naivety in an experienced detective infiltrating a dangerous underworld.
"You'd better not come here again. People of your kind…" Shugen said, slowly turning as he began to climb the stairs. His steps were calm, echoing rhythmically against the narrow concrete passage. "Aren't welcome here. If you want to stay alive, take my advice."
There was no hatred in his voice. No exaggerated contempt. Just a statement of fact—like someone establishing an obvious rule. The shadow of his hood partially concealed his expression, but his eyes remained sharp, cold, and calculating, even as he turned his back on Naomasa Tsukauchi.
Despite his near-total indifference to the world, Shugen possessed a personal axis that sustained his existence. He lived by his own whims—by the immediate desires that surfaced in his mind, by the pleasures he chose to pursue—and by his grandfather.
Nothing else held real space in his hierarchy of values. He didn't care about social consequences, moral judgments, or the weight of lives affected. To him, both the man who had taken him in and he himself were his possessions, belonging to a private world where only his will held authority.
Warning Tsukauchi on that staircase was not an act of compassion. It was not mercy.
It was merely a fleeting whim.
He could have eliminated the detective right there, without real effort. But he didn't want to.
And for Shugen, not wanting to was reason enough.
Heroes or villains? It didn't matter.