Shibuya, Tokyo — 2016
Shibuya did not sleep.
It pulsed beneath towers of neon and glass, its streets alive with color and movement long after midnight. Screens wrapped around buildings played advertisements in endless loops. Music leaked from open doors. Laughter collided with traffic noise. The air carried smoke, perfume, and alcohol.
At the center of one of the busiest side streets stood GloriaClubs.
The sign burned red against black brick. Karaoke rooms upstairs. Bar and lounge below. A place where businessmen pretended to relax and young men pretended not to watch who walked in and out.
Everyone in the area knew GloriaClubs was protected.
Not publicly.
Not officially.
But protected.
Two guards stood outside the entrance, arms folded, scanning the crowd with quiet authority.
A white van rolled into the street.
It did not speed.
It did not drift.
It simply arrived and stopped.
The side door slid open.
Five men stepped out.
Black clothing. Plain. No symbols.
White kitsune(fox) masks.
The masks were smooth, almost expressionless. The fox faces carried no painted emotion, only narrow eye slits that reflected the city lights back into the night.
They walked toward the entrance without speaking.
One of the guards frowned, stepping forward. "We're full tonight—"
The bat struck before he finished.
A crack echoed against the concrete. The guard dropped, clutching his arm, screaming only once before another blow silenced him.
The second guard reached for his radio.
Brass knuckles shattered across his jaw.
He collapsed against the door.
The entrance burst inward.
Inside, a group of men were mid-song in a private karaoke room. The music cut abruptly as the door slammed against the wall. Glass shattered somewhere near the bar. A woman screamed.
The kitsune masks moved through the crowd with purpose.
Not wild.
Not erratic.
Measured.
A bat swung low, crushing a knee. A fist drove into ribs with precise force. Someone tried to grab a bottle to defend himself and was struck across the temple before he could raise it.
They did not shout.
They did not threaten.
They dismantled.
Tables overturned. Chairs snapped under impact. Bodies fell one after another.
Upstairs, doors opened.
Men descended quickly—leaner, harder, eyes sharp.
The real owners.
One of them stepped forward, blood already splattered across his sleeve. "You idiots have any idea where you are?"
The lead kitsune stopped.
He lowered his bat slowly.
Then he pointed it toward the glowing GloriaClubs sign behind the bar.
The meaning was simple.
We know exactly where we are.
The first punch from Gloria's side landed.
Then everything broke loose.
Bats collided with metal rods. Knuckles slammed into bone. The sound of breaking limbs cut through the ruined karaoke speakers. Blood streaked across tile. A man flew backward through a glass table.
The kitsune masks absorbed the chaos without losing formation. They shifted, covered one another, moved like a unit trained not in rage—but in intent.
Sirens began to echo faintly in the distance.
The leader stepped back first.
A single gesture.
Retreat.
They exited as efficiently as they entered.
Outside, they peeled off their black outer layers and dropped them into the van. The white masks, now streaked red, were removed and tossed onto the pavement.
By the time police vehicles turned the corner, the van had disappeared into the city.
Five fox faces lay on the concrete, staring upward at the neon sky.
Tokyo International Airport — 2014
The automatic doors slid open.
Passengers flowed outward in waves of motion and language. Business calls. Reunions. Taxi drivers holding signs.
A man in his twenties stepped through without hesitation.
Red and black suit. Clean lines. Not fashionable—intentional.
He carried a duffle bag in one hand and rolled a suitcase behind him. The departure board still listed the flight from the United Kingdom.
He did not look back.
Waiting near the curb stood a woman in her forties.
She did not move when she saw him.
She did not wave.
She stood straight, hands folded loosely in front of her, expression unreadable. There was something unmoving about her presence—like a statue that had chosen to breathe.
Beside her stood another man who stepped forward immediately to take the luggage.
No greetings were exchanged.
They entered an old black sedan.
The doors shut with muted weight.
The car pulled away from the airport and merged into traffic.
For a long time, no one spoke.
The skyline thinned as the city gave way to highway darkness. Streetlights passed rhythmically across the windshield. Ryu watched the road ahead, his reflection faint in the glass.
Two hours passed.
Shikoku, Somewhere
The building stood unfinished against the night.
Concrete ribs exposed. Windows without glass. A project abandoned after its private investors went bankrupt. The remodeling had stopped. Workers disappeared. The structure remained—forgotten.
But it was not empty.
Inside, dim light revealed figures scattered across open floors. Homeless men huddled near walls. Others stood holding rods, pipes, knives. Some watched cautiously. Some avoided eye contact entirely.
The elevator shaft was open, cables dangling uselessly.
They took the stairs.
At the top floor, a wide room had been cleared of debris. A metal table. Two heavy sofas.
Functional. Nothing more.
The woman sat first.
She looked around once before speaking.
"Do you like it?" Her voice was steady, unwavering. "It is not elegant. But it will serve."
Ryu placed his duffle bag on the table.
"It will do."
He remained standing.
"How many?"
The man who carried the luggage answered. "Forty. Including the beggars."
Ryu's eyes moved slowly across the room.
"Forty is not an organization."
"They won't betray," the man continued carefully. "But we will require more."
Ryu extended his hand.
The suitcase was placed before him and opened.
Inside were documents, equipment, sealed envelopes.
He ignored most of it.
He removed a single blue file.
Project: K-House
He opened it briefly. Recruitment structures. Operational design. Expansion phases mapped across regions.
The woman watched him without blinking.
He closed the file.
"M.A.D – ??? requires assistance," he said calmly.
The words were not explained.
They did not need to be.
"There is no future in protecting dying territories," Ryu continued. "The old groups fight over scraps. Pride. Street corners."
He looked toward the darkness beyond the doorway where men waited.
"We do not become another gang."
Silence deepened.
"We become contractors."
The word carried weight.
Professional.
Scalable.
Replaceable.
Ryu placed the blue file back on the table.
"There is no need anymore for old men clinging to yesterday."
His voice did not rise.
But the room shifted around it.
"We build something new."
He turned slightly toward the exposed concrete walls.
"Let's show them what true power holds."
A pause.
"Let's show them K-House."
Outside, wind moved through hollow floors and broken beams.
Inside, something began forming...
To be continued~