August 22nd, 2004, Kabukicho
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets of Kabukicho still glistened under the neon lights. Shidou sat on the same damp patch of concrete where Isuna had left him. His small frame was curled up against the wall, his clothes soaked from the night before. He was hungry—no, starving—but he didn't move. He was waiting.
She said she was done. But she had to come back.
Didn't she?
People passed him without a second glance. A stray kid was just part of the scenery here, no different from the flickering streetlamps or the overflowing trash bins. His stomach clenched painfully, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. He'd already learned that showing weakness got you nothing.
Then came the sound of boots stopping in front of him.
"You still here, brat?"
The voice was rough, low, almost amused. Shidou slowly looked up. A tall man in a dark coat towered over him, hands stuffed into his pockets. Two other men stood behind him, watching with bored expressions. Shidou didn't recognize them, but from their stance, the way people subtly avoided them, he could tell—
Gangsters.
He said nothing, just held the man's gaze with quiet defiance.
The man smirked. "Either you're the dumbest kid in Kabukicho, or you've got a death wish."
Shidou didn't answer. Didn't flinch. That seemed to amuse the man more.
"You hungry?" he asked casually.
Shidou's stomach clenched at the word, but he didn't nod. Didn't beg. He knew better.
The man pulled out a half-eaten convenience store sandwich and held it out. "Take it."
Shidou's fingers twitched, but he didn't reach for it. He knew there was a catch. There was always a catch.
The man chuckled. "Smart kid. Fine, you want to eat? You earn it."
And just like that, Shidou's life changed.
The underground fights were brutal.
No rules. No mercy.
At first, Shidou had no technique, no strategy—just raw instinct. He took hits, got knocked down, but each time he got back up. That's what mattered.
And then he started winning.
He learned how to move, how to dodge, how to strike where it hurt the most. It wasn't about strength—it was about speed, unpredictability, the thrill of seeing an opening and taking it.
The first time he won a match, he felt something electric buzz through his veins. Not pride. Not happiness. Something more.
People started betting on him. The gang made money. He made just enough to eat and keep breathing. That was the deal.
But Kurose saw something more in him.
"Fighting without technique is just a game of chance," the gang boss had told him. "You want to make real money? You need to learn some real skills."
That's when the taekwondo lessons started.
Shidou trained like an animal. He learned how to kick, how to move with purpose, how to channel his wild energy into something controlled—something lethal. The fights became easier. His movements became sharper, his instincts deadlier. And with every win, his name carried more weight in the underground.
But it still wasn't enough.
Years passed. Shidou had grown taller, leaner, faster. At 14, he was no longer just another street kid—he was a fighter, a name whispered in underground rings, someone who could knock out men twice his size with a single, well-placed strike.
But even now, he still found himself drawn back to Zushi Beach.
He told himself it was just another job. That keeping tabs on the beach soccer club was part of his duty to Kurose. But the truth was, the fights, the bruises, the endless cycle of violence—it all felt suffocating sometimes. And when it did, he came here.
The moment his feet hit the sand, the tension in his body eased.
Beach soccer wasn't as brutal as fighting—not even close. There were no broken ribs, no blood-stained fists. Just the ball, the sand, and the rush of the game. He'd never admit it, but he liked the sound of a clean strike against the ball more than the crunch of bone. Just slightly, though.
When he first started, even walking on the sand had been a challenge. Every step felt like sinking. But now? Now, he could run like it was solid ground, fast and untouchable. The beach was no different from the ring—adapt or lose.
Shidou even heard rumors of an underground beach football tournament that happened yearly, different from the usual games. It wasn't just soccer in the sand; it was more like beach volleyball but played with feet. High-flying aerial moves, no referees, and no limits. The sand absorbed every impact, making crashes painless, meaning the craziest of plays could be pulled off with no fear.
It was tempting. Too tempting.
When he was 17, he finally made up his mind.
Against Kurose's orders, he signed up.
In that tournament, he found something special—a passer, Kaito whose vision was unmatched, someone who fed him the perfect balls to unleash his most devastating shots. They tore through the competition, match after match, and Shidou felt it again. That electric thrill, that hunger to leave his mark.
They won.
And Kurose made sure Shidou paid for it.
Kaito—his teammate, the one who had helped him shine—was injured. Shidou knew exactly who had ordered it.
Rage burned in his veins. He had never cared about anyone before. Never needed to. But this was different. This was personal.
Something in him snapped.
And soon, Kurose would pay the price.