The streets of Tokyo simmered with tension that night—an undercurrent only those attuned to the shadows could sense. The city lights glared like a thousand unblinking eyes, casting long reflections on the wet pavement. Somewhere in those shifting lights, a trap had been set.
Shigure Tsujihara stood atop a low rooftop, flanked by two silent operatives. Below, Ryuji Tatsugami was walking with measured steps through a narrow side street in Shibuya—a route he normally wouldn't take. But tonight, his instincts had been screaming. And he was listening.
"I don't like this," Kaito muttered, scanning every alley they passed. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, but the tension in his shoulders said he was ready to move at a second's notice.
"You felt it too?" Ryuji asked quietly.
"Yeah," Kaito replied. "Eyes. Watching."
Ryuji's gaze swept the shadows, his steps never faltering. "They want me alone. That's why they let you stay."
From the rooftop, Shigure's eyes narrowed.
"He knows," his subordinate whispered.
Shigure's voice was calm, barely a murmur. "Of course he knows. He's a Tatsugami. Blood like his doesn't forget how to sense death." His fingers drummed softly against his sleeve, calculating.
Below, Ryuji paused. The street was too quiet. The usual thrum of cars, the chatter of drunken salarymen—gone. Instead, the buzz of a broken neon sign was the only sound.
"You should leave," Ryuji said to Kaito, not turning.
"No chance."
"I'm not asking."
"I wasn't offering," Kaito shot back.
A beat of silence.
"…Fine," Ryuji muttered. "But keep your distance. If things go sideways, don't interfere."
Kaito clicked his tongue in frustration but obeyed, falling back a few paces, fading into the side alley like smoke.
A shadow moved across the rooftop.
Then, another.
Ryuji stepped forward. "Come out. We're done playing hide and seek."
Two masked figures dropped from above, landing silently in front of him—one wielding a tanto, the other carrying a weighted kusarigama. Their movements were fluid, practiced. Assassins. Not thugs.
"You're not ordinary watchdogs," Ryuji said, cracking his knuckles. "Tsujihara's elite, huh?"
They didn't speak. One charged.
Steel flashed.
Ryuji shifted his stance mid-step, switching to Yasha-no-Mai, his body gliding like a serpent. The attacker swung wide with the blade—Ryuji ducked low, grabbed the man's arm mid-swing, twisted, and drove his elbow into the assassin's ribs. A sickening crunch.
The second lashed the kusarigama's chain at him—Ryuji spun into Hadou-Ryū, catching the chain with his forearm, letting it wrap just enough before yanking it and pulling the wielder forward.
He struck with Oni-Kenpō—a brutal, downward hammer blow to the shoulder. The man crumpled.
Ryuji exhaled slowly, surveying the scene. Both down. Both breathing. For now.
From the rooftop, Shigure watched. His eyes widened, surprise flickering across his normally unreadable face.
"Multiple styles... he's using them all," Shigure murmured under his breath. "He's... Not what I thought.He's... Not normal"
"Should we send more?" one operative asked.
Shigure didn't answer immediately, his mind racing. This was no ordinary Yakuza. The boy was dangerous—not just because of his bloodline, but because of his skill. Ten years ago, he had watched a man wearing the crest of the Tatsugami cut down his father with a ruthless efficiency he could never forget. The Tsujihara compound had burned that night, his father slaughtered before his eyes. Shigure swore vengeance—not out of honor, but out of clarity.
That man's blood was Ryuji's. The ghost of his father's killer had returned.
But now, seeing the boy move through multiple fighting styles with such precision… Shigure's resolve faltered, just for a moment.
He clenched his fist.
"Not yet," he finally said, snapping out of his momentary lapse. "This was a test. He's stronger than I anticipated."
He turned away from the edge of the rooftop, signaling his operatives to fall back into the shadows.
---
On the ground, Ryuji's phone buzzed. A message. No ID.
> "That was only the first breath. Step deeper into the dark, Tatsugami. We'll be waiting."
Ryuji stared at the screen, jaw clenched.
"Was it Shigure?" Kaito asked, stepping out again.
Ryuji nodded once. "He's probing. Watching. Like a spider tugging on threads."
"What now?"
Ryuji looked down the empty street, at the bodies behind him, and then up into the darkness above.
"We move before he does. He's planning something. And next time, he won't just send shadows."
Kaito raised a brow. "Then what?"
Ryuji's voice was low. Cold.
"He'll come himself."
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Shigure knelt in front of a shrine at the Tsujihara estate.
His voice was barely a whisper. "I saw him, father. The boy with your killer's blood. The boy I'll silence with my own hands."
The candles flickered in response, and in Shigure's eyes—normally calm and emotionless—something darker stirred.
The game had begun.
And the streets would bleed.
---